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Chapter Text

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry jolted up from his bed, a scream leaving his mouth before he could stop it. The last imprints of green light disappeared from his memory, leaving behind the dead, pale blue eyes of his classmate. He closed his eyes, trying to get the image of Cedric Diggory’s dead face staring at the sky out of his mind, but it stayed there. 

He choked back a sob, bringing a hand to his mouth to stifle the noise. He didn’t want to deal with his family right after the awful nightmare again—which is what would happen if he woke them up—but the damage was done.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, stopping in front of his door. The wood rattled as the person behind it worked to open the padlocked door.

Shit, he thought. Uncle Vernon’s going to kill me. 

It was not the first time he had woken up from a nightmare screaming. In fact, it had happened every time he fell asleep since the night at the graveyard a month ago, and like every time, his screams had woken up his uncle. He had tried to stay awake, not to sleep so that he could avoid his uncle’s ire, but some nights the exhaustion from not sleeping and his chores made it impossible to keep his eyes open, and like tonight, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

The door finally opened, crashing against the wall due to his uncle’s strength. Harry’s head snapped towards the door, breathing picking up at the sight of his uncle’s purpling face. 

“Boy!” the man thundered, beady eyes focusing on his still trembling form on the bed. The large man crossed the room in three strides, grabbing Harry’s throat and lifting the small boy.

“I am sick of waking up to you screaming bloody murder, boy! If I hear one more peep out of you, I will give you something to scream about!” 

Spit flew from his mouth, landing on the younger boy’s face, meaty hands tightening around his neck. Harry whimpered in pain, bringing his hands up to try to loosen his uncle’s hold. Hedwig started thrashing about her cage, reacting to her owner’s sound of pain. Vernon’s angry eyes moved from his nephew to the snowy owl, his face becoming even more purple. 

“And shut your bloody bird up, or it’s going to be tomorrow’s dinner!” Uncle Vernon gave him a scathing glare. “I don’t want to hear a sound from this room, or the bird will die like this Cedric you keep screaming about. Understood, freak?”

“Yes, sir.”

Uncle Vernon let him go, shoving him to the wall. His head hit the wall, causing a sharp pain to erupt from the back of his head. Harry turned his head towards his desk, where Hedwig was sitting in her cage. Harry got up from the bed, standing still for a few seconds to wait out the dizziness that getting up so quickly caused and then went to the desk. 

“Are you ok, girl?” he reached his fingers inside the cage, stroking the owl’s feathers. The bird nipped at his fingers affectionately. “I’m sorry about Uncle Vernon, but you’ve got to be quiet, ok? Or we’ll get in trouble.”

Harry gave her a last pet before sitting down at the desk. He looked at the letters on his desk that his friends had sent the day before, picking up Hermione’s and rereading it. 

Dear Harry, 

Happy birthday! How are you? I hope the Dursleys have been treating you well. Or, well, better. I hope you’re working on your homework. I’ve finished mine, but I know Ron hasn’t even started, and he’s probably hoping that I’ll let him cheat off me. I swear, Snape’s essay about the properties of moonstone and its uses in potions took me ages to complete. He should really start working on it now if he doesn’t want a Troll, and you should too!

Anyway, I hope you liked my present!

Love, 

Hermione.

Harry folded the letter, grabbed the others, and put them under the loose floorboard where he hid his stash of non-perishable food that he had managed to sneak from Hogwarts, a few of his school books that he had snuck from his cupboard, and his wand. 

He looked at the presents his friends had sent with a bitter smile. Some Honeydukes chocolate from Ron and Hermione, rock cakes from Hagrid, his usual homemade fudge from Mrs Weasley and a box of joke products from the Weasley twins.

He appreciated their gifts, but he wished they had sent more letters. He wanted to hear more about what was going on in the wizarding world with Voldemort’s return, but nobody was giving him any information, no matter how many angry letters Harry had sent with Hedwig. Now, after a whole month of radio silence, broken only by the birthday letters and some letters by the Weasley twins telling him about their ideas for their joke shop, he had given up, resigned to being kept in the dark. 

Harry sighed, sitting back at the desk after grabbing his Potions book. Might as well work on Snape’s homework, he thought. He did not want the greasy git yelling at him from the very first day, though he would probably find something else to berate him for. Plus, it gave him something to do until the morning. Another thing he did not want to do was fall asleep again, lest he have another nightmare and wake Uncle Vernon again. He probably wouldn’t survive disturbing him for a second time in the same night. 

He looked up at the clock he had rescued from Dudley’s pile of old things and stifled another sigh when it read twelve thirty a.m. Harry spread a new roll of parchment on the desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell and wrote his name at the top of the page. He then got to work, eyes squinting to see in the feeble light of his lamp.

It was going to be a long night. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“Boy! Get up!” The shrill voice of Aunt Petunia was accompanied by loud pounding on his door and the sound of the locks being undone.

Harry rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up and then finally closed his Potions book. He had finally finished his Potions essay after days of working on it at night, and his eyes burned from the strain of reading in such a dim light. 

“Boy!”

Another sharp knock jolted him from his musings. “Coming!” he yelled back. He grabbed a fresh pair of clothes—or as fresh as you could call Dudley’s old clothes—and his toothbrush. He opened the door and was met by his aunt looking down at him, her foot tapping furiously on the floor and arms crossed in front of her chest. 

“Get dressed and make breakfast, boy, and better hurry up if you know what’s good for you. Vernon has to go to work early today.”

Harry mumbled a ‘yes, Aunt Petunia’ before shoving past her and into the bathroom. 

Five minutes later, Harry was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast that he probably wouldn’t get to eat. He had managed to avoid his relatives most of the time this summer, escaping from the house as soon as dinner and his chores were done and coming back just when it was getting dark, after which they would then lock him in his room for the night with some scraps from dinner, afraid of him stealing from them while they were sleeping. 

Ha, if they knew about the amount of gold sitting in his Gringotts vault, they would probably have a heart attack—then try to steal it while yelling at him for being an ungrateful waste of space, reminding him how they raised him and took care of him out of the goodness of their (non-existent, Harry was sure) hearts. No, it was better they knew nothing about Vault 687.

Harry dished up the bacon and eggs just in time for his uncle and cousin to come thumping down the stairs. 

“Hello, freak,” his cousin greeted him as he passed by him to sit at the table, shoving him against the marbled counter. His hipbone screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, grabbing the three dishes and bringing them to the table. 

“Here’s the list of your chores. I want them done by seven,” his aunt said, handing him a piece of paper. He took it, glancing at it quickly and getting started on the dishes without saying a word. If he wanted to be done by then, he’d have to start soon.

After washing the dishes, Harry moved on to weeding the garden and mowing the lawn. The sun was hot on his back, burning his exposed neck and arms, and he was thankful when he finally finished and could go back inside. The rest of his chores occupied him for the whole day, and by seven p.m., Harry was once again exhausted, limbs trembling from all the work he did. 

Harry took a quick shower to clean off the sweat that had accumulated on his skin from working all day and then grabbed his wand from his hiding spot under the floorboard. He didn’t dare keep his wand around the house in case his relatives saw him with it and tried to break it, but with Voldemort back, he didn’t want to be caught without it. Constant vigilance, as Mad-Eye Moody would definitely yell. 

He stuck his wand in the waistband of his jeans, hiding it under the large shirt he was wearing, before sneaking downstairs. While the Dursleys didn’t say anything about his going out, he didn’t want to give them a chance to complain about any supposed mistakes in his chores, and knowing them, they would find faults where there weren’t any. 

Once successfully outside, he walked to the corner store. He paid for a bag of crisps with the spare change he had found around the house during his chores, hidden between the sofa cushions and under furniture. It was not the most filling or healthy meal, but there wasn’t much he could buy with the few pounds he managed to steal.

He walked down Magnolia Road, heading towards the park where he spent most of his evenings nowadays. He sat on the swings, opened the bag of crisps, and got lost in his thoughts. 

He wondered what his friends were doing. Were Hermione and Ron together at the Burrow? Why weren’t they writing him, other than his birthday letters that didn’t even say anything other than wishing him a happy birthday? Hell, the twins wrote to him more than his best friends did this summer, but even they hadn’t really told him anything about what was going on with Voldemort, other than the fact that nobody believed him and that they were calling him mad and trying to discredit him and Dumbledore.

Not for the first time that summer, he wished he hadn’t cancelled his subscription to the Daily Prophet. It would’ve been helpful to hear what they were saying, no matter how unreliable they might be, but he had hoped that he would be kept informed by his friends. He would think that they wouldn’t keep him in the dark since the war largely revolved around him and the megalomaniac that tried to kill him at least once a year, but alas, here he was, left clueless about the happenings of the wizarding world. He had to resort to listening to Muggle newscasts to hear of any Death Eaters attacks, but unfortunately, there weren’t any reports about strange attacks, though hopefully that simply meant that there weren’t any to report. 

Harry finished the last of the crisps, crumpling the plastic in his hand. He aimed at the rubbish bin a few feet in front of him and threw the bag, but it hit the side of the bin, falling to the ground. He grunted, jumping mid-swing and landing on his feet before he walked to the bin to correct his missed shot. He heard mocking laughter behind him. 

“Can't even throw it a few feet, can you, freak? No wonder the bathroom floor is always wet if your aim is so bad!” Dudley laughed, his gang following behind. 

Harry threw away his rubbish, then turned around to face his cousin. “I didn’t think you’d be so stupid that you’d mix us up, Diddykins.” He sneered, doing the best impression of Snape he could. 

“Don’t call me that, you freak!”

“Oh, would you rather I called you Dinky Diddydums? Or perhaps Popkin? Your mother sure does have a long list of names for you!”

Dudley began turning so purple that Harry was worried he was suffocating. He looked remarkably like his father as he clenched his fists and stepped forward. It was only thanks to years of Harry Hunting—Dudley’s favourite game—that Harry was able to turn on his feet so quickly and start running back towards Privet Drive. 

Dudley was immediately after him, though much slower due to the excess weight that no diet could shake off, though it didn’t help that Dudley went behind his mother’s back and bought junk food whenever he was out with his friends. 

Thankfully, Dudley was the only one chasing after him, his gang having left as soon as Harry started running. They must have tired themselves out beating up ten-year-olds. Well, it worked out well for Harry. He could easily outrun Dudley, but Piers Polkiss and some of his other friends were much faster than Dudley and often managed to catch him so that Dudley could beat him up. 

His legs burned from the exertion, his body already exhausted from the long list of chores, causing him to slow down and lose precious ground. It was enough for Dudley to catch up with him. His cousin grabbed him from his shoulder, his meaty hand squeezing him hard and turning him around roughly. As he swivelled around Harry pulled out his wand from his pocket, jamming it under Dudley’s chin as soon as he was facing him. 

Dudley paled, going cross-eyed to try to keep an eye on the wand under his chin. “You can’t do magic outside your freak school. You’ll get expelled.” 

“How do you know the rules haven’t changed, Dudders?” 

“I don’t believe you.” Dudley gulped when Harry pressed it harder into his skin. The green-eyed boy laughed at the obvious fear that he was trying to hide. “I’ll tell Dad you got that thing out and threatened me, we’ll see who’ll laugh then.”

“Hiding behind your father, Big D? Didn’t know you were such a coward, but I guess you’re only brave when it’s defenceless little ten-year-olds you’re beating up.”

“Oh, because you’re so brave. I hear you at night, you know? Crying for your mummy and daddy, yelling about some Cedric. Who’s he, uh? Your boyfriend? Guess you’re more of a freak than we’d thought.” Dudley taunted him, a smirk on his lips at the sight of Harry’s paling face. 

Harry could feel his magic trying to lash out, to make Dudley shut up and stop reminding him of his nightmares. He tried to control it. He didn’t want a repeat of the Aunt Marge incident. He highly doubted Minister Fudge would be so understanding now, based on what the twins said. 

“What is it you yell? ‘Don’t kill him! Don’t kill Cedric!’ I bet you got him killed, Potty. Just like your parents!”

“SHUT UP!” Harry roared. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. “Shut up! Don’t ever talk to me about Cedric and my parents! You know NOTHING about them, understand?” 

Dudley opened his mouth to say something, but the only thing that came out was a gasp, producing a cloud of fog from his mouth. 

Suddenly, the air got much colder and much darker. In an instant, they were plunged into complete darkness: the streetlamps had gone out, and he couldn’t even see the stars nor the moon in the pitch-black sky. Harry’s teeth started chattering, his body shivering and goosebumps forming on his exposed skin. 

Had he done some accidental magic? Had the weather reacted to his emotions? But he doubted that his magic was powerful enough to make everything so dark. The only wizard he thought was probably able to do it was Dumbledore, and he certainly wasn’t in Little Whinging. 

But then what was it?

He tried to look around, but he didn’t have any clue of what could be possibly causing this. He could faintly see the houses that surrounded him, but other than the sudden darkness and cold, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. 

“W-what are you doing? You’re doing m-magic, s-stop it, or I’ll tell Dad!” Dudley said. He grabbed his bicep, hands squeezing his arm once again in a bruising grip. 

“Shut up, Dudley. It’s not me,” Harry answered him. “I’m trying to figure out what it is.”

What could cause darkness and cold? The only time he saw something like this was in third year when… His heart sank to his feet as he drew in a sharp breath. No, it couldn’t be. What would they be doing in Surrey? But in the next moment, his fears were confirmed. He could hear a deep, hoarse, rattling breath coming from behind him, and he felt his shivers worsen as it got closer. 

“Dudley, run!” he yelled, blindly reaching for his cousin. Once his hand was secured around his cousin’s arm, Harry started running away from the Dementor, dragging his cousin with him.  

“Harry, what—what’s happening? What are you doing?” his cousin sounded out of breath as he tried to plant his feet to stop them from running. 

“There’s no time to explain, Dudley! Just do as you’re told for once!” Harry pulled his arm harder, picking up speed, but his own arm was yanked down as Dudley tripped and fell to the ground, dragging Harry down with him. Harry didn’t have time to register the pain in his hands as he hurried to stand up and looked for the wand he had dropped. However, it was now too dark to see even his feet.

“Come on, get up, Dudley!” Harry urged him, looking frantically at the ground for his wand. Glancing behind them, he could now see the Dementor approaching them, and he tried to get his cousin to get up, but it was too late. 

A second Dementor appeared from the side just as Dudley was getting to his feet, heading straight for Dudley, but Harry still didn’t have his wand and had no hopes of doing anything against the dark creature until he found it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he exclaimed, kneeling and feeling around with his hands for his wand as the Dementor bent over Dudley. “Lumos !” he yelled, not really hoping for anything, but miraculously, the wand tip lit up. He snatched it up, extinguishing the light before he drew up his happiest memory.  

“Expecto Patronum !” 

But as nothing but a silvery mist came out of his wand, another Dementor approached them, reaching for Harry and driving away his happy memory. 

A woman’s scream filled his ears, followed by his father yelling, “Take Harry and run! And then a high, cold laugh. “Bow to death, Harry!” Voldemort’s cold, mocking voice said. 

His insides felt like they were turning to ice, spreading from his mouth, down his throat and to his heart. He felt like he would never be happy again, the feeling of hopelessness and despair wrapping around his thoughts. Maybe it’d be better this way, a voice in his head told him, no one else can die because of you if you’re dead. 

But when he turned his head slightly, he caught sight of his cousin, face pale with cold sweat dripping down from his forehead. Someone would die if he let himself go, though, so with renewed vigour, he gripped his wand tighter, raising it towards the Dementor. 

He thought about Sirius, telling him he could go live with him once he was free, about the twins raising him on their shoulders after he defeated the dragon and the nights spent playing with his dorm mates, and when the Dementor raised its head for a moment he shouted at the top of his lungs. 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Harry exhaled a breath of relief as his familiar, great silver stag burst forth and charged at the Dementors, chasing them away with his antlers. 

The darkness retreated, stars sparkling once again in the night sky. Harry laid on the ground for a few more moments, trying to calm his erratic breathing by taking slow, deep breaths, and once he knew he was calm enough, he pushed himself up on his elbows and turned, crawling to his cousin’s curled up body. 

His hands hovered on his body, his wand still clutched in his hand, hoping that the Dementor hadn’t done any irreversible damage on his cousin, but thankfully, he seemed ok. Thoroughly shaken up and whimpering, but at least not soulless. 

Why were there Dementors in Little Whinging? How had they strayed so far from Azkaban? Did Voldemort send them? 

But thinking about that wasn’t particularly helpful at that moment, so he halted that thought and decided that he would revisit it later, once he was safe inside Privet Drive. He didn’t trust the Dementors not to come back and finish what they started. He was so worn out that he didn’t think he’d be able to conjure another Patronus.

“Dudley, can you get up?” he asked, but his cousin continued whimpering, not answering his questions. 

Harry sighed. He’d have to attempt carrying him all the way to their house, which was not an easy feat. He grabbed one of Dudley’s arms, wrapping it around his neck and stood up, trying to pull his much bigger cousin with him. His knees threatened to buckle under the extra weight, but he managed to keep his balance, holding on to Dudley’s arm with one hand and wrapping the other around the other boy’s waist, still holding his wand.

“Come on, Dudley. You’ve got to work with me.”

Dudley swayed dangerously where he stood. His jaw was locked tight, his forehead slicked with sweat, and his eyes kept rolling back as if he were going to faint. 

Harry turned in the direction of Privet Drive, but before he could take a step, he heard footsteps running towards him. He whirled around, accidentally dropping Dudley to the ground, to see Mrs Figg coming towards them. 

He scrambled to put away his wand before she could see what it was, but before he could let go of it, Mrs Figg reprimanded him. “Don’t put it away, idiot boy! They could still come back!” 

“What?” Harry croaked out. 

“The Dementors! What if they come back?! Oh, I am going to kill that Mundungus Fletcher! How dare he leave his post!”

“Mundungus Fletcher?”

“Yes, he was supposed to be on guard tonight, but he left his post in the middle of the shift! And now look, Dementors have attacked you! Dementors! In Little Whinging! Oh, if I catch him!”

Dementors? She could see the Dementors? 

“You could see the Dementors?” Harry voiced his thoughts, his voice shaking in confusion. 

“Well, of course!”

“You’re—You’re a witch?!” Harry’s mouth was now hanging open. He’d never have thought that his cat-obsessed old babysitter was a witch. Why had she not said anything? She knew who he was! 

“I’m a Squib, Harry, which means that I couldn’t protect you, hence why Mundungus Fletcher was not supposed to leave in the middle of his shift! What was Dumbledore thinking putting him on shift!” Mrs Figg glared at the air, as if this Mundungus was going to materialise there, before she glanced down at the other boy. “Now, come on, Harry, better get you home.”

Harry’s mind was still reeling with the new information as he heaved Dudley up again, resuming his earlier position. His cousin was still useless, his dead weight fully on Harry’s thin shoulders as he dragged him along. He didn’t know what information to focus on first. Mrs Figg was a Squib? There were people following him around?!

He decided to go with the first line of questioning, not calm enough to deal with Dumbledore and his orders. “Why have you never told me you’re a Squib?”

“Dumbledore’s orders, dear. I’m sorry.” 

So much for not wanting to deal with Dumbledore, Harry frowned. He could’ve grown up knowing about the wizarding world and knowing how his parents really died, but because of Dumbledore’s orders, he spent his childhood up until he was eleven thinking his parents were drunks who got killed in a car crash. 

“And Dumbledore’s having me followed?” 

“Of course! Do you think he’d let you roam around alone with what happened in June? Any Death Eater could come and kill you or kidnap you to bring you to him!” 

That made sense, but he frowned again at the thought that there were wizards around him, and nobody thought to say hi or tell him any news, but he guessed they had to stay undercover, so he couldn’t be too mad about that. Unlike his friends, who could’ve sent him any news with their letters but chose not to.

Harry followed the woman back to Privet Drive, listening as she fretted about not being able to contact Dumbledore and then yelling at Mundungus Fletcher, a short, unkempt man with bloodshot eyes, when he appeared in front of them, successfully convincing him to go and warn Dumbledore with a few strong hits of her handbag. 

Once the man was gone, Harry and Mrs Figg walked the final stretch to the Dursleys' house. The woman turned to him, telling him to stay in the house and wait for instructions before she left with a wave. 

Mrs Figg’s words about Dumbledore’s warning about not letting him do any magic and the Ministry’s reaction to him using magic while underage, even if he was using it to protect himself and his cousin from Dementors were still ringing in his ears when he rang the doorbell and waited for his aunt and uncle to open the door. 

But those quickly became the least of his worries, as in all of his fretting about Dumbledore and the Ministry, he had forgotten one crucial detail: his cousin was hurt, and if his Aunt’s horrified expression as she realised that Harry was carrying a barely conscious Dudley, followed by her scream of “ VERNON !” told him anything, it was that he was in trouble. Deep trouble.

Chapter Text

Harry trailed after Aunt Petunia into the house, trying to be as quiet as possible, hoping that his aunt and uncle would forget about him while they dealt with Dudley. He listened to them fuss over their son as he tried to make a quiet but quick escape to his room, careful to avoid the creaky step. 

“Who did it, son?” Uncle Vernon asked his son. 

Dudley still hadn’t said anything, still in shock from the Dementor, but he chose that moment to open his mouth, though only a whimper came out. Harry hurried his pace, getting almost halfway up the staircase before disaster struck. 

Aunt Petunia quieted Uncle Vernon down so that they could hear the words that Dudley was now whispering. Now that it was so silent—Harry had a half mind to start stomping up the stairs, making as much noise as possible so that his cousin wouldn’t be heard—his cousin’s unusually quiet voice could be heard clearly. 

“Him.”

It felt like time slowed down as Uncle Vernon turned his head slowly to look at Harry, who had frozen on the stairs, panic starting to grow in his chest. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and held his breath, waiting for the explosion that was sure to come. He didn’t dare make a sound—anything could set off his uncle, especially if something happened to his son. 

“What have you done to my son, freak?” his tone was eerily calm, the only hint to his growing anger was the way he spat out the word freak. His calm tone wasn’t reassuring at all. Angry Vernon ran out of steam quickly. His punishments were harsh, but he could handle them with no complaints. Calm Vernon’s punishments, however, were cruel, and thankfully, he had seen this version of Uncle Vernon only a handful of times, only after his more blatant displays of accidental magic in public, such as when he turned his teacher’s wig blue or apparated/flew to his school’s roof. Or whenever Dudley was hurt, if it was even remotely his fault. 

His attempts to defend himself were in vain, as they ignored him in favour of asking Dudley, who was very slowly regaining some colour on his face.

“What did he do, honey?” Aunt Petunia said, voice shaking. “Was it… Did he do m-magic?”

To Harry’s horror, Dudley nodded. 

“I didn’t do anything to him!” Harry gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip. “I didn’t do anything to him, I swear, it wasn’t me.”  

But nothing could’ve saved him as a moment later an owl swooped in from the open kitchen window, depositing a large envelope at Harry’s feet before flying out and disappearing as if it were never there to begin with. 

Uncle Vernon’s calm rage started to spill over, the vein in his temple throbbing as he glared at where the owl had disappeared. Harry ignored his uncle’s complaints about owls as he ripped open the envelope and took out the thick parchment. His hands shook as he gripped the letter, eyes focused on the neat handwriting. 

Dear Mr Potter, 

We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. 

The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. 

As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August. 

Hoping you are well, 

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

Improper Use of Magic Office 

Ministry of Magic

Harry was going to throw up. Expelled?! How could he be expelled from Hogwarts? He was just trying to defend himself and his cousin. They would have both been dead if he hadn’t used the Patronus Charm! And he used it in front of his cousin, who already knew about magic? How was that breaking the Statute of Secrecy? 

Harry’s breathing sped up, his heart pounding in his throat. Black spots filled his vision, and the room started spinning. The only thing that stayed still was the word expelled that was burned into his retinas. He didn’t think he’d be able to get rid of it anytime soon. 

Hermione’s words from first year came back to him at once. “Now I’m going to bed before either one of you gets us killed, or worse, expelled ”. He had laughed when she said that at the time, agreeing with Ron that she needed to sort out her priorities, but now that he was actually expelled, he wasn’t so sure death was worse. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with this if he were dead. No Dursley, no Voldemort, and no innocent people dead. 

But expelled… he’d have to stay here with the Dursleys, hearing them laugh as the Ministry officials snapped his wand. They would never allow him out of the house, instead using him as their personal slave all year long, and his punishment would get much worse if he were cut off from the wizarding world. He wouldn’t see his friends, and without a wand, any Death Eater could kill him so easily and he wouldn’t even be able to try to defend himself. 

Harry was so lost in his spiralling thoughts that he almost didn’t notice a second owl dropping another letter at his feet nor his uncle coming up behind him until the first letter from the Ministry was snatched away from him, ripping the corner of the parchment. 

Harry picked up the second letter and tore it open, reading Arthur Weasley’s warning to stay put where he was and not surrender his wand because Dumbledore was going to deal with the situation. The tight fist that he felt clenching his lungs released its hold slightly. Dumbledore might be keeping him in the dark about everything, but Harry knew that if he was involved, the situation would probably fix itself. 

Or so he hoped.

Meanwhile, his uncle’s beady eyes scanned the Ministry letter, a sinister grin spreading on his round face as his eyes gleamed maniacally. 

“You hear that, boy? No more of that freak school for you! I knew it was just a matter of time before they found out how horrible you are! I told you!” he laughed, gripping Harry’s arm and squeezing it as tight as he could just as his son had done earlier.

His smile dropped suddenly, the happiness at Harry’s expulsion gone in an instant, replaced by cold anger. “Now, you’ve hurt my Dudley, and we’re done with your freakiness. You’ll regret the day you were born, boy, mark my words!”

Uncle Vernon dragged him back down the stairs by his arm, his hold getting increasingly tighter as Harry protested. Vernon then deposited him unceremoniously on a kitchen chair, crossing his arms and staring at Harry.  

“Now, I repeat, what did you do to my son? ” 

“I did nothing! It wasn’t me!” 

An argument broke out again, Dudley muttering about hearing voices in his head and feeling cold before Harry interrupted. “As if you’d never be happy again.” 

“So, you used some spell to make Dudley hear voices and feel miserable. I’ll make you feel miserable, boy. We’ll see how you like magic once we’re done with you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t use magic on Dudley! It was Dementors!”

“What the hell are Dementors?” 

“They’re the wizard prison guards,” Harry explained.

“And why should I believe you? Did you see anything, Dudders?” Vernon turned to his son, who shook his head. 

“No, it was completely dark. I only saw the freak pointing his wand at me.” 

“Muggles can’t see Dementors! That’s why you couldn’t see them.”

“Bloody convenient that, isn’t it? Why should we believe you, freak?” Uncle Vernon got up, leaning over Harry and grabbing his hair with his feast, tugging on it until Harry was looking up at his once again purpling face.  

“I swear, I swear. I didn’t do anything! Please, Uncle Vernon!”

“I don’t—”

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the arrival of a third owl. Harry was seriously scared that the vein in his uncle’s temple was going to explode—not that he would mind very much—or that he would rip his hair from how hard his uncle was now pulling on his hair.

Harry took the letter before any of his relatives could do anything, opening yet another Ministry letter and starting to read it, hoping for any bit of good news he could get. He felt his uncle shift, moving to stand behind him so that he could read the letter as well. 

Dear Mr Potter, 

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on the twelfth of August, at which time an official decision will be taken. Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should, therefore, consider yourself suspended from school pending further enquiries. 

With best wishes, 

Yours sincerely, 

Mafalda Hopkirk 

Improper Use of Magic Office 

Ministry of Magic

Harry couldn’t help but exhale in relief. He wasn’t expelled. He was going back to Hogwarts, away from his relatives. He’d see his friends again, yell at them for ignoring him all summer. Everything would be fine. 

Sharp pain in his head interrupted his thoughts. His uncle pulled on his hair, walking away from him and forcing him to follow if he didn’t want his hair ripped out. He tried to stop from reacting, barely allowing himself to scrunch his face as his uncle dragged him upstairs. 

He was thrown unceremoniously on the floor, landing harshly on his arse and causing a sharp pain to shoot up his spine. 

“Just because you’re going back to that place doesn’t mean you won’t pay for what you’ve done, boy!” his uncle advanced on him, hands going to his belt. “I thought they’d finally seen some sense, seen how horrible you are, but I shouldn’t have expected anything from those freaks.”

Uncle Vernon slid the belt out of his jeans, gripping it from the soft end and letting the buckle dangle to the floor. 

“Take off your shirt!” 

Harry’s brain stopped working for a second, and he stared at his uncle with wide eyes. As unpleasant as his relatives were, they had rarely resorted to physical violence. Sure, he’d been shoved painfully into walls, dragged around by his hair or arm, and he’d had to dodge his aunt’s frying pan a few times, but his uncle using a belt? That was a new development. 

Harry spent too much time trying to comprehend what was happening, forgetting about his uncle’s order. He flinched when his uncle’s voice bellowed in the silent room. 

“I said, TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT!” 

Uncle Vernon’s purple face reached a new level that Harry hoped never to see again as he hastily removed the clothing from his upper body. Harry tried to stop the rapidly increasing trembling in his body, white knuckles wrapped around the rough material of his old shirt. He silently begged him to stop, to not do what he was planning to, but he wasn’t going to voice his pleas out loud. He hadn’t begged Voldemort for mercy. He wouldn’t do it for his uncle either. 

With newfound conviction, he stared down—or well, up—at the man, waiting to see what he would do.  

“Turn around,” Uncle Vernon ordered.

When Harry refused, he growled and raised the hand that was holding the belt, making it fly upwards before he brought it down with a sharp flick of his arm. The metal struck the top of his shoulder, sending sparks of pain down his arm. The scarcity of food that he had to suffer through during the summer meant that he had lost weight, and his bones weren’t as protected by fat and muscle as they should be. The pain made Harry’s eyes water, but he bit his lip. He wouldn’t beg, and he wouldn’t cry out either.  

His uncle didn’t say anything about his refusal to turn, but he grabbed his now injured arm once again and shoved him with such force that he was now sprawled on the floor, face down. He didn’t waste a moment, and soon, he brought down the belt once again, and this time, he didn’t limit himself to one hit. 

His bottom lip was now bleeding from how hard he was biting down on it to stop himself from screaming. He closed his eyes and tried to block the sound of metal hitting his flesh repeatedly and his uncle grunting with the effort it took to move his fat arm. 

The silence from his uncle didn’t last long. Soon, the man was telling Harry all about how he was going to hurt this summer, how worthless he was, how he would regret hurting his Dudley in between hits. 

Harry tried to drown his voice out, to think about anything but what his uncle was saying. He imagined himself with his friends, studying in the library or playing Exploding Snap in the common room, but he had to shut down that line of thought. Thinking about his friends reminded him of the radio silence from them, and that didn’t help in this situation.  

He then imagined himself flying above the Quidditch pitch, racing after the golden snitch and diving, trying to stop Malfoy from reaching the elusive ball before him, and lost himself in the conjured memory. He could faintly hear his uncle’s voice and the pain from the hits, but it was duller and easier to handle when he was mentally doing his favourite activity. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since his uncle started this new form of torture, but just as his hand closed around the snitch in his daydream, his uncle stopped, letting the metal hit the floor for the first time in what felt like forever. 

“You have ten minutes to clean yourself up.” With that, he hauled him up to his feet. He didn’t give him time to get his balance back, legs trembling from the agony in his back that was starting to make itself known and the exhaustion from the day’s events, and he was once again tugged to the bathroom. 

His uncle shoved him in there, and Harry gripped the dresser to stop himself from falling to the floor again. His uncle closed the door, leaving him alone but the lack of footsteps told him he was just waiting for him outside the door. 

Harry didn’t waste time looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to know how much damage his uncle had done to his back, and he didn’t dare lose any precious time. With the mood he was in, he didn’t want to find out what would happen if Harry wasn’t done in the ten minutes he had given him. Harry thought that his uncle wouldn’t seriously hurt him, but after today, after seeing just how much anger his uncle could hold and let out on his nephew, Harry wasn’t so sure anymore of what his uncle was capable of. 

With that thought, he undressed completely, stepped into the shower and turned it on. The water was like ice, but it felt soothing against his inflamed skin. His whole back felt raw and when he looked down to his feet, he saw red running down the drain, and he sighed. He had hoped that his uncle wouldn’t hurt him enough to bleed, but nothing seemed to go right that day. He didn’t have any bandages, and he hoped that his wounds wouldn’t get infected. He would have to find a way to get his hands on some, but a feeling in his gut told him that his evening excursions had come to an end. 

He waited until the water ran clear, thankful that it didn’t take that long and then he slathered his body with soap and cleaned his hair with his cousin’s shampoo, wincing as the soap running down his back stung the open lashes on his back. 

Five minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, drying himself with a clean towel before putting on the same clothes, as his uncle hadn’t given him time to grab clean ones. 

He brushed his teeth and drank some water from the tap, not knowing when he would be allowed to have some water and then left the bathroom. As he had thought, his uncle was waiting for him outside, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. 

“Took your time, freak, did you?” his uncle sneered and gave him a hard shove in the direction of his bedroom. Harry didn’t bother telling him that he had taken less than the ten minutes he was allowed. It would only get him mad, and he didn’t want any more pain. He had had enough for that day. Or ever, but he knew that wishing for no pain at all was futile. His uncle made it abundantly clear that this wouldn’t be his last meeting with the belt. 

Vernon pushed Harry into his room and walked towards the windowsill, where Hedwig’s cage was sitting. He took a padlock and locked it, grinning maliciously as he made a show of pocketing the key. “No more sending letters to your freak friends! If I hear any noise coming from the bird or you, I’ll try out my new gun. It’ll make good target practice.”

Harry nodded and watched as his uncle made his way to the door. “And no meals until I say so.”

Harry knew that if it were for him, he wouldn’t get any meals at all. It was his aunt that most of the time got through his uncle during his worst punishments, knowing that it would be hard to explain if he died from starvation, but he had a feeling that his aunt wouldn’t be feeling so charitable this time. Not when her precious Diddykins had been hurt by magic. Harry could only hope that they wouldn’t decide to actually let him die this time or even kill him purposely. 

His door slammed closed, and he could hear the sound of his uncle working on the multiple locks on his door that he had installed in the summer of his second year. Harry wished that the Weasley twins and Ron would come rescue him just like they did that summer. He would give anything to see Ron’s face floating outside his window, no matter how angry he might be feeling at his best friend. He would forgive him in a heartbeat if he could get him out of this hellhole or even bring him back in time to twenty-four hours earlier. Hell, he’d go back to that night if he could. He’d take the cup by himself; he wouldn’t care about sharing the glory or whatever he had been thinking then. Cedric would still be alive. He’d fight Pettigrew harder, killing him before he could resurrect Voldemort, and this nightmare would be avoided. 

However, it happened. Voldemort was back and Cedric dead and he almost got expelled for using magic to save his bully of a cousin and he got a beating for his troubles. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

This was going to be the worst summer of his life. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

True to his uncle’s word, Harry hadn’t seen any food from his uncle ever since he got locked up in his room a week ago. Harry was only let out—under the strict supervision of his aunt to make sure he wouldn’t try to run off—to go to the bathroom and do his list of chores, which grew impossibly longer as the days went on. He was no longer on meal duty. His uncle and aunt didn’t want him to sneak any food while he cooked, as he often did, and to make up for the loss of that chore, they came up with useless things for him to do, like counting every piece of silverware they had in the house. Aunt Petunia had then screeched about him leaving fingerprints all over her fine silverware and then had ordered his uncle to punish him. 

Uncle Vernon didn’t need any encouragement to do so. They found fault in everything he did. A missed weed in the garden, a broken teacup or plate (often broken by Dudley and blamed on Harry), the tiniest speck of dirt on the windows won him a beating, either with the belt or with Uncle Vernon’s fists and feet. 

Harry had never been so exhausted in his whole life. He wished the day of the trial would come so that he could get out of the house. He hoped they would bring him to wherever his friends or Sirius—or all of them, as he strongly suspected that they were all together—were staying, but he was reluctant to get his hopes up on the chance that they would just bring him back here. 

He had always spent the last few weeks of summer with the Weasleys, but Harry was afraid that they had finally got tired of him. In the week following the Dementor attack, his anger had been partly replaced by fear that he was being abandoned, that his friends didn’t want him anymore. Why else wouldn’t they write to him, even to just chat about random, useless stuff like homework or the latest Chudley Cannons game? Weren’t they worried about what happened? He had hoped that after hearing of the attack—he was sure that they knew about it—they would at least write to him to make sure he was ok, but no owls appeared at Privet Drive.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

By the time the eve of the trial arrived, Harry had a newfound hatred of the Dursleys. He didn’t think he’d hate them more than he already did, but the feeling of loathing that engulfed him every time he was in their presence, which was all bloody time. His only respite from his relatives were the nights, but those were dedicated to a completely different type of hell. 

His nightmares about Cedric and the graveyard didn’t abate. They still plagued him every time he was too exhausted and in pain to stay awake. He spent the ten days preceding the trial slaving away for the Dursleys and acting as Uncle Vernon’s punching bag during the day and fighting the nightmares during the night.

Harry was currently lying on his stomach on his hard and lumpy bed to avoid agitating the wounds on his back—the belt was still Vernon’s weapon of choice—taking deep breaths and trying to calm down his aching stomach. His aunt had given him some bread for lunch that day, but it didn’t do anything to quell his hunger. He had some food left over from Hogwarts, but the conservation spells were starting to wear off, and he had to make it last until the end of the summer in the chance that he would be stuck here until then. He was already running low. 

Harry stole a glance at the clock. It was almost five am. The hearing was at nine, but he wasn’t sure when somebody would be there to pick him up. His uncle and aunt knew about it—his uncle had made sure not to leave bruises on any visible surface of his body—and they’d gone to visit Aunt Marge for the night to avoid seeing any more ‘freaks’.

Harry reluctantly got up from his bed. The lashes on his back pulled with renewed ache, but he had become good at ignoring the pain in the last two weeks. He went around the room, picking up his discarded clothes that he had not had the energy to take care of. While the Dursleys wanted him to keep the rest of the house spotless, they didn’t care about the conditions of his room. After all, they did their best to pretend he didn’t exist, and nobody would ever see his bedroom. Therefore, his room—previously Dudley’s second bedroom where he put his broken toys—was still used as a storage room for the unwanted and worthless stuff: him, Dudley’s old toys and any ugly or broken item that the Dursleys had accumulated over the years. Harry had pushed all the stuff against the wall across his bed, leaving him space for his bed, his desk and a square that was enough space for Vernon to beat him up.  

Harry folded his clothes and placed them and the rest of his things on the desk in the eventuality that he would need to pack after all. He didn’t have his trunk as his uncle had locked it into the cupboard, and it was impossible for Harry to get it as his uncle kept him locked in and someone was breathing down his neck every time he wasn’t, but he would ask whoever picked him up to unlock the door for him. He’d make up some excuse as to why his stuff was there. 

He chose to wear his school uniform, his black trousers and white button-down shirt, forgoing the outer robe and his tie, which had the Gryffindor colours and were probably inappropriate for court. He knew he had to look his best, especially if they all believed him to be mad like Fred and George told him. However, he couldn’t do much about the state of his shoes. Petunia bought them at a charity shop, as Dudley’s old shoes were way too big for him, and he’d embarrassed them by tripping enough times that they’d given up and bought him the cheapest shoes in his right size they could find. They were old even when Petunia had given them to him a few years ago, but now they were dirty from walking around the grounds at Hogwarts and almost breaking apart from use. He hoped nobody looked at his shoes. 

He could imagine the headlines: ‘The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Wear-Ratty Shoes’.  

He went to the bathroom and took a shower, letting the cool water run down his back and cool his hot skin. He took his time now that he had nobody to breathe down his neck and put limits on his bathroom time. Uncle Vernon had left the door unlocked, after Harry had managed to reason with him. 

How could he explain being stuck in his room when they came to get him? It’d reflect very badly on them and get them in trouble, he told him, and thankfully, after a thorough punishment for speaking up, Vernon had seen sense. They had locked every one of their precious belongings in their bedroom, taking the key with them, but they’d had no choice but to leave him free. 

He’d debated getting his trunk out of the cupboard and putting it in his room—he had to learn how to pick a lock if he wanted to survive at the Dursleys and get his school things to do homework—but ultimately decided against it. He was afraid they would see it wasn’t there anymore when they came back, and if he were staying at Privet Drive for the rest of the month, he didn’t want to deal with the punishment that would surely follow. 

Just as he finished getting dressed, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. He took a last look at his reflection. His face looked thinner than ever, his green eyes stood out harshly against his pale face and the dark purple rings around his eyes. His hair was a mess as always, but Professor Lupin had told him in third year that he was cursed with his father’s genetics and therefore his hair would forever be untameable. He checked to make sure no bruise was showing before taking a deep breath, shoved his hand in his trousers’ pocket to wrap it around his wand and got ready to face whoever had come to take him to the Ministry. 

He descended the stairs, avoiding the creaky step out of habit even though he wouldn’t wake anyone up if he stepped on it and made his way to the front door. He looked through the peephole, making sure it was actually his escort and not a random stranger and then threw open the door when he saw familiar red hair and less familiar purple hair. 

Arthur Weasley stood in front of him, wearing his usual kind smile and next to him stood a witch with a heart-shaped face and short purple hair. 

“Wotcher, Harry!”

Chapter Text

“Hi, Harry,” Mr Weasley greeted him with a smile. “How are you doing?”  

“I’m fine, sir. How are you doing?” Harry replied, looking from the Weasley patriarch to the witch standing beside him, whom he didn’t know. Why was she there? Was she one of the people guarding him?

“I’m doing well, Harry, thank you. I don’t believe you’ve met Nymphadora Tonks?” Mr Weasley shook his offered hand before nodding to the woman. 

“Just Tonks, please,” she said, extending her hand. “My mother decided to curse me with a name like Nymphadora.” She spat out the name like it burned her tongue, and her hair flashed red for a few seconds. 

“How’d you do that?” Harry asked suddenly. “With your hair, I mean.”

“I’m a Metamorphmagus,” Tonks said. “It means I can change my appearance at will.” To demonstrate, she morphed her features until he was staring at himself. 

“Brilliant!” 

“Got me top marks in my Concealment and Disguise classes during Auror training. It’s very handy.”

“You’re an Auror?” 

“Yes, that’s why Dumbledore sent me to bring you to the Ministry, to protect you. Arthur’s a fine dueller, but I’ve been trained specifically for this.”

“Thank you, Tonks. I’m afraid we must go. Better to be early than late,” Mr Weasley interrupted their conversation. Harry nodded, following his friend’s father as he led them down the street, away from Privet Drive. Harry hoped that he would have to return there only to pick up his things, but the fact that they hadn’t mentioned packing his trunk made him think he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

Harry pushed those thoughts aside. It wouldn’t do to think too much about that now. Not when he had his hearing to worry about. Harry hadn’t really given himself time to think about it. His uncle and aunt kept him busy during the day, and whenever he was left alone, he worried about surviving the Dursleys. So, he hadn’t given himself time to wonder about what would happen at his trial. He didn’t let himself think about the possibility that he would be expelled after all. That meant that he would have to stay at the Dursleys all year-round and he was barely surviving the two months this year. He didn’t know what they would do to him if they got stuck with him that long.

Now, however, it was all he could think about, so he turned to the two adults to distract himself. “How are we going to the Ministry?” 

“I’m going to Apparate us to an alley near the Ministry. From there, we’ll enter from the visitors’ entrance,” Mr Weasley explained as they entered a side alley. “Have you ever Apparated before?”

Harry shook his head. Mr Weasley gave him a reassuring smile, telling him that it might feel uncomfortable before offering his arm to take. Harry wrapped his hand around the man’s arm lightly, and before he knew it, the alley disappeared in a swirl of colours. It felt like he was being squeezed through a tube, and when they landed in another alley, Harry had to fight to keep what little he had eaten inside his stomach. 

Once the alley stopped spinning and his stomach calmed down, Mr Weasley led them out of the alley, and they walked five minutes and then stopped in front of an old telephone box. He opened the door and got in, motioning for Harry and Tonks to do the same. Harry complied, his forehead wrinkled in confusion, but he knew better than to question the man.

It was a very tight fit. Harry was pressed between Tonks and the wall. His back was screaming in pain, as well as the rest of his body as his multiple bruises were disturbed. Harry once again bit his lip to stop himself from crying out but had to stop when Tonks gave him a worried look, frowning at him. He released his lower lip, offering the Auror a tentative smile. 

“Let’s see… six… two… four, another four and two… this should be it,” Mr Weasley spoke out loud. Once he was done dialling those numbers, a female voice filled the telephone box, making Harry jump. Where was the voice coming from?

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

Mr Weasley answered the invisible woman and soon, a silver badge shot out from the machine. Mr Weasley handed it to him. It read Harry Potter, Disciplinary Hearing and Harry pinned it on the front of his shirt. 

The voice spoke again with instructions on what to do next and where to go before the floor of the telephone booth shook and sank to the ground, much like a Muggle lift. 

By the time their wands were checked and they used the very slow lift— it stopped at almost every floor, wizards and witches from various departments going in and out, including a wizard carrying a fire-breathing chicken— to reach “Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services”, as the female voice in the lift announced, it was a quarter to eight. Mr Weasley brought them to his office on the other side of the floor, stopping once to talk to a tall, dark-skinned man with a gold hoop in his right ear who Mr Weasley introduced as Kingsley Shacklebolt, another Auror.

Mr Weasley’s office was very small, with two desks crammed inside. Filing cabinets overflowing with papers lined the walls, making it hard to move around. The walls were covered in posters of cars and other Muggle objects. On his desk, Harry could see a picture of the Weasley family, with a space where Harry thought Percy would be. He frowned, wondering where the third Weasley son was. People in wizarding pictures could move around, but he’d thought Percy would stay with his family. 

“Ok, Harry,” Mr Weasley startled him out of his thoughts. “Your hearing will be with Madame Bones. She’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s a fair person, so you’ll be alright.”

“Just be calm, stick to the facts, and you shouldn’t have any problems,” Tonks added. “Underage wizards can use magic in life-threatening situations. The law’s on your side, so she’ll—”

Harry didn’t get to know what she’d do because the door opened, and a short man stumbled inside, panting as if he’d run to get there. “Arthur!” he exclaimed. He didn’t glance at Harry, as most people tended to do wherever he went. “Thank Merlin you’re here. I tried to owl you, but you obviously didn’t get it. An urgent message came a few minutes ago. It’s about the Potter boy’s hearing. It’s been changed to eight o’clock, and it’s down in Courtroom Ten—” 

“Eight o’clock in Courtroom Ten?! But they told us—” Mr Weasley cut himself off, turning to Tonks, who told him that she’d be waiting in her office.

“Come on, Harry. We need to go, we have only five minutes to get there.” The man bolted out of the room, Harry hot on his heels.

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry struggled to catch his breath as he ran after the man. He felt dizzy, but he blinked away the dark spots forming in his eyes. People stared at them when they passed them, gawking at the sight of Harry Potter running in the Ministry. 

Mr Weasley stopped in front of a lift, furiously jabbing at the button to call it. Once inside, the older wizard huffed impatiently at every stop, stabbing at the button as if it’d make the lift move faster. They got out at Level Nine, the Department of Mysteries, Mr Weasley grumbling about how the room had not been in use for years.

Mr Weasley led him through a bare corridor with no windows or doors except for a plain black one at the end of it. Mr Weasley took his arm, accidentally squeezing the bruises there and for a moment, Uncle Vernon was there dragging him to his bedroom for his punishment, but Harry shook his head to clear that thought and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

They reached the bottom, and after a few more turns, Mr Weasley stopped in front of a tall, black door with an iron lock. He leaned against the wall, panting from all the running and Harry wanted to do the same, but Mr Weasley urged him to go in.

“What? You’re not coming with me?” he asked when the ginger man didn’t give any indication that he would be following behind. 

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry, I’m not allowed.” He gave him an apologetic smile. “Good luck.”

Harry murmured a thanks and turned to the looming door. His heart was beating ferociously in his chest, going a mile per minute. His hands felt clammy, and he squeezed his fist, hoping that the pain would help keep him grounded. He took a deep breath and turned the heavy door handle, stepping through the courtroom.

As soon as he saw the room, dread filled his guts. He knew this place. He’d seen it before when he saw the Death Eaters' trials in Dumbledore’s pensieve. They were doing his hearing in the same courtroom as murderers?

The walls were made of dark stone, with torches that gave the room an eerie atmosphere. The benches on either side of him were empty, but in front of him, on the highest bench, many people were sitting, talking to each other in low whispers. 

The heavy door banged closed behind him and everybody turned to look at him, conversations dying down as they observed him like vultures. 

“You’re late,” a male voice spoke. “Take your seat.”

Harry nodded and looked at the centre of the room, where he could see a chair, with arms covered in chairs. They were used to bind whoever sat there, usually people who had committed serious crimes, but would he have to be chained? He only meant to save himself and his cousin, who already knew about magic. Was what he had done really so bad that they had to chain him down?

He gulped and went over to the chair. He sat on the edge of the seat, side-eyeing the chains, but they didn’t spring to life. Harry choked down a sigh of relief and turned his attention to the people seated on the bench. There were about fifty of them, wearing plum-coloured robes with a silver ‘W’ on the left side of the chest. They were all staring at him with different expressions, but he wasn’t sure he liked any of them. 

A bead of sweat ran down the back of his head as he made eye contact with the wizard in the middle of the front row: Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Harry had met him once, in the aftermath of the Aunt Marge incident. He had smiled at him, laughing off his worries about being expelled for performing magic on his aunt, even if at that time it was accidental, but now that smile was absent, replaced by cold eyes and a mouth set in a straight line. 

On his left sat a witch with short greying hair and a monocle, while on his right was another witch, but her face was shadowed as she was sitting too far back on the bench. 

“Very well,” the Minister said. “Now that the accused is finally here, let us begin. Are you ready?”

Harry recognized the ‘Yes, sir’ that rang in the silent room. Turning to the voice sitting at the end of the front bench, Harry saw curly ginger hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He tried to lock eyes with the third born Weasley, but Percy ignored him, as if pretending that they didn’t know each other, that he wasn’t his younger brother’s best friend. Harry had never been close to Percy, but he had always received a smile from him when they crossed paths at the Burrow. What happened this summer?

Percy began taking notes as Fudge spoke. “Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” he said, “for offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

The portly man continued listing the interrogators, but he was interrupted by another familiar voice. “Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore strode in as if he were simply taking a walk in a park, his long midnight blue robes flowing behind him. 

Harry didn’t know how to feel about the man. 

On one hand, he was relieved to see him there. Dumbledore would surely be able to get him out of trouble. He knew those people and the law better than he did, which Harry could admit didn’t really mean much as he knew nothing about either of those, so he would know how to get around it and convince people of his innocence. 

On the other hand, the man had left him at relatives that summer after what he had gone through in the graveyard, without so much as a letter to check in on how he was doing, and he wasn’t telling him anything. 

Harry tried to catch his eye, but the headmaster didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead, he continued to look up at Fudge with his trademark calm expression and twinkling eyes. The same couldn’t be said for the Minister, as he was very obviously glaring at the older wizard. Perhaps he also knew that with Dumbledore there they wouldn’t be able to do anything to Harry. He fervently hoped he was right. 

Harry watched as Dumbledore and Fudge bickered about the hearing time being changed. Once they were done, Dumbledore conjured an ugly, bright yellow armchair and sat down with his hands clasped together on his lap. 

“Er, well— the charges, yes.” Fudge hastily took a piece of parchment from the tall pile in front of him, almost knocking the rest over. He steadied the tower before taking a deep breath and read out, “The charges against the accused are as follows: 

“That he, in full awareness of the illegality of his actions as he received a written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge in the year 1992, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle area, in the presence of a Muggle, on the second of August at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under Paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.” 

The Minister read out his charges and then looked down at him.

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at him. 

“Yes,” Harry answered. 

The Minister continued with his questioning, and Harry’s frustration grew as he didn’t let him speak, interrupting him before he could explain himself. He could feel his breathing pick up faster every time Fudge cut him off, and he was sure that he was glaring back at the Minister. Harry tried to calm himself down. It wouldn’t do to snap at him, even though it was all he wanted to do. He gave a glance at the wizard sitting beside him, wondering when he would chime in to save him and stop him from embarrassing himself.

Then the questioning, interrupted by the witch with the monocle, who Fudge had introduced as Amelia Susan Bones, the same woman who was supposed to do his hearing in the first place, turned to his ability to cast a corporeal Patronus, which Fudge promptly shut down. 

“It does not matter how impressive it was,” he said, “in fact, it’s even worse, given that he did it in front of a Muggle!”

Harry saw Percy nod from his peripheral vision, and the dam finally broke. He couldn’t contain his frustration anymore, and he said very loudly, louder than it was really necessary in the quiet room, “I did it because of the Dementors!”

Murmurs broke out at his exclamation, and it was Madame Bones who asked him to explain. 

The Minister smirked at him, looking like Christmas had come early. “You’ve found the perfect cover story, boy, haven’t you? Muggles can’t see Dementors, can they? Very convenient indeed… it’s just your word with no witnesses…”

Harry flinched at being called ‘boy’ and at the argument that his uncle had also used, but he pushed thoughts of his uncle away. “I’m not lying!” he yelled. “There were two of them. Everything went dark and cold, and both my cousin and I felt them and tried to run but—”

“Enough with the lies!” Fudge shouted back. “I’m sure you’ve rehearsed this very well, boy, but there is no way—”

Just as he had interrupted Harry, the Minister was stopped from continuing his speech by the clearing of a throat. The Wizengamot went quiet again as Dumbledore got up from his armchair. Harry turned his glare to the headmaster, wondering why he was only intervening now. 

“We do have a witness,” Dumbledore’s voice was still calm, as he stared down at the Minister, “other than Dudley Dursley.”

Fudge’s smirk fell at once, and he looked like someone had killed his wife. Did he even have a wife? Was there someone who could put up with him and his bowler hats? The Minister, after pulling himself back together, a mission not very well accomplished as he was still scowling quite a bit, tried to dismiss the witness, claiming that there wasn’t enough time for ‘tarradiddles’, but Dumbledore was quick to introduce the mystery witness. 

Fudge sent Percy to open the doors and once he did, Mrs Figg timidly entered the room, looking around. Dumbledore gave her his chair and conjured a second one for himself, and then the questioning began again. 

Mrs Figg told her story when asked, with Madame Bones asking questions to clarify the events. Harry was digging his nails on his palms, his breaths coming in short pants. He hoped that Mrs Figg’s account of the events was enough to declare him innocent, but Harry was afraid that it wasn’t really doing anything to prove his story. Her descriptions of the Dementors were very vague—anyone would be able to tell that they were ‘big and wearing cloaks’, and Madame Bones and the rest of the Wizengamot clearly seemed to agree. Harry appreciated Mrs Figg’s attempts to help him, but was this really what was going to save him from expulsion and the snapping of his wand? Wasn’t there any other way to prove his innocence, like using a pensieve to see his or Mrs Figg’s memories?

His neighbour then described how the Dementor made her feel and how Harry had tried and failed to conjure the Patronus two times before succeeding on his third try. Then she was dismissed, and Harry waited with bated breath to see what would happen. Would he be expelled, or did Mrs Figg convince them? Harry could see that Fudge didn’t believe him, but Madame Bones and the rest? Did they believe him? Harry really, really didn’t want to be expelled. He needed to go back to Hogwarts, or Voldemort wouldn’t be the one who finally killed him. 

The court discussed the improbability of Dementors being in Little Whinging, a Muggle area. Madame Bones seemed to believe him, but Fudge was very insistent that he was lying.  

“Oh, but I don’t think any of us believe the Dementors were there by coincidence,” Dumbledore said in a light tone, and Fudge was immediately on him like a shark, trying to shoot down every accusation that somebody had sent the Dementors after him. 

When Dumbledore wondered out loud if somebody from the Ministry had sent the Dementors, the witch sitting on Fudge’s left leaned forward, and Harry could finally see her face. She had a broad, pudgy face, with large, round eyes and short curly hair and a black bow on the top of her head. Harry thought she looked rather like a toad. 

Her voice was just as annoying as she looked, very high-pitched and she sounded like she had drunk two pitchers of Aunt Petunia overly sweet tea. Harry hoped he wouldn’t have to hear it for long, or he was going to try to burst his eardrums. 

“I’m sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,” she said. “But it sounded for a teensy moment that you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on the boy!”

Her laugh grated on his year, and once again, Harry wished he were deaf. A few others laughed along, but none of them sounded really amused. 

Dumbledore and Fudge continued their fight, Fudge getting angrier by the second and turning a shade of purple that rivalled Uncle Vernon, while Dumbledore stayed as cool and collected as ever. They went back and forth, Dumbledore putting a stop to every attempt to discredit Harry’s story. Fudge mentioned the incident caused by Dobby, and then the blowing up of his aunt, at which Harry scoffed. Fudge was the one who let him off. He couldn’t change his mind two years later when it was convenient for him. 

Harry elected to stay silent as they discussed Harry, knowing that there wasn’t much else he could say to help his case. They would either believe him or not. Harry had been hopeful when he received the second letter from the Ministry, but now he resigned himself to his fate. He’d have to stay at the Dursleys, he wouldn’t have any friends—he doubted his friends would want him anymore once he became useless and couldn’t do magic anymore—and Voldemort would come to finish his job once he was defenceless, if his relatives didn’t kill him before he could by either beating him or starving him to death.  

Harry lost track of what they were saying, only bringing himself out of his thoughts by Madame Bones’ booming voice. The courtroom fell silent, all whispers ceasing at once. “Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?”  

Harry’s heart constricted in his chest. He wrung his hands on his lap. He hadn’t realised it was already time for a decision. He didn’t dare breathe as he watched the hall cast their votes. Harry’s eyes darted around, mentally counting the hands that rose. Many hands were in the air. In fact, it looked like it was more than half! Did this mean he was free? Harry edged further in the chair when Madame Bones asked who was in favour of conviction, and only Fudge and the toad-woman, plus six others raised their hands. Harry glared at Percy, who also had his hand up, but the ginger-haired man still didn’t meet his eye. 

Fudge looked like he had swallowed the bitterest lemon on earth as he forced himself to speak the words, “Very well… cleared of all charges.”

Dumbledore jumped to his feet and vanished the two seats. “Well, I must be getting along. Good day to all.”

Any bit of gratefulness that Harry might have felt for the headmaster disappeared as the man left without sparing a glance at the teenager. Harry was left sitting there, staring at the door where Dumbledore disappeared from with a frown. 

Nobody but the Umbridge woman was paying him any attention anymore, so he tentatively got to his feet and went for the door, initially keeping his pace slow in case they called him back, but when nobody did, he half-sprinted out of the courtroom.  

Harry found Mr Weasley and Tonks waiting for him outside. Mr Weasley was immediately on him, looking worried as he gently grabbed his arms and stared at his eyes. 

“Are you ok?” the kind man asked. “Dumbledore didn’t say anything. Did they—”

“Cleared,” Harry pushed away his anger at Dumbledore to beam at his friend’s father, “of all charges!”

Mr Weasley smiled back and pulled him towards his chest, hugging him. Harry winced as he pressed on his bruises and Mr Weasley must’ve noticed because he loosened his hold and stepped back, giving him another brief worried look. Harry was quick to smile at him, trying to reassure him that he was ok, and Mr Weasley seemed to believe him. 

“That’s wonderful, Harry! I knew they weren’t going to find you guilty, but I must admit I was–”

Mr Weasley was interrupted by the door opening again and the Wizengamot filing out of the courtroom. He showed his surprise at Harry being tried by the full court as he pulled him aside to let them pass, and even Tonks seemed shocked by it.  

The Minister walked past them, ignoring them, and Percy did the same, keeping his head high. Harry could understand Percy ignoring him, but to not acknowledge even his own father? What happened between them?

Harry felt Mr Weasley tense, his mouth tight, but that was the only sign that he had seen his son. 

“Let’s go, Harry. It’s best if we bring you home now.” 

Those words made the unease in his stomach come back, and he nodded weakly at the wizard, who led him back upstairs with a hand on his back. He pondered about his options. Could he convince Mr Weasley to bring him home with him? To get his belongings from Privet Drive and him to the Burrow? Harry took a deep breath. He wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, even though recently, he didn’t particularly feel like one. 

“Mr Weasley?” he called out as they took the stairs to Level Nine. “Can– Can I stay with you for the rest of the summer?” he asked. “My relatives and I don’t get along, you see, and I feel like it would be best if—and I haven’t seen Ron in so long…” 

Mr Weasley’s apologetic smile shot down every hope that Harry had. “I’m sorry, Harry. Molly and I asked if I could bring you back with me, and Snuffles and Ron begged Dumbledore to let you come to headquarters, but he didn’t want to hear it. He said it’d be best if you stayed at your aunt’s this summer, that it’d be safest.”

Harry scoffed. Safest. Yeah, right. So safe that he got attacked by Dementors with his cousin, but Harry didn’t say anything. If these were Dumbledore’s orders, nothing he could say would convince Mr Weasley to move him from his relatives, no matter how sorry the man looked. 

“Wait, Snuffles? Is he at the Burrow?” Harry lowered his voice, looking expectantly at the older man.  

“No, we’re all at the headquarters of—” he cut himself off, looking around as if making sure nobody was listening to him. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about this here, but we’re all together, yes. Hermione’s there too.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to let the hurt wash over him.

His friends were all together, having fun and being kept up to date. They were with Sirius, spending time with him while he was his godfather, and he hadn’t spent more than a few hours with him and only communicated through clandestine letters and fire calls in the dead of night. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I would bring you back with me if it were possible.”

“It’s ok. I’ll be alright.” The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, but he smiled at the man anyway.  

Mr Weasley opened his mouth to say something, but he closed it with a snap when a cool, mocking voice joined their conversation. 

“Well, well, well… Patronus Potter,” Lucius Malfoy said. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, Cornelius Fudge next to him and now regarding them with a look of cold fury. 

As soon as Harry met the older Malfoy’s cold blue eyes, Harry was brought back to the cemetery where the same man stood in front of him with a mask and black robes. He heard his laughter as Lord Voldemort tortured him with the Cruciatus ringing in his ears. Harry threw a disgusted look at the Minister. What was he doing talking to him when Harry had told him he was a Death Eater? But of course, the man didn’t believe Voldemort was back, so thinking that he would trust his word that Lucius Malfoy was Voldemort’s follower was foolish. Fudge could stare at Voldemort’s face, and he probably still wouldn’t believe him.  

“The Minister was just telling me about how you wriggled out of your punishment,” Mr Malfoy drawled. “Very snakelike of you, Potter.” 

Harry took a step forward, but Mr Weasley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  

“But of course, Dumbledore’s Golden Boy thinks he’s above the law. Not very surprising, from what Draco has told me about you.”

Mr Weasley glared at the blond man but didn’t say anything, probably also due to the look that Tonks gave him. She raised her left wrist slightly, exposing a silver watch, and Mr Weasley nodded, turning to the teenager. 

“Come on, Harry. We’ve wasted enough time.”

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Before he knew it, Harry was staring at the front door of Privet Drive. Vernon’s car wasn’t there, and Harry was glad for that. He didn’t want to deal with them just yet. 

Harry led the two wizards inside, offering them a cup of tea as a thank you for being there with him, which the two wizards refused, saying that they had to be at work soon. Harry filled up a glass of water instead and asked if they could give him any news. Mr Weasley told him about the slander campaign against him and Dumbledore, that as he saw today, the Ministry didn’t believe Voldemort was back. 

In summary, nothing that the Weasley twins hadn’t already told him, but they also said that Voldemort was staying quiet, working to recruit new followers and gain strength while nobody believed he was alive, meaning that the fact that there weren’t any reports about Death Eaters attack in the Muggle news was because there weren’t any, and not that they just weren’t reporting them. 

Tonks had just finished telling him that they couldn’t share anything else when Harry heard the most horrible sound. The sound of a car parking right outside. Harry tried to school his expression, not to show his fear at being found in the living room with another two wizards. Harry hoped his mind was playing tricks on him, but he heard the key turning and the door opening, and he knew he wasn’t imagining it. 

The Dursleys were home.

Chapter Text

Uncle Vernon was livid. 

Harry could barely see his eyes under his bushy eyebrows, his mouth set in a straight line. His fits were shaking as they gripped the shopping bag he was holding. 

Uncle Vernon looked just as angry as the day of the Dementor attack, and that terrified Harry, whose heart felt like it had stopped. Harry didn’t dare take his eyes off his relatives, but he could see Mr Weasley stepping forward to stand closer to him, hand hovering above his shoulder. 

“Boy! What are those fr–” Uncle Vernon bellowed, but a hissed “Vernon!” from Aunt Petunia stopped him from calling Mr Weasley and Tonks freaks. “What are they doing here? We told you, nobody in our house while we were away!”

Harry could tell he was angry but trying to hide just as much. Harry dreaded the moment the two wizards left him alone with them. Uncle Vernon, in the past two weeks, had demonstrated just how bad he could get. Harry didn’t think it would get much worse, but he didn’t really want to test it. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Dursley, we had something to discuss with Harry, and this was the only secure place.” Mr Weasley tried to placate his uncle, quite unsuccessfully. On the contrary, Uncle Vernon looked even more angered by being talked to by another ‘freak’ like Harry. Aunt Petunia was hiding behind Uncle Vernon’s large form with Dudley, though even Uncle Vernon couldn’t do much to cover his son’s heavy figure.

“I’m going to ask you to leave now,” Vernon spat at the two unwelcome guests. “We just arrived from a long drive, and we have much to do.”

“Of course, Mr Dursley. We’ll be going now.” Mr Weasley kept a polite voice, but he shot a glare at his uncle, turning to Harry. 

“Alright, Harry, be careful and write to us if there are any more problems—” he glanced at his relatives still standing at the door, “We’ll see you on September first, then.” 

Mr Weasley pulled him into a short hug, gave him a last smile, and then went to the door. If Harry hadn’t been scared of what his relatives were going to do, he would’ve found the way the three Dursleys scrambled back to get as far from the two wizards funny, but alas, the sinking feeling in his stomach didn’t allow for much humour to be found in the situation. 

Uncle Vernon was on him as soon as the door closed, and he was sure that he wouldn’t be heard. He wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing so hard that Harry was afraid he would break his spine. With the other hand, Vernon made a fist and punched his face, hitting his eye. Uncle Vernon had avoided his face so far, and Harry had forgotten how much it actually hurt. 

“I’m going back to Hogwarts,” Harry croaked out, fingers trying to get his uncle’s hand off his neck. Harry thought his courage had been used up during his trial, but evidently, something was still there for him to mention his school by name. Or maybe he was just stupid from the too many hits to his head from the past few weeks. “Please, not my face.” 

“Don’t you dare talk about that nonsense!” Uncle Vernon tightened his grip on his throat, cutting off Harry’s air supply. Harry fought harder against his uncle’s hand, but the man seemed to squeeze harder the more he tried. “I don’t want to hear another word about that school or your freak friends. No more owls, no more anything!” 

“Please, Uncle Vernon,” Harry begged. He didn’t care any more about his promise that he wouldn’t beg anyone. He needed to survive this, and he would do anything to be able to go back to Hogwarts. He didn’t go through the hearing only to be kept from going back by his uncle, and he didn’t want anyone to know how weak he was, how he had let his Muggle uncle beat him up when he had gone against Voldemort himself multiple times and survived. Harry thought he was a good Gryffindor, but he didn’t feel like one anymore. Maybe he stopped being one the moment he stepped through the doors of Privet Drive after the Dementor attack. 

Black spots began to dance across his vision, and just as he felt his knees start to go weak, Uncle Vernon released his grip from his neck, and Harry, dizzy and unable to stay upright by himself, collapsed to the floor. He barely managed to catch himself before his head hit the floor, but his uncle wasted no time and started kicking him. Harry raised a shaky arm to shield himself, but without his hands to support him, his upper body crumpled, and his head struck the floor with a sickening thud. Stars exploded in his vision as pain radiated through his skull. 

Harry faintly heard his uncle talk to his aunt between kicks, but he couldn’t make out the words as he tried to visualize the Quidditch pitch, as he often did during his uncle’s punishment. He stayed in his mind for what felt like an eternity, but he was brought out by pain on his scalp. Uncle Vernon grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifting his upper body off the floor and dragging him towards the kitchen. 

Harry wondered what he was doing. Usually, when he was done with his punishment, Harry was dragged up to his bedroom. Where was Uncle Vernon bringing him? 

Harry’s face became almost ghost-like as his uncle stopped in front of the stairs. Harry’s body was in agony. Every movement felt like he was being hit all over again, and there wasn’t an inch that didn’t scream in pain, but he ignored all that in favour of trying to get free from his uncle’s hold. No, he thought. He couldn’t go back in there. He wasn’t going to allow it. Harry kicked at his uncle’s legs, using any bit of energy he had left to raise his arm and dig his nails in Vernon’s fat arm and try to push him away. 

“No, please,” Harry said. His voice cracked, throat sore from his uncle’s tight grip. “Please don’t make me go in there.” 

“Shut up!” his uncle screamed. 

Harry tried to hold back the tears. He wouldn’t cry. Doing so in front of his uncle would only make him angrier. Uncle Vernon liked it when he begged, but he loathed crying. He said that boys don’t cry, and anytime he saw Harry cry when he was a child, it resulted in a slap and a day without meals. 

Harry pleaded with his uncle to let him stay in his room. He promised that he wouldn’t act abnormally, that he wouldn’t hear a mention of his freakishness until he had to go back to Hogwarts, but his uncle ignored his words. He opened the cupboard with one hand, the other still holding Harry from his hair, and then threw the boy in. Harry fought, pushing his legs out to stop the door from closing, but Vernon kicked his legs and pushed them back in. Two seconds later, Uncle Vernon locked the door, leaving Harry battered and bruised in the hell where he had spent the first eleven years of his life. 

Harry couldn’t believe he was back in the cupboard. He hadn’t been locked in his cupboard since he was eleven, before his Hogwarts letters had arrived. He had barely enough space to lay comfortably then, when he was a very thin and small eleven-year-old boy, but now he had grown up, not much, but enough for the cupboard to be too small to even sit comfortably. He hugged his legs to his chest, hiding his face between his knees. The room felt like it was getting smaller as Harry struggled to breathe, his throat burning with every shaky breath he took. 

He clamped his eyes shut, trying to forget where he was and to avoid looking at the drawing that was still attached to the wall in front of him. He made it when he was six, with a piece of paper and some broken crayons he had stolen from his cousin. It was a picture of him with his uncle, aunt, and cousin standing beside him on his right and two stick figures that were meant to represent his parents on his left. He had scribbled in barely decipherable handwriting ‘Harry’s room’ at the top, above their heads, and his magic had accidentally stuck the paper to the wall permanently. That bout of accidental magic cost him food for two days. Luckily, it was the longest he had gone without even a scrap of food when he was six years old. 

Harry felt tears gather in his eyes, but he tried to hold them in, raising his head from his knees and looking up to the ceiling of his cupboard to push the tears back in. He felt weak and pathetic, crying like this because his uncle had locked him in his cupboard. He should be used to this. His uncle locked him in his room all the time, and he had gone eleven years shut inside the cupboard, and it had begun feeling like his safe space at one point, somewhere where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia couldn’t reach him because they were too big to get in. But he never thought he’d find himself back there at fifteen, when the only way he fit was sitting in a ball like this, beaten up worse than he had ever been in his life. 

Harry didn’t think his life could get much worse after the graveyard, but it had reached a whole new level, and he really hoped that it would get better once he was at Hogwarts. That was the only thought that stopped the tears from falling. He had only a few weeks left until he went back to his school, where he would deal with his friends. He could survive this. He’d use a little bit of cunning and try to avoid getting his relatives angry. 

He could do this.  

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Life at Privet Drive took a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn after his hearing. Harry went from doing chores all day to being locked in his room all day long, only let out once a day to go to the bathroom and for his uncle’s punishments, which came whenever Harry accidentally made a noise in the cupboard or when he took too long in the bathroom. He hadn’t been in Dudley’s second bedroom since the day he got demoted to the cupboard, and he really hoped that Hedwig was ok. He doubted that his relatives were feeding her since they stopped bothering to give him food. They only threw a sandwich into the cupboard every few days, which Harry tried to ration over a few days. 

Harry didn’t know which situation was better. Before the cupboard, he’d have to do chores all day, chores that he could mess up and, therefore, get punished for, but at least then he could stretch his leg and see and feed Hedwig. When he was back in his room, he also had access to his clothes, to his stash of food and his school stuff, giving him something to entertain himself with during the quiet hours of the night when he was trying to avoid nightmares. 

Now, he was locked in all day. His knees hurt from keeping them bent for so long, and the small walk to the bathroom didn’t do anything to soothe his aching limbs and back. His left eye was still a bit sore from Uncle Vernon’s punch on the day of the hearing, but the bruise would be gone before the first September came and Uncle Vernon had not hit his face after that, preferring to stick to the rest of his body so that it wouldn’t arouse suspicion once Harry was back among people. 

Another thing that made the cupboard hell was that he had nothing to occupy himself with there. His school stuff was under the floorboards in his room, and his aunt had moved his trunk to his room upstairs before he was moved into his first room. Having nothing to do gave his thoughts freedom in his mind. He could no longer avoid thinking about his friends, and he spent hours worrying about them, thinking that they wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. He was afraid that they knew how weak he was to let himself be treated like this, that they knew how useless he had been in the graveyard. He had done nothing to save Cedric and nothing to stop Pettigrew from bringing back Voldemort. The only thing he was good for was helping his enemy and getting beat up by his Muggle uncle and he worried that his friends realised that and decided that they didn’t want him as their friend anymore. Why else wouldn’t they talk to him, if not for that? He had long stopped being angry at them. All he felt was sadness. He had no space for any other emotion. 

Having nothing to do also made falling asleep all too easy. No matter how hard he tried, without distractions to keep him awake, he ended up sleeping and consequently having nightmares that had gotten much worse since the Dementor attack. Now dreams of his uncle punishing him joined dreams of Cedric. He beat him up just like he did during the day, but then the man turned into his cousin, telling him it was his fault Cedric and his parents had died. His cousin then changed into a Dementor, chilling his bones and evoking his mother’s screams the night she was killed and Voldemort’s cold laughter in the graveyard telling him to bow. His dreams usually ended with a flash of green light that hit either him or Cedric before he always woke up with a scream dying in his throat and Cedric’s dead eyes staring at the sky seared into his eyes. Sometimes, Ron, Hermione, or the twins took Cedric’s place. Once, it had even been Neville. 

Harry didn’t know how long he could go on like this. He wished he had some Dreamless Sleep, but he would have to ask Madame Pomphrey for it, and he didn’t want anyone to know how bad his nightmares had become.

Luckily, it was finally the thirty-first of August. Tomorrow he would be escaping his prison and going to the first home he ever had. Nothing could ruin his mood today. Except that when he thought about going back to Hogwarts, he realised that he didn’t know how he would be getting there. Would someone come get him? He also realised that he didn’t have any of his new books. In fact, the Hogwarts letter with his supply list for the year hadn’t even arrived yet. Harry was worried they had made a mistake, and he was actually expelled from Hogwarts. Harry really hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d hate getting his hopes up only to find out that he’d have to stay and suffer through his uncle’s rage when he discovered they’d have to deal with him during the year as well as the summer.

His spiralling was interrupted by a shriek and a crash. Then, Harry heard the worst sound that he could hear, and his stomach dropped to his feet. 

“BOY!”

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching made his heart stop. He held his breath as the cupboard door rattled and then sprung open, giving him the perfect view of his furious uncle. 

Harry tried to make himself as small as possible and attempted to still his trembling body, but he wasn’t successful at all. He scanned his uncle’s body, trying to figure out what had set him off this time, and then saw a letter clutched in his fist.

“I thought we told you! No bloody owls!” he yelled, his face was level with Harry’s, so close that he could see beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and bits of eggs stuck to his moustache. Spit left his mouth and landed on Harry, but he resisted the urge to wipe it off. It would only anger him, and if he wanted to get his hands on his letter, he had to get Uncle Vernon to calm down. “Why is your freak school writing to you now?”

“It’s the supply list,” Harry mumbled. “They send one every year.”

Uncle Vernon threw the letter at him and Harry rushed to catch it before he would change his mind and get it back. Harry didn’t open it yet, instead began to think about how he would get his supplies. 

“Uncle Vernon?” he said hesitantly, as his uncle was leaving.

“What do you want, freak?” 

“I go back to H—to school tomorrow,” he started. “I need to get my supplies.”

Uncle Vernon threw him a scathing look. “You won’t get any of our money, boy, especially nothing that will enable your abnormality. We’ve already spent too much on you as it is.” 

“No, no, I don’t want money,” Harry was quick to say. “Can I–Can I go to London today? I can get my stuff, and I will stay there so you will get rid of me sooner.” 

“Fine,” his uncle said after a few moments of silence. “You should be grateful that we’re feeling so gracious today.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Get out of my house now. I don’t want to see you until next summer.”

“Er, sir?”

“What now?” Uncle Vernon closed the distance between them again, taking him by the throat again. “I’m getting bloody tired of your requests, so you better tell me what you want now before I make you regret ever uttering a word.”

“I’m s-sorry, sir, I j-just need to pack my trunk,” he stuttered. His uncle’s grip wasn’t as tight as the last time he had tried to strangle him, but it was still painful for his still-healing throat. 

The man shoved him out of the cupboard, and Harry landed painfully on his side. His wand, which he was hiding under his clothes, jabbed into his skin as he fell, but thankfully, he didn’t hear the sound of it snapping.  

“Hurry up, boy!”

Harry scrambled to his feet and ran after his uncle. He was finally let into his room after weeks of not stepping foot into it, and he was grateful that his things looked just like he had left them. His relatives were probably too disgusted to touch anything remotely magical, even if it were to destroy it.  

Harry hurriedly packed all of his possessions in his trunk without bothering to fold any clothes. He changed into a hoodie and jeans, balling up his dirty clothes and throwing them into his trunk. He would have to wash them at Hogwarts, and he probably needed to buy a new uniform, as the one he wore at the hearing got ruined after Uncle Vernon’s punishment. Thankfully, he’d have time to do it once he got to Diagon Alley.  

Harry had yet to look at Hedwig since he came into the room, and he took a deep breath before turning to the desk where he kept her. His owl was staring back at him. Her yellow eyes looked tired, her feathers were dull and ruffled. 

Harry felt a fist clench around his heart. He should’ve let her out and told her to go to the Weasleys as soon as things had gone downhill, but because of his selfish need to have a familiar face here and be around someone who loved him stopped him from sending her away, and now he had hurt the first friend he had. 

Harry grabbed her cage, being careful not to jostle her too much, and then took his trunk with the other hand. He had lost a lot of weight from his weeks of starvation, and pulling his heavy luggage had become hard, but he gritted his teeth and dragged it down the stairs, unfortunately making a lot of noise. Uncle Vernon must have been in a good mood since Harry was leaving one day early because he didn’t say anything. 

Harry was out of the door without another word to his relative, and he walked a bit farther away in case his uncle changed his mind and decided to beat him up one last time or keep him there forever, before stopping a few streets away from Privet Drive Four. 

Now that he was finally away, Harry stopped to think about what he was going to do. How was he going to get to Diagon Alley? He could take a train to London. It would take money he didn’t have, and it would eat up a lot of his time, but Harry couldn’t think of any other way to get there quickly. The first year Hagrid had taken him, his second he had gone with the Weasleys, and his third year…

The Knight Bus!  

The summer of his third year, he had run away and accidently called the Knight Bus. He didn’t have Muggle money, but he did have some wizard money left over from last year! He exhaled in relief and got his wand out of his pocket after checking that nobody was watching him. Then, he raised his arm and waited for the familiar bus. He wasn’t really too keen on taking the Knight Bus, but he had no other choice. It was quick, and it would take him right in front of the entrance to Diagon Alley. He couldn’t be too picky. 

A moment later, the purple double-decker bus materialised in front of him with a loud crack. Harry pulled his hood up low on his face, hoping to cover the large lightning bolt. He knew people would recognise him—his face was on the front page of the newspapers too often for him to go unnoticed—but Harry hoped it would take a little longer if the scar wasn’t the first thing people saw. 

The familiar face of Stan Shunpike welcomed him into the infernal bus, and he paid the fee, turning down the hot chocolate and going to a seat before anyone could talk or pay attention to him for long enough to recognise him. 

Luck was on his part because he went the whole trip without the other passengers realising who he was, and soon he was standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron with his trunk and Hedwig. He got in and was glad when he saw that the place wasn’t busy. Only a few guests sat at the tables, and Tom, the owner, was waving his wand around to clean the newly emptied tables. 

“Er, hi,” he said, once he stepped in front of Tom and waited for the man to acknowledge him. The man gave him a smile and greeted him. 

“Ah, hello, Mr Potter,” he said, keeping his voice down to not attract attention. “What can I do for you?”

“Could I get a room for tonight, please?” he asked. The man nodded and led him towards the stairs that would lead them to the inn. He swished and flicked his hand, muttering Wingardium Leviosa, and his trunk levitated behind them. Harry thanked him, happy that he wouldn't have to attempt to pull the heavy luggage up the stairs. Dragging it around had been difficult enough, but weeks of starvation had taken away a lot of his weight and strength, and he was sure he’d fall down the stairs before he even reached the halfway point.

Tom brought him to the same room he had taken in his third year and then left him be, telling him that lunch would start at twelve. His stomach grumbled at the mention of food, and he thanked Merlin that he was able to eat whatever he wanted now. He wouldn’t have to go hungry again for ten months. He felt something unclench in his chest at the thought of being away from Privet Drive for the next ten months. He would give anything never to go back there, but he had to take what he could. 

Harry dropped his trunk at the end of his bed and put Hedwig’s cage on the small desk that was pushed against the wall with the window. He opened the cage, letting Hedwig free to leave if she wanted. 

“You can go if you want, fly around a bit,” he told her, petting the top of her head. “But I’m going to Hogwarts tomorrow, and it might be too long a flight for you right now. I promise I’ll get you some food right now, as soon as I figure out what I need to get and I get more money from Gringotts.” 

Harry looked at his owl as she nipped at his fingers. “I’m sorry, Hedwig,” he said, smiling sadly. “I wish you didn’t have to pay for my mistakes too.”

Harry shook his head to get rid of the sad thoughts that were trying to creep into his mind and fished the Hogwarts letter out of his pocket. He opened the envelope and noticed that there were two pieces of parchment inside. 

He grabbed the longer letter, setting the supply list aside. 

Dear Mr Potter,

I am writing to you to inform you that due to your temporary expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on 2 August 1995, you have been removed from Hogwarts’ records. This means that we had to manually add you back to our records as a fifth-year student. Due to this, you are no longer registered as a Gryffindor and will have to be re-sorted into a Hogwarts House at the Welcoming Feast after the first years. 

We apologise for the inconvenience, and we ask you to owl us as soon as possible with any questions that you might have.  

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, 

Deputy Headmistress

Harry stared blankly at the parchment, his brain struggling to process what he had just read. His fingers tightened around the edges, crinkling the paper. Re-sorted? What? What did they mean he had to be re-sorted? He had never heard of people getting re-sorted halfway through school, but he was the Boy-Who-Lived, so of course it would happen to him. His head spun with all the thoughts swirling in his mind. 

What if the Sorting Hat didn’t put him in Gryffindor? There were plenty of moments when he hadn’t felt like one this summer. What if he didn’t belong there anymore? What would his friends say? Would they still want him? And where would he end up? Ravenclaw? He doubted it. He wasn’t that smart, and he certainly wasn’t very academically inclined. He did much better in practical magic than theory. Could he be a Hufflepuff? But somehow, even that was hard to believe. He couldn’t see himself in yellow and black, but that left…

His friends would never talk to him again if he ended up in Slytherin. If they didn’t want him now, they would never want him if he was in the same house as Malfoy and his cronies, or hell, the same house as Voldemort. He wouldn’t talk to Ron again—he disliked Slytherin even more than Harry did—but maybe Hermione would try to stay his friend, maybe she would mediate between Harry and Ron… try to get Ron to see reason. She had dealt with their fallout in fourth year after all.

No.

Harry wouldn’t be in Slytherin. The Hat was going to put him back in Gryffindor, where he belonged. It didn’t matter if there were a few moments when he acted like a coward. Nobody was brave all the time. It would be fine. Harry pointedly ignored the voice that reminded him that the hat wanted to put him in Slytherin and that the only reason he ended up in the lion’s house was because he had specifically asked not to be in Slytherin. That line of thought only added fuel to his panic. 

Hedwig’s hoot brought him back to reality. He put that letter away, burying it at the bottom of his trunk. Out of sight, out of mind. He wouldn’t think about it until Professor McGonagall called him to sit under the hat. There wasn’t much he could do about it other than get himself stressed out anyway. 

“Ok, girl,” he said out loud. “Let’s see what we need to buy for Hogwarts this year.”

Chapter Text

After getting more galleons at Gringotts, Harry stopped at the entrance of the wizarding bank to decide where he wanted to go first. By the time he was done at Gringotts, it was almost lunchtime. It had taken a bit longer than usual because Harry had had to prove his identity to the goblins as he didn’t have his vault key with him. They’d taken his wand to check it and had him put three drops of blood on a parchment before they brought him to the vault, but Harry didn’t mind the extra ten minutes it had taken to go through the identification. He was just glad they had let him in; he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he didn’t have his key, which was probably still with Mrs Weasley, since she’d taken him shopping in the summer of fourth year.

Harry decided to go to a small café near the bank to have some lunch. He didn’t feel very hungry, but he hadn’t had any food in a few days, and he knew if he didn’t eat something, he would probably pass out soon. He didn’t want to pass out in the middle of Diagon Alley. 

Harry ordered a small sandwich for himself, knowing from experience that if he had any more than that after being basically starved for a month straight, he would lose it before it would even reach his stomach. He was afraid that he would throw the little he was eating now anyway. He took out his list while he worked through his lunch. Restocking his Potions ingredients and buying the books for this year were his priority, but he wanted to go to Madam Malkin’s to get new robes and possibly new clothes that weren’t Dudley’s castoffs for any time he didn’t have to wear his uniform. 

Until then, he had chosen to wear part of his school uniform over the weekends over going around Hogwarts with battered clothes, but it’d be nice to have clothes of his own. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of buying new clothes before, but it was better late than never. He just hoped that Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions would have Muggle-style clothes. Harry wasn’t too sure what to feel about the robes that most of his classmates, raised in the wizarding world and mainly purebloods, wore. Wizards had magic and all, but they seemed to be stuck in the past with their clothes and writing utensils.

Once his sandwich and the apple juice Harry had ordered with it—Harry hated pumpkin juice—were gone, he stood up and looked around. He’d have to leave the Apothecary for last, so that he could put the ingredients in his trunk as soon as possible, so he steered himself towards Madam Malkin. 

Harry spent the next thirty minutes trying on clothes that Madam Malkin brought him, and he left the store with new t-shirts and jeans for leisure wear and a few shirts, sweaters, and trousers for more formal occasions, and two new sets of school uniforms. Madam Malkin explained that the Hogwarts uniforms were charmed to change to the student’s new House when they got sorted, and the same was true for him, even if getting re-sorted wasn’t a common occurrence. 

Madam Malkin had done him the favour of shrinking his shopping bags for him so that he wouldn’t have to drag so many bags around and suggested that he bought messenger bag with expansion and featherlight charms woven into it and he thanked her for her help before going to do just that as it would probably be the quickest errand. 

Once he acquired the messenger bag, a black dragon-hide bag that was advertised to be water and fire resistant, he went to Eeylops Owl Emporium to stock up on owl treats and then got his Potions supplies, deciding to leave Flourish and Blotts for last as it would take up most of his time, after the man who sold him the messenger bag had reassured him that the bag would keep any potion ingredient or food fresh. 

By the time he was ready to go to the bookstore, after spending way too long at Quality Quidditch Supplies looking at new broom servicing kits and the new Firebolt 2 that had come out last month, it was four p.m., and he had glimpsed a few of his classmates shopping with their parents. Some had recognised him, a few of them waving at him, including Neville Longbottom, with whom Harry had stopped to chat a bit, and Colin and Dennis Creevey. Others glared at him, even some who were usually friendly with him at school, and Harry wondered what that was about. 

Harry was thankful that Flourish and Blotts wasn’t as packed as he had feared when he entered the bookshop. It had been a nightmare buying his books in his second year, and he was glad he wouldn’t have to go through it again, but then again, there was no Gilderoy Lockhart to make a spectacle of Harry shopping for school supplies. 

Harry wandered around the shelves, scanning the spines of the books to find what he was looking for. He could’ve asked the girl at the cash register, who had offered him help, but Harry felt like looking for them himself and maybe seeing if there were any interesting books. 

Harry got the books for Transfiguration, Potions and Defence of the Dark Arts—Harry listened to the girl at the cash register complain when she saw him grab the book, saying how useless the book was—but when he got to the Charms section he lingered there, looking at the other books displayed there. 

A book called Glamours: How to Hide Reality caught his eye, and he grabbed it, opening the table of contents to see what it was. As soon as Harry saw that it would teach him how to hide his scars and it could change his appearance, or at least make it appear as if his body were different, Harry added it to the pile of his books. He was planning on hiding his scars and the way his body looked after a month of no food with his clothes as he always did, but glamours would make his life much easier. His bruises and wounds would heal eventually, but there was no way that the belt hadn’t left any scars on his body, and he did not want anyone to see them or how thin he was. 

It was when he was perusing the Healing section to see if he could find any book about simple healing spells that he could use to try to fix some of the damage from the Dursleys that Harry heard familiar voices. 

“Have you got the fifth-year book list, Remus?” Mrs Weasley’s voice asked as the bell dinged to signal the arrival of new customers. 

“Yes, I’ll get those.” 

“Thank you. I’ll get the twins and Ginny’s, then.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat at the voice of his old Professor and his best friend’s mother. Harry turned slightly so he could see the two. They were weaving through the few customers browsing the shelves and coming towards him. Mrs Weasley was looking down at what Harry assumed to be the Hogwarts letter, and Lupin was doing the same. The professor was carrying a bunch of bags, while Mrs Weasley had a wrapped package that looked suspiciously like a broomstick under her armpit. They hadn’t noticed him yet, and Harry debated on whether he should make himself known for a few moments, but the need to talk to them after a whole summer of not talking overrode any anger he felt towards them. He missed them, and he felt angrier at his friends anyway, even if now he was more hurt than angry at them. 

“Mrs Weasley? Professor Lupin?” Harry called out once they were close enough that he wouldn’t need to yell and attract attention to them. The pair jumped in surprise, heads shooting up towards him. 

“Harry? What are you doing here, dear?” Mrs Weasley asked him. She set the broom-shaped package on the floor before advancing towards him, with her arms open. Harry resisted the urge to flinch away and let her hug him. He wrapped the arm that wasn’t holding his shopping basket around her plump body, closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy the motherly hug that he had missed—and needed, after the last month—so much and ignored the way his back ached with the pressure the hug put on his bruised body. 

Mrs Weasley stepped back but kept her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length, her gaze roaming over his body. He could see the worry creep into her face, and Harry’s resolution to learn glamours became stronger. 

“Oh, dear, you look so thin!” Her voice trembled. She raised a hand towards his face, and this time he couldn’t stop the slight flinch. One glance at the Professor—at the way his eyes had narrowed, and his mouth tightened—told him that it hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, but Mrs Weasley either missed it or ignored it, and she caressed his cheek lightly. “I wish Dumbledore had let you come to headquarters, we’d have loved having you there.”

Harry smiled at the Weasley matron. “I’d have loved being there as well, Mrs Weasley.”

Harry then turned to Lupin, who stepped forward and also hugged him, though it was shorter than Mrs Weasley’s. 

“We’re glad to see you, Harry, but what are you doing here? It’s too dangerous for you to wander about alone,” the man asked him. 

“I got my Hogwarts letter today, so I’m buying my school supplies,” Harry said. “I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron, so it’s easier to get to King’s Cross tomorrow.”

“Oh, we were going to buy your supplies, dear. I thought you knew that.” 

“Er, no, I didn’t know. Sorry,” Harry scratched the back of his head, “I’ve already got everything. Just need to pay for these.” He raised the basket to show his books, and he saw Remus frown at the book on top. 

“Why do you need a book about glamours?” the werewolf asked. 

“Oh, er, I just wanted to learn more about them, you know? It sounded helpful… and it’d be nice to hide my scar sometimes.” 

Lupin didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go, asking him about his summer. Harry gave him a short answer and deflected any questions about the Dursleys. 

Then he asked about the broom Mrs Weasley had bought. The only Weasleys on the Quidditch team were Fred and George, and they already had brooms, so Harry had no idea who the broom could be for. 

“Oh, it’s a gift for Ron! He was made Prefect, and we wanted to get him a congratulatory gift.” 

Harry thought for a moment that he had misheard her. Ron, a Prefect? He loved Ron, but if asked who he’d thought would be made prefect for their year, Harry would’ve said Neville or Dean. They were the most responsible fifth-year boys, after all. Harry also thought they wouldn’t have chosen Ron, nor Harry, because of all the trouble the two of them got themselves into every year. 

Harry didn’t need to ask who the female Prefect was. Hermione had been with them during everything, except for the Chamber of Secrets ordeal when she was petrified, but she was the top student and the only reason Harry and Ron didn’t get in even more trouble. If she could deal with them, she could handle being Prefect. She deserved it. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “That’s nice.”

Harry knew that was very lame, but he was still reeling at the information. He’d sort himself out before he actually saw Ron if he didn’t end up losing his temper when he saw his two best friends. 

“You said you’re staying at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry?” Lupin asked after a few moments of silence. Harry nodded. “Molly, I’m going to stay with him,” he said. “Can you tell the Order?”

“I don’t need—” 

“Please, Harry. I know you can hold your own. You’ve survived the—But I’d feel better knowing someone was with you for tonight. You can’t use magic, and the Ministry is going to come after you if you do it again, even if it’s for self-defence. 

Harry knew a lost fight when he saw one and gave up trying to convince them he’d be fine on his own. And they were right, he got lucky they let him off the first time, they wouldn’t do it a second time. They hated him too much for that.

“Ok, Professor.”

“I’m not your professor anymore, Harry. You can call me Remus,” the man chuckled. Harry smiled at him. Maybe having some company wouldn’t be too bad. He’d missed him and the others. And maybe he’d give him more answers if they were alone and not in a time limit.

“Alright, Harry. Why don’t you finish your shopping here, and we’ll meet you at the entrance once we’re done as well?” 

Harry eagerly turned to the healing books, telling the prof—Remus that he was interested to learn more about healing—a lame lie, but it worked better this time—when he asked and then went to pay for his books. 

A few minutes later, Mrs Weasley and Remus joined him at the door, books safely stored in shopping bags. 

“Where are your shopping bags, dear?” Mrs Weasley asked him when she saw that his hands were empty. 

“Oh! I went to Madam Malkin to get new clothes, and she suggested this bag! It has an extension and a featherlight charm, so I put all my books and the rest of my shopping in there! Magic is brilliant, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t know why he was getting so excited over a bag, but he didn’t stop himself from showing it. He grew up without knowing about this world, and it still felt surreal that he was part of it, that magic existed, even after fighting a man with two faces, a ghost, turning back in time and watching someone come back to life. It was one of the only things keeping him happy, even if it caused him pain and a lot of problems at the same time. After all, without magic, Voldemort wouldn’t have come back. 

Mrs Weasley smiled at his enthusiasm. “Oh, before I forget. I got money from your vault to get your school things,” she said as she took out a small pouch and handed it to him, “but you should take it since I don’t need to do your shopping. The vault key is inside.”

“Oh, thanks, Mrs Weasley!” 

“No problem, dear,” she gave him one of her bright smiles and then looked at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, look at the time! I'd better finish the shopping; dinner won’t make itself!” 

“Alright, Mrs Weasley. Say hi to the others from me.” 

“I will, dear. I will tell Dumbledore and Sirius that you stayed with Harry, Remus.”

“Thanks, Molly.” 

Mrs Weasley dragged him into another hug and then pushed his head down so that she could reach his forehead to plant a kiss there. Harry flushed, cheeks burning red from the action, and he shot a glare at Remus when he heard him chuckle.

“You two be careful, now, and Remus, make sure Harry eats something. He’s looking far too thin.” 

Harry’s embarrassment only grew at that comment, and he shuffled his feet as Remus assured Molly that he would make sure Harry got a nice dinner. 

Harry and Remus lost Mrs Weasley in the sea of people, and the man turned to him, asking if he needed to go anywhere else. Harry shook his head. Flourish and Blotts was his last stop, so they made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Lupin went to get a room for himself, but Harry stopped him, informing him that it wasn’t necessary as his room had two beds in it. 

The two went upstairs so that Harry could leave his bag, then went back downstairs for dinner. Harry got himself a small soup, knowing that it would be the only thing that his stomach could keep down for now. Every time after the summer holidays, he’d have to readjust his stomach to eating full meals, slowly increasing his portion sizes. It usually wouldn’t take very long, but this summer had been the worst one of his life. He had never eaten so little. He was sure it would’ve been bad during the summer before his second and third years, but the Weasleys had rescued him in his second year, and he had run away in his third year before things could turn sour. Harry still doubted the twins, and Ron knew just what they had saved him from. 

This year, however, nobody had come to rescue him, and he hadn’t had any opportunity to escape. He’d been left there to deal with the consequences of Dudley getting hurt. He knew that the Weasleys would’ve come to get him, as both Mr and Mrs Weasley had told him, especially if they knew how bad it had gotten, but it didn’t change the fact that he was stuck at the Dursleys for the whole summer under Dumbledore’s orders.

Remus ordered his food and then, when Tom was gone with their order, waved his wand in a complicated pattern and muttered a privacy charm around them so that nobody would hear their conversation. 

“So, Remus,” Harry started before the man could, “What’s going on? What’s Voldemort doing? What’s the headquarters and the Order? Mr Weasley only told me about the campaign against me and Dumbledore and the lack of Death Eaters attacks.” 

“Merlin, kid, you’re fast,” Remus laughed softly, then turned serious. “How do you know about the Order? Did Arthur tell you?”

“No, Mrs Weasley mentioned it earlier.”

“And of course you didn’t miss it.” Remus gave him a fond look. “I’ll tell you because Sirius and I agree that you shouldn’t be kept completely in the dark, but know that this is very confidential, and nobody must know about this, alright? I’d probably be in trouble for even telling you.”

“I can keep secrets.” 

“I know, cub. We tried to tell Dumbledore and Molly, but they wouldn’t hear it.”

Harry frowned. “Mrs Weasley? I thought she wanted me to come to headquarters, wherever that is.” 

“That she did. She just thinks you’re young and shouldn’t be dragged into the war. She hasn’t allowed any of her children to be involved either, except for Bill and Charlie, and she wasn’t happy about either of them joining the Order. She’s just doing what she thinks is best for you.” 

Harry hated when people kept information from him, but he could understand Mrs Weasley, and the fact that he wasn’t the only one not in the know did soothe his hurt feelings a little bit. He would probably still yell at Hermione and Ron for not writing to him all summer, but at least they hadn’t kept things about the war from him on purpose. He would’ve still appreciated hearing about their day or anything else, though, so he still felt some hurt towards them, but he hoped they could fix things soon. 

“The Order of the Phoenix is a group of people that Dumbledore created in the first war to fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and it was brought back together at the beginning of summer when Voldemort came back.”

“That makes it sound like you all were part of a boy band.” 

“Yeah, I guess it does. Sirius would definitely be the lead singer.” Remus chuckled.

“Anyway, the Order is doing its best to stop the war before it even starts, trying to stop Voldemort from gaining new followers. There’s a weapon that Dumbledore says he’s looking for, and the Order’s guarding it.”

“A weapon? What is it?” 

“I don’t know, Harry. Dumbledore won’t share that with us.”

“He likes his secrets, doesn’t he?” Harry said bitterly. 

“He does, but he must have a reason to keep it secret. He knows how to win a war better than anyone else. He’s won it before.”

“My mother won the war,” Harry scoffed. “By sacrificing herself. That’s what Dumbledore told me, at least, that her sacrifice caused the killing curse to rebound and defeat Voldemort.”

Any answer Remus might have given him was interrupted by Tom bringing their food. Remus dispelled the privacy charm and thanked the owner. Harry took his soup and watched as Lupin pushed the plate of sausages and toast towards him. 

“Oh, I thought those were for you,” Harry said. “I don’t know if I can eat them; I’m not that hungry. Thank you, though.”

“Harry, Mrs Weasley is right. You need to eat, your clothes are hanging off you. I’ve never seen you this—” 

“I’m fine, Remus, really. I’ve had a big lunch,” Harry lied. 

“Please, Harry, just have a bit. Try to have some, and I’ll get off your case.”

Harry sighed and nodded. The two ate in silence, the previous conversation abandoned, but Harry was satisfied. Remus had given him more answers than anyone else, and it was nice to know that someone trusted him and didn’t think he was too much of a child to be told things that revolved around him. Harry didn’t believe himself to be at the centre of the world, despite what certain people—a surly Potions Master and a blond Slytherin, for instance—may say, but it was true that Voldemort had targeted his parents and him as a baby and was now attempting to do him in at any chance he got. 

Harry finished his soup and pulled the plate of sausages that Remus had gotten for him closer. He cut them up and started on them, eating them slowly. After a few bites, his stomach churned. Harry could feel his dinner trying to come back up, and he immediately pushed the plate away, hoping that Remus would leave it alone. 

“Harry, you’ve barely had anything.” His old professor sounded worried as he looked at his barely eaten plate. 

“Please, Professor,” Harry said between breaths to calm his nausea. “I’m really not hungry.”

“If you’re sure,” he relented, but he didn’t seem convinced at all as he eyed his sunken cheeks and pale face. 

“How did you get so thin, Harry? If you’re having problems with food, we can help–”

“I’m fine, Professor, I promise. It looks worse than it is, really. I did have a big lunch at lunch, and I get nauseous if I eat too much,” Harry said. “I was just feeling a little sad over the summer, about… about C-Cedric,” Harry stumbled over his name, voice cracking at the thought, “and I forgot to eat a few times, but it’s ok. I’m better now.”

“It looks like more than a few meals.” 

“I know, but I’ve always been on the smaller side, and I’ve been told that my father was thin as a twig as well, so it’s probably also genetics.”

“That’s true.” Lupin agreed. He gave him a last searching glance before he stopped his questioning, and Harry had to stop himself from exhaling in relief. 

Remus’ palpable worry made him feel warm and happy, cared for in a way that he had only felt with Mrs Weasley, and more recently Sirius, even though they hadn’t seen a lot of each other. He’d longed for someone to care about him like this, like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon cared for Dudley. He felt like he was important, but at the same time, he didn’t want anyone to know about the Dursleys. They all knew that they didn’t get along, that Harry fought with them all the time, but they didn’t know the extent of it, and Harry would keep it to himself. He didn’t want them to know how they had beaten him, both with fists and belts and the occasional frying pan to the head, how they had refused to feed him and that on the rare days they did feed him, they gave him only scraps. 

He refused to tell them about the cupboard. He felt weak and humiliated every time he thought about the long days spent there, wondering when he would eat next and when the next punishment would be. He wanted them to keep thinking that he was brave and strong, that he wasn’t so weak that he couldn’t even defend himself against his Muggle relatives. How could he save them from Voldemort if he couldn’t even save himself from them? 

But above all, Harry was afraid that they would agree with the Dursleys. What if they thought he deserved it? For getting his parents, two brave, kind, and capable wizards, and Cedric, Hogwarts’ actual Golden Boy, the one who deserved the title anyway, killed, and who knows how many more would die because of him.

Harry would bring this secret to the grave, so nobody knew just how weak and useless he really was. It’d be better for everyone. 

Harry paid for the meal after fighting with Remus over it, and then the duo went back to their room. Harry dumped his purchases on the bed and started reorganising them in his trunk, Remus joining him as he was bored and had nothing else to do anyway. Remus unshrunk Harry’s bags from Madam Malkin’s, and the teen placed them in his trunk, making sure they were still folded nicely. They would end up all balled up in a week or so, but Harry always believed that he could keep his trunk tidy, but his tidiness would last only for the first week before he gave up and just threw stuff inside. It drove Hermione crazy every time she asked to borrow something from Harry, or Ron, who had the same problem, except that he never tried to keep it organised in the first place.

“How long will your trunk stay organised?” Remus asked once they were done, standing next to Harry and in front of the open trunk. 

“Er… about a week?” 

Remus chuckled and took out his wand. “James was the same, you know. He could only keep his trunk tidy for about a week before it got messy,” he said. His eyes glossed over as he stared at the wooden luggage, a melancholy smile on his lips. “Your mother got so tired of it one day, when James couldn’t find his clothes and was late for his date, that she just pushed him aside and yelled the spell at the trunk. It got so tidy and clean that it got rid of an ink stain that James had been trying to get off for ages. Too bad it was during our seventh year, so James didn’t get much use out of the spell at school.”

Harry’s eyes misted over as he listened to his story. He imagined the scene playing out in his mind, his father frantically upturning his trunk and his mother yelling at him while helping him at the same time, and he smiled. “Can you teach me?”

“Of course.”

Remus showed him the wand movement multiple times and helped him practise the incantation, making sure he got it right. Harry couldn’t try it then, but he couldn’t wait to get a chance to try it at Hogwarts. He felt silly getting excited about such a simple spell, but the attached story about his parents made him feel so happy that he could probably use it for a Patronus. 

Harry went to bed that night with a smile on his face. He was away from the Dursleys, with one of his favourite people, and tomorrow, he would be going back to Hogwarts, his first home. For the first time since the night of the graveyard, Harry slept through the whole night without any nightmares.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up early the next day and used the time alone—Remus was still snoring lightly—to study the book about glamours he had bought yesterday. He couldn’t cast it now, but he wanted to make sure that he knew how to so that he could put it on as soon as he was on Hogwarts grounds. Once he found a glamour that would work for him, one that would change his appearance to one he pictured in his mind, he practised the wand movement and the pronunciation, making sure that he was being quiet enough as not to wake up Remus. Harry wasn’t sure how good the man’s hearing was. He knew it was better than the average person, but he didn’t know how quietly he would have to speak to avoid being heard by him. Harry hoped he was still sleeping. 

At eight thirty, Remus finally roused from his sleep and once dressed—Harry had chosen to wear his Hogwarts uniform so that he wouldn’t have to change on the train, with the outer robe folded in his bag to avoid attracting attention from Muggles—the two went downstairs for breakfast. Remus once again tried to get Harry to eat more than the oatmeal he had ordered, but he was still feeling queasy, so he only agreed to eat a few bites of the eggs Remus had gotten. 

Harry’s trunk was already packed. He had put a few books in his messenger bag with some parchment so that he could finish his homework—Uncle Vernon had locked him in the cupboard before he could finish the essay for Professor McGonagall—on the train ride. 

Now, the only thing left to do was wait. Harry got out his pack of Exploding Snap cards, and they started a game to kill time. Harry emerged victorious in five out of six games, and just as he was about to win the seventh game, the alarm Remus had set up went off, warning them that they had to leave or risk missing the train. 

They arrived at the bustling train station with ten minutes to spare, and they scanned the platform for the others. It was really easy to find them. The Weasleys’ hair was like a beacon, a bunch of red in a sea of duller colours, and most of the crowd had already dispersed. Remus led Harry to them with a hand on the small of his back, but before Harry could step further, he was attacked by a blur of black fur. Harry lost his balance, falling backwards until his butt was on the floor, but the landing wasn’t too painful as Remus had cast a cushioning charm on the floor.

Harry threw him a grateful look as he wrapped his arm around the dog and scratched his ears. Sirius, in his Animagus form, was now sitting on his lap, his front paws on each shoulder, and he was licking his face. Harry turned his head so that the man wouldn’t accidentally lick his mouth and laughed as the man’s wet kisses tickled his face. 

“Ew, Padfoot! Stop!” Harry said between laughs, pushing his snout gently away from his face. “I missed you, too.”

Padfoot gave him another kiss in answer and then got off, sitting beside him and wagging his tail. 

“You alright there, Harrikins?” A familiar voice chuckled. “Having fun down there?”

“I’m having a blast, Fred. Thank you. Want to join?” 

“Ah, I think I’m fine where I am. Don’t you think so, Forge?” “You’re quite right, Gred.”

Fred offered him a hand, pulling the smaller boy up. Harry saw him frown slightly, but he smiled brightly at him before he could worry too much. “Heya, Fred, George, how’s your joke shop going?” 

“We’ve managed to perfect our Fainting Fancies—”

“But we’re still working on our Nosebleed Nougat, can’t get it to stop.”

“But we’ll get it eventually.”

“Where are Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked once he realised that the two were nowhere to be seen. 

“Oh, they’re already on the train–” 

“Prefect duties, you see. You probably won’t see them until we get to Hogwarts–”

“But you can sit with us and Lee if you’d like.”

Harry didn’t know if he was glad that they weren’t there or not. He wanted to talk to them, but the ride to Hogwarts would give him time to sort out his feelings about them. 

“That’d be brilliant, thank you.” 

The three said goodbye to the Weasley parents and Sirius and Remus and then went to find an empty compartment. They’d run into Lee Jordan on the train, and together, they found a compartment towards the back of the train. They got settled in, and Harry took out his homework, intent on finishing it early so that he could relax the rest of the way.

“So, Harrikins,” Fred said as Harry read the Transfiguration book. “How was your summer?” 

Harry lifted an eyebrow at the question, and Fred scratched his neck sheepishly. “Oh, right. Isolated with those arseholes and Dementors, I forgot.”

“Glad at least one of us could forget,” Harry muttered under his breath. He would do anything to forget about the summer, and he usually was pretty good at leaving the Dursleys behind as soon as he stepped through platform nine and three-quarters, but this year, Harry was reminded of it every time he shifted, and the movement pulled at the wounds on his back. Harry would do his best to forget about it by the end of the week, though. 

George became his saviour and changed the subject, moving on to tell Lee and Harry about the joke shop. Harry listened but didn’t say anything, opting instead to focus on his homework. 

An hour and a half into the train ride, Harry had to get his robe out of his bag. Lee had dropped one of the twins’ dungbombs, and the stench still lingered no matter how many cleaning charms the three wizards used, and they had to open the window. August had barely ended, but the day was particularly chilly, and Harry found himself shivering slightly. 

“Why are your robes plain?” George asked, frowning at the lack of red and gold on Harry’s robes. 

Harry looked down at his clothes and remembered the letter. He had honestly forgotten about it after he got his robes. 

“Oh.” Harry looked apprehensively at the three Gryffindors. His hands played with the hem of his robe, twisting the fabric around his fingers. Harry hadn’t told Remus about his resorting. He was scared of what his reaction would be if he told me he was afraid he wouldn’t be a Gryffindor anymore. What would he say? What would Sirius say? His parents were both Gryffindor, just as Sirius and Remus themselves were. Would they be disappointed if he weren’t in his parents' and their best friends’ house anymore?

“There was a mistake with the records after my trial since they expelled me,” Harry explained. “I was removed from the Hogwarts records, and when they registered me again, I was no longer assigned to a house, so I am getting sorted again with the first years at the Feast.”

“You’ve always got to be dramatic, eh, Harrikins?” Fred snickered but stopped when he saw the worried expression on the younger boy. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“What if the hat doesn’t put me back into Gryffindor?” Harry blurted out. 

“Why wouldn’t you be in Gryffindor?” Fred asked, raising an arm to put around Harry’s shoulders. He went slower when Harry flinched slightly, but didn’t retract his arm.

“The hat wanted me in Slytherin,” Harry confessed. “I convinced it to put me into Gryffindor, but what if I can’t do it a second time?”

“The hat was considering Slytherin for us as well, Harry, but Slytherin is all about self-preservation, and we’re reckless, so it chose Gryffindor,” George told him.

“Nothing’s going to change if you get sorted into Slytherin,” his twin added.

“What if I won’t have friends anymore?” Harry voiced his worries. “What if Ron and Hermione won’t talk to me again if I become a snake? Ron hates Slytherin.”

“We’re going to be your friends no matter the colour of your robes, Harry.” Fred squeezed his shoulder, pulling him closer. “And if your other friends leave you because of that, they were not really your friends.”

“And they’ll become our new test subjects,” George chimed in, drawing a laugh from Harry. “So, let us know who to add to the list.”

“Exactly!” Fred agreed. “Don’t worry about Ron, we’ll deal with him if he acts like an arsehole again.”

“And you’re always going to be a Gryffindor,” Lee piped in. “You can be a hybrid. A Gryfferin, or a Slytherdor.”

“Slyffindor works as well!” 

“Thanks, guys. You’re the best.”

George ruffled Harry’s hair, and he glared at him, trying desperately to fix it. It had taken ages that morning to get it to lie somewhat flat. 

Harry’s worries abated slightly after the twins’ reassurances, but he couldn’t help the knot in his stomach that he felt at the thought of the hat shouting ‘Slytherin’ and taking all his friends away from him. Harry loved the twins, and they had told him that they wouldn’t stop being his friends, but Harry was afraid that they would change their minds once they saw the green and silver on his tie.

Harry chose to keep Ron and Hermione out of his mind. He couldn’t think of the nights Ron had spent complaining about ‘Slimy Slytherins’. Harry couldn’t think about the fact that he might be one of those ‘Slimy Slytherins’ and that Ron would be talking about him that way. He wasn’t even at Hogwarts yet. He was acting as if he had already been sorted into the snake house. For all he knew, he’d go back to Gryffindor, and he was getting worked up over nothing. 

He finished his homework an hour later, and he joined the game of Exploding Snap that his friends had started and enjoyed playing and chatting with them for the rest of the ride, not thinking about anything but having fun with them. He could deal with his problems at Hogwarts. 

When the train was about to pull up in Hogsmeade Station, Harry excused himself and went to the bathroom to attempt to apply his glamour. He imagined the way he usually looked at the end of the school year, his body a bit fuller after ten months of regular meals and no scars to mar his body. It took Harry four attempts before he was satisfied with his glamour, but when he left the train with the twins, he didn’t look like a living skeleton anymore. Fred and George threw him matching confused looks when Harry had emerged from the bathroom looking like he had gained a few pounds, but Harry didn’t comment on it, hoping they would leave things alone. The twins were perceptive—they noticed everything, just like Hermione, but unlike her, they knew when to let things be and when they needed to intervene, and Harry loved them for it. Harry loved Hermione as well, but she could be a bit overbearing at times.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts by the carriages. Harry stared at the horse-like creatures that were leading the carriages that Harry had thought were horseless carriages. In a world where a man can become a dog and you could have chats with ghosts, self-driving carriages were not the strangest things Harry had seen. Winged skeleton horses, however, were one of the weirdest things on Harry’s list.  

“You alright, Harry? What are you staring at?” George tried to follow Harry’s eyes to see what the boy was looking at, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

“Have there always been horses pulling the carriages?” Harry asked. 

“What do you mean, Harry? Nothing’s pulling the carriages.” Lee answered.

“You can’t see them?” The last time Harry was able to see—well, hear in that case—something nobody else could see, there was a basilisk loose in the castle, though that was explained by the fact that Harry was the only Parseltongue speaker in the school. 

“I can see them too,” an airy voice said from behind them. Harry turned to see a small girl with long blond hair and Neville approaching them. She had Ravenclaw robes on and a pair of weird glasses perched above her head. “They’ve always pulled the carriages. Don’t worry, you’re just as sane as I am.”

Neville gave Luna an exasperated but fond look before turning to Harry. “They’re Thestrals, Harry,” he told him. “Only people who have seen death and understand it can see them.” 

“Oh,” Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Harry couldn’t see the Thestrals before today, even though he was in the room when Voldemort killed his mother, which meant that the death he had seen was… Harry shut his eyes tightly at the onslaught of guilt and grief that thinking about the graveyard produced.

Fred put his arm around Harry again and dragged him towards a carriage before he could lose himself to his thoughts. Harry sat between the twins in the carriage, with Lee, Neville and the witch who had introduced herself as Luna Lovegood on the bench in front of them and listened as the twins and Neville discussed Hagrid’s absence. 

Soon, the Thestrals pulled up to the entrance, and the six of them made their way to the Great Hall doors. Harry felt a feeling of being home wash over him as soon as he stepped into Hogwarts, some of the tension he was in since receiving his expulsion letter left his body. He had been scared that they would tell him that there was a mistake, and he had been expelled after all, but being finally at Hogwarts made those doubts disappear. He was home. He wouldn’t see the Dursleys until the end of June. He would be fine. Even if his friends didn’t want to talk to him anymore, if he got sorted into Slytherin, Harry would be alright. He had grown up without a single friend, and nothing would be worse than how the Dursleys had treated him that summer. 

Harry was intercepted by Professor McGonagall, who told him to sit at the Gryffindor table while the first years got sorted, and then he joined Fred and George towards the end of the table, where Ginny was sitting with Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione waved at him as he sat in front of them, and he gave them a tight-lipped smile. Seeing them in person, sitting so close together—as if they had grown even closer in his absence—made the anger from the summer flare in his chest, but he pushed it down, burying it beneath the anxiety that his imminent resorting brought. He would think about them later, when, hopefully, he had one less thing to worry about. 

The twins continued their discussion of Hagrid’s absence with Ron and Hermione once they saw that he wasn’t at the staff table, but then their attention shifted to something else. 

“Who’s that?” Hermione pointed towards the middle of the table, and Harry turned to see who she was talking about. His face contorted into a scowl as soon as he recognised the pink-clad, toad-faced woman from the hearing. 

“Dolores Umbridge,” Harry announced. “She was at my hearing. She works for Fudge.” 

When that line of conversation died, and Ron and Hermione were steering the conversation to a topic that Harry didn’t want to talk about, Harry told Ron and Hermione that they would talk later. He didn’t want to deal with that kind of conversation where everyone could hear them. He’d probably end up shouting, and he didn’t want people to think he was even madder than they already believed him to be if the looks he had received while he walked to his seat were of any indication. Plus, he didn’t think the professors would appreciate him losing his temper in the middle of the Welcoming Feast, though Snape was probably itching for a chance to yell at him, assign him a detention, and take points. 

Harry talked to the twins and Neville and occasionally Ron and Hermione, though he steered clear of any topics that would lead to them discussing anything remotely related to the Summer of Hell, as Harry had dubbed it, and clapped every time the hat announced a new Gryffindor. 

By the time the last first year was sorted into Ravenclaw, Harry feared his heart had fallen to his feet as McGonagall rolled up the scroll, but didn’t take the Sorting Hat away like she usually did. 

“Due to unusual circumstances, one of our students was temporarily removed from the Hogwarts records and must be re-sorted into one of the houses,” McGonagall announced and continued before whispers could break out. “Mr Potter, if you please?”

Harry wanted to tell her that he did not please, thank you very much, but he got up anyway and walked to the stool as the hall erupted in loud chatter. He could hear the surprised voices of Ron and Hermione, as well as Neville’s and the twins relaying what Harry had told them on the train, excluding his fears that he would end up in Slytherin. 

Harry sat on the stool, and McGonagall placed the hat on his head. It didn’t cover his eyes like it did in first year, and Harry was almost disappointed. He’d have to look at everyone’s faces now. 

Ah, Mr Potter, the hat spoke in his head. It’s not every day I get to sort a student twice.

Please let me stay with my friends, Harry implored in his head. He grabbed the stool, his knuckles going white. 

I told you when I sorted you the first time that you’d do great in Slytherin. I still believe that’s true. In fact, I believe that you are even more suited for Slytherin, after the hardships you’ve faced recently, the hat said. You’ve had to learn how to be cunning to avoid punishment or escape perilous situations and to survive in both the Muggle and the wizarding world. I think Slytherin would help you more than Gryffindor.

I’ll lose my friends, they won’t accept me as a Slytherin, Harry told the hat. 

Loyalty is one of Gryffindor’s traits, is it not? The hat argued. If they’re your friends, they will be loyal to you. If they’re not, they might as well have never been your friends. And I believe you will make great friendships in Slytherin. 

Yeah, right, Harry scoffed in his mind and hoped he wasn’t reacting outwardly. He pointedly ignored the fact that the twins had told him more or less the same thing. Friendships with whom? With the children of people who want me dead?

I believe that they might be of great help to you, if you push past your prejudices, the hat said, and you can help them too. 

Whatever, I will never belong in Slytherin. Not with the likes of Malfoy. Harry had to restrain himself from crossing his arms in indignation. 

You do belong in Slytherin, Mr Potter, and you’ll see. 

Wait, please!

I’m sorry, Mr Potter, I won’t let you convince me a second time, the hat spoke in his mind for the last time before sending Harry to his doom. 

“SLYTHERIN!”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall had never been this quiet in the four years Harry had been at Hogwarts. The usual chatter that filled the room was uncharacteristically absent, and you could hear a pin drop. Harry was afraid that everybody could hear how fast his heart was beating and his uneven breathing, but he tried to school his features so that his dread didn’t show on his face. Harry diverted his eyes from the point he had been staring at, somewhere between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, and turned to return the Sorting Hat to a bewildered McGonagall, pointedly not looking in the direction of the Gryffindor table. He did not want to see the disgust on Ron’s or any of his now ex-housemates’ faces. 

His resolve not to glance at the Gryffindor broke when he heard a few claps coming from the spot he had just left. He briefly looked over to see that Fred, George, and Lee were clapping enthusiastically, while Neville was much more reserved but still clapping. Ron and Hermione’s faces wore two identical expressions of shock. Harry smiled weakly at his friends and then took a deep breath, walking over to the Slytherin table. 

He wondered where he should sit. Should he sit with the first years or with his year? He didn’t think Malfoy and his friends would appreciate his company. His choice was made when a boy from his year with brown hair—Theodore Nott, if he remembered correctly—moved to free a space between him and who he thought was Daphne Greengrass. 

Harry took the seat, thankful that it put him with his back to the other House tables—he did not want to see if the other students were glaring or whispering about him, but he realised belatedly that that meant that he was sitting across the one boy he did not want to be near. Malfoy looked at him like a puzzle that he had to solve, and sneered at him when Harry raised an eyebrow at his staring. 

They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds, saved only by the food appearing on the table. Harry wasn’t really hungry—it felt like a plug had sealed his stomach, refusing to let food in—but he still scooped a bit of mashed potatoes onto his plate and added a piece of chicken. He idly pushed the food around, hoping his appetite would return.

“So, Potter,” Malfoy broke the silence. “Why are you in Slytherin?”

“The hat put me here.”

“Well, obviously,” he rolled his eyes, stabbing a piece of the beef pastry he was eating. “But why did he put you here? I wouldn’t have pegged Gryffindor’s Golden Boy as a snake.”

“I’m not anyone’s Golden Boy,” Harry spat. “And I don’t know why the Hat thought I’d do well here. It spouted some bullshit about escaping dangerous situations and didn’t even let me argue this time.”

“This time?” Blaise Zabini, the dark-skinned boy sitting on Malfoy’s right, said. 

Harry cursed himself. He needed to watch what he said more carefully now that he was around the Slytherins. He pondered what to say. Should he keep the fact that the hat had wanted him in Slytherin since the beginning? 

“The Hat tried to put me in Slytherin back in first year, but I asked him not to.”

Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson, who was sitting on the other side of Malfoy, had surprise written on their faces. 

“What?” Malfoy sputtered. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, up until that day, all I’d heard about Slytherin was that all witches and wizards who went bad were in Slytherin,” Harry quoted Hagrid’s words at them. “And that the man who killed my parents was also Slytherin. I was scared I’d become bad if I went there.”

“Not all Slytherins are bad!” Zabini hissed indignantly. 

“Well, I know that now—I don’t think that kid over there will be a dark lord anytime soon,” Harry nodded to a first year with sandy blond hair who was talking excitedly with another first year, “but Hagrid was my introduction to the wizarding world when I was eleven and impressionable so I trusted what he said.”

Harry paused to eat a bite of his chicken, looking at his classmates to gauge their expressions. Malfoy still looked like he didn’t quite believe Harry was Slytherin material, Zabini had a thoughtful look on his face and Parkinson—he couldn’t really tell what Parkinson was thinking. She was eyeing him up and down like she was a predator and he the prey, and Harry shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. 

“Plus, the kid I met at Madam Malkin’s and on the train reminded me of Dudley—but with an even bigger stick up their arse—and he had just been sorted into Slytherin. I did not want to share a House with him, so I asked the Hat not to put me in Slytherin,” Harry added.

“I did not have a stick up my arse!" Malfoy raised his voice slightly—just enough that some nearby Slytherins turned to look.

“I still don’t know how you can walk, you know? I wonder if there are any potions to remove it—it must be very uncomfortable." Harry hoped that riling Malfoy up would distract them enough that they would drop the conversation and ignore him for the rest of the feast. 

Malfoy shot a glare at his snickering friends, who were unsuccessfully trying to muffle their laughter by eating. “Traitors,” he hissed at them and then Harry was sure that if Malfoy could kill just with his eyes, Harry would be dead, because the glare that the blond directed at him could power enough Killing Curses to send Harry to the death that he had narrowly when he was one and then again at the graveyard. 

“I’m sorry, darling, but Potter’s got you on that,” Parkinson drawled and put a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, who brushed it off angrily. 

“Fine, I see you’ve already replaced me with Perfect Potter,” Malfoy spat his name like it tasted foul in his mouth. “Thank you, Potty, for revealing my friends’ true colours. What a bunch of traitors you all are.”

Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was joking or not, so he opted to stay quiet. He had spoken enough for the evening, and he had reached his goal of redirecting the conversation away from himself. 

“Come on, Draco. As if the Boy-Who-Lived could ever come close to you,” Parkinson pushed the custard tarts towards the boy, who glanced at her before picking up one of the tarts. 

Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation once it switched to their summers, and the attention was no longer on him. 

Once the food was gone—Harry’s appetite had somewhat returned, and he managed to finish his chicken and most of the potatoes—Dumbledore stood up and made his announcements, only to be interrupted by a ‘hem hem’. 

“Who’s that fashion disaster?” Parkinson asked as Umbridge walked to the podium, taking Dumbledore’s place. 

“Dolores Umbridge, I believe. I’ve never seen her, but Father talks about her. She’s Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic,” Malfoy answered. 

“So she’s the new Ministry-controlled Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor? Is she any good?” Zabini asked, and Malfoy shrugged. 

“Hopefully, she is. It’s our OWL year, we need to be prepared.” Malfoy said. 

“She hates me, so you’ll probably love her,” Harry told them, causing three heads to turn towards him. 

“When did you meet her?” Zabini asked. 

“Oh, she was at my trial this summer,” Harry answered. “She tried very hard to get me expelled.”

“Expelled? Why? Why did you have a trial?” 

“What? Hasn't The Daily Prophet plastered my trial all over the paper? The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Cry-Dementor?” Harry lifted his eyebrow in surprise. 

“What do Dementors have to do with your trial?” Malfoy asked. 

“Your father hasn’t told you either? He was at the Ministry that day, and we saw each other. Called me Patronus Potter and all,” he told Malfoy. “Anyway, my Muggle cousin and I ran into two Dementors, and I used the Patronus Charm to save us. I got accused of using underage magic in front of a Muggle for my troubles.”

“But doing magic in self-defence is allowed even if you’re underage,” Nott spoke for the first time. “And did your cousin know about magic?

Harry nodded. 

“So you didn’t really break the Statute of Secrecy and—”

“Whatever! They would’ve done us a favour if they had expelled you, Potter. We certainly wouldn’t be stuck with you!” Malfoy cut in. 

“Well, it’s not like I want to sleep in the same room as the children of Death Eaters either, so maybe, yeah, I should have just stayed at home!” Harry snapped, fixing a glare at the blond boy. The words tumbled out before he had fully processed them, but as soon as he said it, the weight of the realisation settled heavily on his chest. 

Their fathers had been in that graveyard. They had stood with Voldemort and watched as they duelled and Voldemort tortured him, someone who went to school with their children and was the same age. 

A fresh wave of anxiety surged through him. How was he supposed to feel safe when he was surrounded by the children of people who wanted him dead? Worse, what if they were just waiting for the chance to prove themselves, to follow in their parents’ footsteps? What if they were already planning to hand him over to Voldemort as soon as they had the chance? The thought made his skin prickle with unease.

Harry didn’t know anymore which would be better: being at Privet Drive with the Dursley getting beaten up and starved, or here at Hogwarts, in the Slytherin dorms, where he had all the food he wanted, but had to share a room with his bully and other children of Death Eaters who were quite possibly Death Eaters in training themselves and eager to please their parents and master by bringing him the Boy-Who-Lived. At the Dursleys, he knew what to expect. He knew that he’d be slaving all day, getting violently punished for every small mistake he made, and having to watch his relatives eat without getting any food himself, but he could probably deal with that. He had so far, and he could learn how to avoid punishment. 

Here, he was going in blind. He didn’t know if his roommates would try to hurt him, to kidnap him or even do Voldemort’s job for him and kill him—maybe they’d be more successful than their master. He could trust nobody there. He’d have to watch his back every minute of every day and be scared that his every move would be reported back to Voldemort. He’d be living his life at Hogwarts—which was supposed to be his safe space, his home, away from the Dursleys, who hated him just for who he was. 

So, no, Harry wasn’t sure which one he would prefer anymore, but there wasn’t much he could do anyway. He was stuck in the snake pit, and he’d just have to hope that he was Slytherin enough to survive it with his life and secrets intact. 

The Slytherins’ expressions darkened at his words, and he saw their hands clench, but he didn’t pay them any mind. Dumbledore, fortunately, chose that moment to send them off to bed, and the Slytherins got up. Harry followed a few paces behind so that they would hopefully leave him alone. 

Once Malfoy had given the password—Pureblood, of course. Typical. The Slytherins had no imagination. Harry was fairly certain that had been the password back when he and Ron had sneaked into the Slytherin common room to question Malfoy—Harry and the first years were herded to the centre of the room, where Malfoy and Parkinson stood, while the upper years moved to the sides and towards the back of the room. 

Nobody talked for a while, and Harry took that moment to look around the common room. Not much had changed since Harry had seen it last. The room was bathed in a cold, greenish light that filtered through the large windows that looked out into the Black Lake, and he could see both fish and Grindylows swimming past the windows. 

The walls and ceilings were built from dark stone, and a bright fire flickered in the fireplace in the centre of the room. There were two snakes carved around the mouth of the fireplace, and above the mantle hung a portrait of who Harry assumed to be Salazar Slytherin with a snake. In front of the fireplace, there were two long black leather couches, placed across from each other with a low table in between, and two armchairs closed the circle. On the right of the fireplace, near the windows, there were a few tables where students could study if they did not want to go to the library. The walls were adorned with snake carvings and portraits of famous Slytherins, and Harry was surprised that they hadn’t put a picture of Voldemort there with the rest—he was famous after all. 

In the wall opposite the fireplace, there were two doors, one labelled ‘Boys’ and one ‘Girls’. Harry couldn’t wait to go to his dorm and hide behind his curtains. He needed some peace and quiet after the eventful evening. 

His examination of the Slytherin dorms was interrupted by the creak of the door swinging open, and a familiar figure strode towards them, robes billowing behind him like a shadow. 

Professor Snape stopped beside Malfoy, eyes swiping over the newcomers with a calculating look. His gaze stopped briefly on him, eyes narrowed and the smallest scowl on his fac,e before his face returned to the blank expression he usually wore when not looking at Harry. 

“Good evening,” the Professor drawled—Harry wondered if that was an ability that every Slytherin acquired when sorted into the House. Would he start doing the same now that he was a Slytherin? “I am Professor Snape, and I will be your Head of House.

“For the next seven years, you will be part of Slytherin, the House of cunning, ambition, and self-preservation. You will strive to cultivate these qualities, ensuring that you excel in your education and achieve your goals. Your achievements will reflect on the House as a whole, and you will not embarrass us.

“Slytherin will be your family for as long as you are here at Hogwarts, and you would do well to remember that. You will present a united front outside these walls. There will be no quarrels or conflicts of any kind among housemates. Any issues that you may have with one another will be resolved within the privacy of your dormitory.” Snape’s eyes flashed with disdain as he threw a pointed glare at Harry. 

“Your prefects will show you to your dorms now. Mr Potter, with me.”

The students dispersed, either sitting around the fireplace or going up to their dorms. Malfoy and Parkinson led the first years to the two doors and disappeared behind them. 

Harry followed Snape to a door near the common room entrance that Harry hadn’t noticed yet. The man mumbled something under his breath and opened the door, letting Harry through before closing the door behind him. 

“It appears you bring trouble wherever you go, Potter.” Snape sat behind his desk, watching as Harry fidgeted from where he stood near the door. 

“Sorry, sir.” Harry didn’t want to get on Snape’s bad side from the first day, now that he was his Head of House.

“You’re a Slytherin now—Merlin only knows why,” Snape continued, his voice cold. “I trust that you will remember what I said in the common room and conduct yourself accordingly. The days of your brash behaviour are over, Potter. Minerva may have permitted your antics, but you are no longer a Gryffindor. I will not tolerate you dishonouring my House.” 

“Yes, sir.”  

Snape gave him a searching look. “I know that living with Mr Malfoy and his friends might prove to be… challenging, given your past interactions and their parentage, and you might not feel safe,” he said. “I can assure you that no harm will come to you. I will make sure of that. However, you must put aside your differences and find a way to coexist. I don’t care about your petty arguments within the confines of the dormitory, as long as nobody comes to me with missing limbs. But you will not fight in front of the other Houses. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor. Can I ask why?” Harry asked. 

“Slytherin has been isolated from the other Houses since its creation,” Snape said slowly. “We cannot afford to show any sign of division, or the other Houses will exploit that weakness. I’m sure your new housemates will be more than capable of explaining. Now, go, Potter. It’s almost curfew.”

“Welcome to Slytherin House, Potter. I can’t say it is exactly a pleasure to have you as my problem, but should you find yourself in need, you may come to me. In fact, I’d prefer it if you did that rather than rushing off on some ill-fated adventure to solve things on your own.” 

“Sorry, sir.” Harry scratched his neck, feeling awkward as his professor called him out, though it wasn’t his fault if he felt like he had to do things on his own. He had tried to ask McGonagall for help in first year, but she had basically told the three of them to go play outside like they were some six-year-olds. 

“Run along now, Potter, and stay in your dorms. I am sure your fan club will gladly wait until tomorrow to see their precious leader.”

Harry wanted to retort that he wasn’t even sure he had said ‘fan club’ anymore, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He turned and left, mumbling a good night and heading back to the common room, his thoughts swirling with Snape’s speech. 

Harry was startled when someone stood up abruptly from the couch and walked towards him. 

“Potter,” Zabini greeted him. “Come along. I’ll show you to our dorm.” 

Harry followed the boy through the door that led to the boy’s dorm and up the winding staircase. They climbed five flights before they reached the fifth-year dormitory. When Zabini pushed open the door, Harry expected to see a row of seven beds, just like the Gryffindor dorms, but what he saw was something else entirely. 

Harry’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

It was a miniature version of the common room. A big fireplace dominated the far wall and cast eerie shadows across the black leather couch in front of it, where Malfoy, Nott, and Parkinson were sitting. Two matching armchairs flanked the couch, and in between them sat a low table, much like the one in the common room. Above the mantle, instead of a portrait, there was a big window, where the black depths of the Black Lake stretched out. He could see a huge tentacle resting against the glass, and Harry shuddered at the thought that they were that close to the Giant Squid. 

To either side of the door stood two study tables with chairs neatly arranged around them, and beside them, two sleek black doors with a golden plaque stood closed.

Zabini’s snickering reminded him of who he was with, and he shut his mouth with a click, ears reddening. 

“If this is where you lot live, no wonder you’re all a bunch of snobs,” Harry said, waving an arm to gesture at the room. “Gryffindor dorms are shit,” he murmured to himself.

Judging by the way Zabini burst into laughter—and he could hear snickering from the couches as well—he must have said it louder than intended. Oh well, it was the truth. The Gryffindor dorms had nothing on Slytherin. The red and gold everywhere was headache-inducing, while the deep green and black here felt calming, far less of an eyesore, and the fact that each year had its own common room that they shared only with the other yearmates made Slytherin that much cooler.

Hermione would probably love it, Harry thought. She’d finally have a place other than the library where she could study in peace.

Harry almost regretted arguing with the Hat in his first year. He could’ve had all this from the beginning, but he stopped that train of thought there. No, he probably wouldn’t have been friends with Ron or any of the Weasleys if he had been sorted into Slytherin. He wouldn’t give up their friendship for fancy dorms. It was bad enough that he might have lost it anyway.

“I’m glad you recognise that Slytherin is superior,” the boy said and then pointed at the door on the right. “That’s our room.” 

Harry nodded and walked towards the door on the right. Now that he was close, he could read the engraving on the golden plaque. Malfoy, Potter, Nott, Zabini, it read. Harry frowned. Weren’t they all together in the same room? He looked sideways at the boy and decided to ask.

“We used to all share a room, but when we got to the dorms, we were split like this,” Zabini answered. “They must have thought that seven in one room was too much, and it did feel a bit cramped when there were six of us sharing a room and a bathroom, so I guess, thank you?” 

Mystery solved, he turned the doorknob and entered the room. The room was spacious, with four beds pushed against the walls—two on the side with the door and two on the opposite wall. Each bed was dressed in forest-green bedding, with black curtains draped from the bedposts. Beside every bed stood a tall wardrobe to the left and a nightstand to the right. The remaining walls held two desks positioned beneath two small windows.

“Your bed is that one,” Zabini pointed to the bed farthest from the door. “And the bathroom is right beside your bed.” Harry noticed a door next to his bed that he had missed and nodded. 

“I’ll leave you to get settled then.” 

Harry thanked the boy and walked over to his bed, setting the messenger bag down on his bed before flipping open his trunk. He was relieved to find it undisturbed, with no signs of nosy Slytherins rifling through his things while he was talking to Snape. Still, he’d need to find a good locking charm so that only he could open it. 

Snape may have assured him no one would physically harm him, but Harry wasn’t going to trust them to keep their hands to themselves and not go through his stuff, or worse, steal anything. He grabbed a pair of pyjamas and his bathroom supplies and locked himself in the bathroom. Even the loo was fancier than Gryffindor’s. 

Snobby brats. 

Harry brushed his teeth before removing his glamour. The book had warned that keeping it up all day—especially if he used magic all throughout the day—could lead to magical exhaustion, advising to take it off overnight to let his magic rest. Once the spell faded, the illusion faded and revealed the bruises and lashes on his skin. His ribs jutted out sharply, and his stomach was hollowed after a month of barely eating. 

He sighed and jumped into the shower, letting the cool water cascade over his aching body. The steady stream soothed his bruised and inflamed skin, easing the discomfort. The events of the evening had distracted him from the pain, but once he was alone, they had returned, reminding him of the house he had left barely forty-eight hours ago. He leaned against the tiled wall, closing his eyes for a moment, wishing for his injuries to heal. He just wanted to stop hurting at every slight movement, but he’d have to be patient. Maybe he could steal some bruising balm or a pain reliever potion from the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey probably wouldn’t notice. 

Once dressed in his new, soft pyjamas, and with his glamour back in place in case he ran into one of his roommates, Harry padded back to his bed. He hung the school uniform he was wearing in the wardrobe, and then he tried the new spell Remus had taught him. He pointed the wand at his trunk, focusing on what he wanted to move and then said the incantation. He raised his wand and slowly moved it towards the open wardrobe, directing his clothes inside, imagining the way he wanted them organised. 

He looked with a satisfied grin as his school uniforms and sweaters hung themselves in the wardrobe, while the trousers he had bought for non-school things, still folded neatly, lay on top of the drawers. His underwear hid itself in one of the drawers, and his two pairs of shoes settled underneath the bed. 

His books arranged themselves on the shelf under his nightstand, and once he was done, he ended the spell. He left his most precious possessions—his photo album, his invisibility cloak, and the Marauder’s Map—inside his trunk, not wanting the others to accidentally see them. 

“That’s a nice spell,” a voice commented from behind him, making him jump. 

“Shit! Where the hell did you come from?” he said to Nott, who was sitting on the bed nearest the door, on the wall opposite his and laughing at him.

“I came in when you were in the shower, Potter. You were lost in your own world and didn’t notice me,” he answered. “You'd better learn to know your surroundings if you want to survive here. Not everyone will be friendly here.” 

Harry nodded at the warning, sitting on the bed. 

“Anyway, can you teach me that spell?” Nott asked.

Harry agreed, figuring it was best to start on good terms with his new roommates. They didn’t have to like each other—hell, they probably hated him. He was certain Malfoy did, at least—Zabini and Nott had never really spoken to him. They had always just hovered around Malfoy while the blond, Crabbe, and Goyle fought with him and Ron. 

It was different when he only saw them in the corridors and in class—then he could hide in his own dorms when he didn’t want to deal with them. But now that he was stuck with them, Harry had no interest whatsoever in spending the next three years of his life constantly at war with the people he had to live with.

If playing nice would make his life easier, then Harry would play nice. Even with Malfoy, however difficult it might be.

Chapter Text

Harry was relieved he’d remembered to cast privacy charms around his bed before going to bed. 

He had woken up at two a.m., screaming Cedric’s name, heart pounding and half-expecting to see the tombstones and the cauldron. The last thing he needed was for his new roommates to find out about his nightmares. The news would travel around Hogwarts faster than he could hit them, and he didn’t want to give people any more ammunition to think he was going mad than they already had. 

After teaching Nott the organising spell, Harry had drawn his bed curtains shut and buried himself in a book, trying to delay sleep for as long as possible, but the exhaustion from the day crept up on him, and he had fallen asleep before he could even put the book away.

He had been a fool if he ever thought that his nightmares would leave him alone once he was at Hogwarts. Before he knew it, he was in his cupboard, with Vernon screaming insults at him while holding the belt mid-air, and when he brought it down, the scene changed to the graveyard, and he stood before Voldemort, and Cedric’s dead body. 

So, no, the nightmare-free sleep he’d had the night before had been a fluke, and now, instead of feeling well rested for his first day at Hogwarts as a Slytherin, he was half-dead on his feet. 

How long could one go without sleeping?

He had spent a lot of sleepless nights at Privet Drive that summer, and Harry assumed the only reasons he was still functioning were his magic and the few hours of sleep he snatched between nightmares. But how long would it last before he collapsed? 

Harry turned to lie on his stomach, hid his face in his pillow and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself from the nightmare. He was debating staying awake, but his eyes ached with the need to sleep, and his head was pounding. He let himself fall asleep again, hoping that he wouldn’t get woken up with another nightmare. 

Harry gave up on sleep after three restless hours of drifting in and out. At five a.m., he swung his legs off the bed and dragged himself to the bathroom, desperate to wash the sweat clinging to his skin. 

The cold shower helped him feel more alert, chasing away some of his exhaustion, but his eyes still burned from the lack of sleep, and his head throbbed, as if someone was squeezing his brain. Unfortunately, the effects of the sleepless nights were obvious: his face was pale, making the purple bags under his eyes stand out like bruises. Any colour he’d gained from spending hours tending to his aunt’s garden during the first month of summer had faded in the last few weeks when Harry was locked inside his cupboard without any sunlight, and now his face was paler than it had ever been. He looked like a ghost, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look like he’d been punched in the face.

Harry knew that anyone who had seen him without his glamour must have been worried for him, and with that thought, he murmured the incantation, feeling the magic settle over his face and body. The purple bags vanished beneath the layer of magic, leaving behind smooth skin and restoring the healthy colour it had had at the beginning of summer before everything had gone sideways. 

Once his glamour was on, Harry dressed in his school uniform, trying to ignore the green in his tie as he tied it around his neck. By the time he left the bathroom, it was five twenty, and Harry made his bed before sitting on it and resuming the book he had been reading before falling asleep. 

Harry had finished three chapters of the book when his roommates began waking up. A Tempus told him it was seven a.m., and Harry was glad he had gotten up and ready so early, as the three boys began to fight over the bathroom. Malfoy won, and Harry listened as Nott and Blaise muttered angrily under their breaths as they got their bags ready. 

Harry quickly found out why they were so angry that Malfoy got to the bathroom first. He took ages in the bathroom, so long that Harry wondered if he had fallen asleep in the shower. 

“I hope that Potter doesn’t take that long to get ready,” Harry heard Nott say after forty minutes of Malfoy still being in the bathroom. “He’s still in bed. Should we wake him up?” 

At that, Harry opened the curtains. He did not want to find out just how the two Slytherins would wake him up. “There’s no need for that,” he said, opening his trunk to get out his books. He didn’t know what classes he would have that day, but the Great Hall was far from the Slytherin dorms, and he didn’t want to have to trek all the way down to the dungeons to get his books. 

“Oh, you’re dressed already,” Nott commented. 

“Yeah, I’ve been up for hours. How long will Malfoy be in the bathroom? Is he always like this?” 

“Yes, you’ll get used to it. We usually don’t let him go first, but he fights dirty,” Zabini told him. “He should be done soon, hopefully, or we’ll be late,” he shouted the last part, receiving a rude comment from Malfoy. 

As predicted, the boy emerged from the bathroom two minutes later. His hair was neatly brushed and gelled to the side, but still somehow managed to look soft. His robes were immaculate, not a single wrinkle in sight.

Harry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothes and messy hair and felt a flicker of self-consciousness before shaking it off. He did not want to look like a ponce, like Malfoy. 

“Finally ready, princess?” Harry asked once the boy approached his bed. 

“Shut up, Potter.” Malfoy sneered. He then looked him up and down, lip curling in distaste. “At least I look presentable. Unlike you. It looks like the kneazle has dragged you in. Hasn’t your mother taught you any ironing spells, Potter, and how to fix that dreadful hair? That’s the least she could do if she can’t fix your horrible manners.” 

Harry clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms as he glared at the Slytherin in front of him. How dare he bring his mother into this?!

“Draco…” he heard Zabini say from behind him. 

“I’m sorry that my dead mother hasn’t come back from the grave to teach me how to use ironing spells, Malfoy, but I bet yours hasn’t either, has she? Don’t you abuse house elves to do everything for you?” 

Malfoy looked taken aback for a moment, a guilty look flashing on his face before his sneer came back. He took out his wand and pointed it at Harry, saying an unfamiliar incantation before Harry could do anything about it. Harry felt his clothes rustle slightly and become warmer before they stilled, and when Harry looked down, he saw that the wrinkles had disappeared, leaving his uniform looking as perfect as Malfoy’s. 

Harry glared at the boy, murmuring a ‘thank you’ under his breath and then grabbed his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. He made to leave the room, but a hand grabbed his wrist before he could walk away. He flinched, pulling his arm out of Zabini’s hold and turned around to face the boy. 

“What?” he spat, glaring at Zabini.

“We’re roommates now,” the boy started, looking at Harry and Malfoy both. “I don’t want to spend the next three years listening to you two fighting like a bunch of toddlers, so this ends now.”

Harry remembered his decision to play nice and start on good terms with his roommates and flushed in embarrassment. So much for doing that. And it wasn’t even Malfoy who had started this fight, even though Harry didn’t really mean for the boy to get so offended.

“Potter, Slytherin House cares about appearances. How you look and how you present yourself will determine how others will see you and how much respect you’ll get. We have been taught that our whole life. I know that in Gryffindor you don’t care about this, but now that you’re a Slytherin, your appearance will reflect on all of us,” Zabini explained to him before turning to his friend. “Draco, remember your manners. If you really must fight with Potter, keep his dead parents out of it.”

Harry nodded. He guessed that made sense. He could make more of an effort if it meant people would respect him and leave him alone. With the decision he had made the night before still in his mind, he turned to his school rival and held out his hand. 

“I can’t promise that I will be able to erase four years of animosity in one day, but I do promise to try to keep the fights to a minimum,” Harry said as Malfoy took his hand, even if he was still glaring daggers at him.

“Ok, now that that’s sorted, I am going to the bathroom, finally.” Zabini backed away and disappeared into the now-empty bathroom that had been freed by Nott, and Harry turned so that he could go to breakfast. 

“Wait, Potter. You shouldn’t go alone.” Nott called him back. 

Harry frowned, asking why. 

“Slytherins tend to get attacked if they walk alone, and I don’t imagine that it will be any different for you,” Nott said. “The Prophet has been painting you in a not-so-good light. That and the fact that you’re one of us now… people may feel like you’ve betrayed them.” 

“Oh,” Harry had forgotten about the Daily Prophet’s campaign against him, and he knew that his being sorted into Slytherin could taint his image even more. He sighed. Was he ever going to have a normal year? A year where nobody cared about him, where people’s opinions of him didn’t change every fucking second? 

“Is that why you travel in packs?” Harry asked, instead of dwelling on the rest of what Nott said. 

“Yes, we usually go in pairs, at least. Strength in numbers and all that.” 

Harry sat on his bed while he waited for Zabini to be done, and at eight fifteen, the four of them were finally all ready to go. 

Harry pushed himself up from his bed, but a sudden wave of dizziness forced him to grip his bed frame so he wouldn’t crash to the floor. The room started spinning, black spots filling his vision. He could hear voices calling out to him, but they were faint and distant, and he couldn’t make out the words over the ringing in his ears. 

Slowly, the ringing faded, and the muffled voices of his roommates filtered through. The room stilled, and he wiped a trembling hand over his eyes, trying to blink away the lingering black spots.

“Potter, what’s wrong?” Nott asked. “Are you alright?”

“He’s obviously not alright, Theo. He looked like he was about to keel over!” Zabini said. He was standing close to Harry, his hands held out as if to catch him when he fell. Harry gave him a shaky smile once the spots cleared away. 

“I’m fine, thanks.” Harry pushed himself away from the bed frame and grabbed his bag, which had fallen to the floor when he got dizzy. 

“Potter, you should go to the hospital wing!” Zabini told him. 

“I’ll be fine once I get something to eat. And why do you care, anyway?” Harry waved off the concern—if that was even what it was. He couldn’t imagine the Slytherins worrying about him, even if he was about to faint right in front of them. He thought they’d just leave him there. 

“Well, we’re not totally heartless, Potter, and if you die in the Slytherin dorms, your little friends will find a way to blame us for it. So do us all a favour and try to avoid that.” Malfoy drawled. “And I do hope you’re not sick. Keep your germs away from us.”

Harry didn’t respond to that and instead let them walk ahead of him. He trailed after them, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other without falling to the floor. The worst of it was gone, but he still felt dizzy as he walked along the long corridors. He noticed his stomach aching with hunger now that he didn’t have any distractions, and he couldn’t wait to sit down and eat.

Soon, the doors to the Great Hall opened, and Harry ignored the way everyone turned to look at him as soon as he stepped inside. Whispers erupted almost instantly, but Harry clenched his jaw and kept his gaze forward, trying to block them out. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to what they had to say about him—his imagination was good enough that he knew the kinds of things they would be saying. 

A brief glance at the Gryffindor table told him that Ron and Hermione were watching him as well. Their expressions were full of concern and urgency, and they gestured to their table in an invitation to join them, probably to talk about his resorting, but Harry shook his head subtly. He would talk to them later when he didn’t feel like he would pass out at any moment. And he was scared of what they would say to him once they did talk. The anger he’d felt at their lack of communication during the summer had somewhat faded in the wake of everything else, but it hadn’t disappeared completely. They still needed to talk things over. He’d probably still end up yelling, but now that he’d had time to calm down, maybe it would be easier to forgive them. 

He slid into the bench at the Slytherin table, grabbed some toast and eggs, and focused on eating. His roommates, thankfully, let him be and didn’t try to engage him in conversation, and even the fifth-year girls, when they arrived, just sat next to him without trying to interact with him. Maybe if it kept going like this, being in Slytherin wouldn’t be so bad. 

By the time Snape arrived with their schedules, Harry had finished most of his breakfast. He would’ve eaten more, but his stomach was still not used to getting food, and he knew it would be a while until he could handle his usual Hogwarts portions. 

“Are you kidding me?” Malfoy commented as soon as his schedule was in his hands. “Double Potions and Double DADA with the Gryffindors?!” 

“There, there, Draco. You’ll survive.” Pansy patted his head, receiving a glare from the boy. 

“Touch my hair again, and I’ll hex your hand off, Parkinson.” 

“Wow, got up from the wrong side of the bed, did you?” the girl took her hand away. 

“You’d be in a bad mood, too, if you had to wake up with Potter in your dorm.” Malfoy spat his name as if it were poison, with a glare to go with it, but Harry ignored it. Was Malfoy trying to rile him up? What happened to trying to get along? It had not even been fifteen minutes since they had come to that truce. Well, he wasn’t going to fall for it. If Malfoy wanted a fight, he’d have to find someone else to do it with. Harry was going to keep his promise to try to get along. He did want to survive in the Slytherin dorms, and he wouldn’t do anything to give Malfoy any more reasons to fight with him. 

Thankfully, the bell rang, and Harry grabbed his bag, stood up, and waited for the rest of the Slytherins to follow as well.

Harry’s first period as a Slytherin was uneventful. Professor McGonagall had given him a strange look when he entered the classroom, but she didn’t say anything. A few Hufflepuffs sent glares his way and muttered insults under their breath when he walked past them to find a seat, but it wasn’t anything worse than what he’d gone through last year after he was chosen as the fourth Hogwarts champion and they believed he was stealing Cedric’s glory. 

What Harry was dreading, however, was Double Potions with the Gryffindors. It would be the first time being in the same room with his friends and his old House. What did they think about him now that he was a Slytherin? Would they talk to him again? Or would they shun him because he was wearing green and silver? 

Hermione and Ron had looked like they wanted to talk to him at breakfast, but what if they just wanted to break off their friendship face-to-face? Or would they tell him that it didn’t matter if he was a Slytherin? Hermione probably wouldn’t care—she’d scolded them for making unfair comments about Slytherins, but Ron was the one who usually made those comments. He despised anything to do with Slytherin, so Harry doubted that he would be very accepting of Harry’s new House. And Ron had already abandoned Harry once, at the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament fiasco. 

Who’s to say he wouldn’t leave Harry again—this time for good? Setting aside their fight in fourth year and the long silence over the summer, Ron had been a good friend. He’d been Harry’s first-ever friend, the one who introduced him to the wizarding world, who rescued him from the Dursleys in the summer of his second year, and who trailed after him during his life-endangering adventures, even if those adventures included his worst fear, spiders. Harry would be devastated if he lost his friendship over this. 

Harry had no idea how the others would react, though. Neville had clapped along with the Weasley twins last night, so he felt fairly confident he would still be his friend, but Seamus and Dean… unfortunately, he didn’t know them enough to guess. They’d spent evenings playing Exploding Snap, but their friendship had always been shallow, based on their shared interest in Quidditch and complaints about homework. The same went for the Gryffindor fifth-year girls. Other than Parvati at the Yule Ball—and even then, Harry had spent more time comforting a brooding Ron than with his date—he hadn’t really interacted with them much, aside from polite conversation between classes. 

Harry trailed after the other Slytherins after McGonagall dismissed them. They descended towards the dungeons, and at every step, the knot in his stomach tightened. He could hear the others talk and laugh together, but Harry couldn’t focus on what they were saying, not that he particularly cared. 

As they approached the Potions classroom, Harry could see the group of Gryffindors waiting outside the closed room. Ron was leaning against the wall, talking to Hermione and Neville, while Seamus and Dean were on the other side with Lavender, Parvati and another girl Harry had forgotten the name of. 

The Slytherins stopped in front of them, and Harry hoped they wouldn’t start anything. Harry walked to the side where Ron, Hermione and Neville were standing, but didn’t attempt to talk to them. He didn’t know what they thought yet, and he didn’t want to get worked up and start a fight right before class with Snape. Harry doubted that his new House placement would stop him from getting detentions for the whole year, though maybe he wouldn’t take points from his own house. 

His attempts to avoid a fight were fruitless, however, as Seamus pushed himself off the wall and walked towards them. “What are you playing at, Potter?” Seamus said, a sneer befitting a Slytherin on his face as he stopped in front of Harry. 

“What?” Harry asked, frowning. “I’m not—what did I do?”

“Don’t play dumb, Potter. Me mam didn’t want me to come back because of you!” Seamus shouted. 

“Wha—why? What did I do?” 

“I don’t know, what about all the lies you’ve been spouting off about You-Know-Who?”

“I did not lie!” Harry exclaimed.

“We’ve read the Daily Prophet, Potter. They say You-Know-Who is not back. You’re just a stupid, attention-seeking liar, and Dumbledore’s just a fool who’s becoming too senile.” 

“Oh so I’m the stupid one, when you’re the one who believes anything the fucking Daily Prophet says. I did not fucking lie, but go on. When Voldemort kills your family, don’t come crying to me.” Harry glared at the Irish boy.

“Oh, don’t worry, Potter, I will not come crying to you. Everyone’s seen who you really are now. You’re just an evil, slimy Slytherin, just like the rest of them.” Seamus curled his lip with disgust, nodding at the other fifth-year Slytherins who were observing the situation. Harry didn’t need to turn around to know that they were sneering at the Gryffindor. 

“I bet you killed Cedric, and you just made up lies about You-Know-Who to save your arse!” 

Harry refrained from flinching at those words as anger and guilt bloomed in his chest. Harry knew that Cedric was dead because of him—he had replayed the night at the graveyard enough times in his nightmares that he was aware of everything he could have done differently that night, from not telling Cedric to grab the cup together, to pushing him out of the way instead of freezing and taking the killing curse himself. It was him that they wanted, after all. Cedric was just the spare, and if he had been dead then, Pettigrew couldn’t have used him for the ritual.

But hearing it said so boldly by Seamus and before him, his cousin, still stung. Was that what everyone around him thought? That he had just killed Cedric? For what? Glory? As if he needed more glory. Being famous for having dead parents was enough for him.

But Harry couldn’t let the guilt show, not here. If they saw even a little bit of the guilt he was feeling, they’d just take it as proof that they were right and he was a liar. So he buried his guilt and grief under his anger. 

He balled his fist and took a step forward, but someone beat him to it. Ron surged past Harry, knocking him aside as he barreled towards Seamus. In a blur of motion, he grabbed the front of Seamus’s robes, slammed him against the wall, and pinned him there, his feet barely touching the floor.

“Harry is not a murderer, and don’t you dare call him that again!” Ron shouted. “He isn’t a liar either, nor evil. You don’t know anything about him!” 

Harry was left speechless as he processed what was happening. Was Ron really defending him? Even though he wasn’t a Gryffindor anymore and had been sorted into the House he hated? Did he still have his first friend? 

“Mr Weasley,” a cold voice drawled from behind them. “Unhand Mr Finnegan immediately. Twenty points from Gryffindor.” 

Ron glared at the boy one last time before letting him go. Seamus fell to the floor and stumbled to stay upright. 

Snape opened the door to the classroom, directing the students inside with a sharp “In!”. 

Harry shuffled inside, after everybody else had already gone inside, but stopped before he could take more than a few steps in. He looked between the two sides of the room. The Slytherins were sitting on the left, with Nott, Zabini and Malfoy sitting at the front, the four Slytherin girls in the row behind and Pike, Crabbe and Goyle in the last row. The only empty seats were beside Malfoy at the front and beside Goyle in the back. The Gryffindor were on the right Ron and Hermione were sitting together at the back, Neville in the seat beside Hermione. Seamus and Dean were in front of them with two empty seats beside them, while Lavender, Parvati and Mystery Gryffindor Girl—how had he not found out her name in four years of being in the same House and year?—were sitting at the front.

“Mr Potter, stop dawdling there and take a seat! We are not your relatives who wait on your hand and foot! Five points from Gryff…Slytherin.” Snape said, glaring at him from the front of the room. His lips were curled in disgust as he was forced to take points from his own House for the first time. Harry gulped and stole a glance at the Slytherin side. Crabbe, Goyle and Pike were trying to kill him with their eyes, while Malfoy was scowling. The girls, Nott and Zabini, however, had neutral expressions on their faces. Harry glanced at the empty seat near Malfoy and Zabini—he'd never even consider sitting near Goyle—and decided that he couldn’t sit there either, right after their Head of House, who was notorious for not taking points from his own House, took points from him. Harry was sure that he only took points because he had forgotten about Harry’s change of House, and he was taken off guard by the reminder on his robes. He wasn't going to sit near Seamus, and he didn't know Mystery Gryffindor girl enough to know what she might think of him. Plus, Neville was nice. He’d much rather sit with Neville—and with Hermione and Ron, even if he didn't really know where they stood with each other—than with Malfoy or any other Gryffindor. 

Harry walked to the empty seat beside the Gryffindor boy, hoping that he wouldn’t send him away, and smiled hesitantly at him when he got to the table. 

“Hey, Nev. Do you mind if I sit with you?” 

The other boy returned his smile and freed the seat from his bag, letting it fall to the floor. 

“Go ahead, Harry. I’d love to sit with you.”

“Thanks, Neville.” 

He could see Snape glaring at him as he took his seat, but thankfully, the man turned around without saying anything. After his speech about O.W.Ls, he waved his wand towards the blackboard, and the instructions for the Draught of Peace appeared in his spidery handwriting. Snape barked at them to get to work, and they did, silence falling over the room.

“How are you, Harry?” Neville asked as they started chopping their ingredients.

“Alright, you?”

“I’m fine. It’s weird not having you in the dorms, though,” Neville said.

“Believe me, it’s weirder being in the Slytherin dorms.”

“We missed you.”

“I bet Seamus didn’t miss me at all,” Harry said bitterly, glaring at the back of the sandy-haired boy. 

“Don’t listen to him, Harry. He’s being stupid.”

Harry gave him a grateful look as he added the powdered moonstone to his potion, watching as the concoction turned purple as it was supposed to do. Harry and Neville continued to work in silence after that, not wanting to be caught chatting by Snape, who had started walking around the room and would for sure swoop down on them as soon as he heard the faintest whisper. 

Harry scowled at his potion when, at the end of the lesson, the vapour coming from it was not the silvery colour like Hermione’s and most of the Slytherins’, but it was dark grey. 

Snape didn’t waste the opportunity to humiliate him. The man glowered at his cauldron,  looking down on his hooked nose at it with disgust. He made Harry read the steps out loud, pointing out his mistake for the whole class to hear before vanishing his potion. Half the Slytherins, the same ones who had been glaring at him earlier, laughed, joined by Seamus, the hypocrite, as he had also very obviously butchered his potion. 

“Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing,” Snape said, walking back to his desk. “Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of the syrup of hellebore and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday.”

Harry put his things back in his bag and made to leave, but Snape barked at him to stay behind. Harry walked to Snape’s desk, keeping one hand wrapped around the strap of his bag. 

“Yes, Professor?”

“I will not have you embarrassing Slytherin House with your dismal Potions skills, Potter,” Snape snarled. “You will put more effort into this class and in the rest of your classes as well. Slytherin is the House of ambition, Potter. It would do you well to show even a little bit of that and leave your Gryffindor ways behind.” 

Harry gritted his teeth, biting back the retort burning on his tongue. He had been doing well until he forgot the syrup of hellebore! And it wasn’t his fault if the Slytherins liked to tamper with his cauldron while he was distracted—thankfully, they hadn’t pulled anything that day, though he was sitting far from them—or that he got nervous whenever the man hovered behind him, with insults always ready on the tip of his tongue, and taking points at every chance! And it wasn’t like his potion had been any worse than Ron’s or Neville’s! The latter was even struggling to get a sample from his cauldron because of how thick it was! But he couldn’t say any of that, so he shut his mouth and nodded. Snape had never been fair to him, and thinking that the colour of his robes would change anything had been foolish. If anything, it had probably made him worse. Now, Snape was breathing down his neck more than ever, likely furious that Harry Potter, his most hated person in the castle, was in his House, dragging the ‘noble’ name of Slytherin through the mud with his Gryffindor behaviour and his lack of skills. 

“And see that you do not lose Slytherin any more points, Potter, or you’ll be in detention until the end of the year.” 

Harry nodded again, and once he was excused, he hurried out of the room without another word, not giving the greasy git a chance to insult him even more. 

Harry was surprised to find Nott and Zabini waiting for him outside the classroom, but he reeled it in when he remembered the conversation he had had with Nott that morning. Slytherins travelled in packs, right. 

“Sorry,” he apologised as they walked to the Great Hall. 

“What did Professor Snape want?” Zabini asked. 

“Nothing, he just threatened me with detention if I lost any more points.” Harry put his hands in his pockets, hand wrapping around his wand. “And warned me about embarrassing Slytherin with my ‘dismal Potions skills’”.

“You do suck at Potions,” Nott said, getting a glare for his effort. “What? It’s true!” 

“If your friends didn’t sabotage me half the time, I’d do better,” Harry told him. “And Snape doesn’t help.” 

Nott opened his mouth to say something, but Harry shot down the conversation before he could continue. He didn’t want to spend more time thinking about Snape. 

Lunch and Divination were as uneventful as Transfiguration had been. He ate in silence, even though his appetite had been killed by Seamus’s comments still swimming around his head. The other Slytherins didn’t attempt to drag him into conversation, thankfully. It seemed that the only time they talked to him was in the corridors. 

In Divination, he had sat with Neville again. Ron sat with them, but he kept quiet, looking at Harry with an uncharacteristically pensive expression on his face. Trelawney had predicted his death in the first five minutes of class, but that was nothing new. Seamus’s comments about him that he muttered at every chance were new, however, but ignoring him became easier as the hour went on—even as Harry could feel his glare directed at him for the whole class—and soon the bell rang, dismissing them. 

Harry walked to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with Neville and once again sat with the boy at the back of the room. 

As the woman took her place at the front of the classroom, Harry hoped that, even if she was working for the Ministry and hated Harry, she would at least be a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. It wasn’t much to ask, was it?

Chapter Text

“Good afternoon!” Umbridge’s high-pitched voice greeted them as soon as everyone sat down. 

She tutted as only a few people answered her. “That won’t do! I would like you to reply, please, ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge. ’ Let’s try it one more time. Good afternoon, class!” 

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.” 

Once the forced greeting was chanted back at her by the whole class, the woman gave them a sickeningly sweet smile. “That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it? Wands away and quills out, now, please.” 

Harry frowned at the ‘wands away’ command. How were they supposed to learn defence if they didn’t use their wands? One look at the room told him that he wasn’t the only one thinking that. The professor took out her own unusually short wand and tapped the blackboard with it, and the class watched as words scribbled themselves on the black surface: 

Defence Against the Dark Arts

A Return to Basic Principles

The woman went on to complain about the previous teaching, the constant changing of it and the fact that they haven’t followed any Ministry-approved curriculum. 

“You will be pleased to know that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.” 

Another sharp tap of the wand made the first writing disappear, and it was replaced by the ‘Course Aims’. 

1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used. 
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.

After another show of making them chant “Yes, Professor Umbridge” to answer her questions, she told them to read the first chapter of Defensive Magical Theory , the book that the girl at Flourish and Blotts had complained about, with a “There will be no need to talk.” 

Once Umbridge settled herself in the chair behind the desk, Harry opened his book and started to read the extremely boring chapter. Were all the chapters going to be this bad? Harry now knew how the girl felt. They were all going to fail this class. 

He struggled to get through the chapters without falling asleep. The dullness of the book was not helping his exhaustion, and he felt his eyes close of their own accord multiple times. The other students didn’t seem to be faring much better—not even Hermione appeared interested in the chapter. In fact, she wasn’t even reading. Her book lay closed on the desk as she stared at Umbridge, hand raised high in the air. That was enough to jolt Harry from his boredom-induced lethargy. Hermione always listened to the professors, and never in the four years he’d known her had she so blatantly disregarded a professor’s order—Harry wasn’t counting their school-saving adventures.

The professor seemed to be ignoring her hand, pointedly looking in another direction, but when more and more people stopped reading to watch Hermione’s attempts to catch her attention, she decided that she couldn’t ignore the Gryffindor girl any longer. 

“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?” she asked Hermione. 

“Not about the chapter, no.”

“Well, that’s what we’re doing just now.” Professor Umbridge gave Hermione that saccharine smile again, showing her small pointed teeth. “If you have other questions, I can answer them at the end of class.” 

“I’ve got a question about your course aims,” Hermione said, ignoring her. 

“Well, Miss Granger,” she said after asking her name. “I think they are perfectly clear if you read them carefully.”

“Well, I don’t,” Hermione said bluntly. “There’s nothing about using defensive spells.”

“Using defensive spells?” Umbridge laughed. “Why, dear, would you need to use a defensive spell in my class, Miss Granger? You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?”

Ron cut in and joined Hermione in her complaint, and Harry raised his hand as well, though she ignored him and continued to argue with Hermione. As the conversation continued, Umbridge’s smile became wider. “You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way–”

“What use is that?” Harry interrupted loudly, seeing as the woman wouldn’t give him a chance to talk. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a–”

“Hand, Mr Potter!”

Harry wanted to tell her where he could shove that hand, but he bit his lip and thrust his hand in the air. Umbridge turned away from him anyway, calling on Dean instead. 

“It’s like Harry said, though,” Dean told her. Harry could see Seamus glaring at his friend as he agreed with him. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be risk-free.” 

The argument went on, with Umbridge criticising their Defence Against the Dark Arts professors up until that year—Harry wanted to yell at her when she mentioned ‘dangerous half-breeds’, but Dean beat him to it—and thankfully other students began speaking up, wondering how they were going to be prepared for the O.W.Ls if they didn’t practice defensive spells. 

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough–”

“And what good’s theory going to be in the real world?” Harry shouted with his fist in the air. By that point, he was openly glaring at the woman in pink, who smiled like a shark who had sniffed blood. 

“This is not the real world, Mr Potter.” 

“So we’re not supposed to be prepared for what’s out there?”

“There is nothing out there, Mr Potter.”

Harry clenched his fist and scoffed. “Oh, really?” 

“Who do you think is going to attack children like you?” Umbridge’s eyes twinkled in merriment as she watched him. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Harry pretended to think. “Maybe Lord Voldemort ?” 

At that, he could hear gasps coming from several people in the room, especially from the Gryffindor side of the room. Harry stared at the woman at the front, who had not reacted to the name. 

“Ten points from Slytherin, Mr Potter.” 

Harry barely suppressed his own flinch at that. He had already lost Slytherin fifteen points, and the day was not over yet. He could feel glares coming from the Slytherin side of the room, but he didn’t dare look at them. 

“Now, let me make a few things clear.”

The class fell silent as they stared at Umbridge, who stood up and leaned towards them.

“You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead–” 

“He wasn’t dead, but yeah, he’s returned!”

Umbridge ignored his statement, but Harry saw her mouth twitch before she continued. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard has returned once again. This is a lie.”

“It is NOT a lie! I saw him and fought him!” Harry shouted. 

“Detention, Mr Potter!” Umbridge smiled victoriously. “Tomorrow evening at six o’clock, my office. This is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are safe from any Dark wizard, but if you have concerns, you are welcome to see me outside class hours. If someone,” her eyes shifted briefly to Harry, “is alarming you with his lies, you may come to me. I am here to help you, as your friend. And now, please, continue your reading.” 

Harry felt his hands begin to shake with barely contained rage. He distantly heard Snape in his head telling him to keep quiet, to not embarrass Slytherin House and his threats of detention if he lost more points, but the woman’s high voice calling him a liar was louder, and he stood up, slamming his hands on the table. Neville flinched at the sudden movement, and Harry threw him an apologetic look before returning his glare to the woman.

Hermione hissed at him to sit down from behind him, and he could hear Malfoy’s voice as well, but he ignored them. 

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory just dropped dead, did he?” his voice, as well as his hands, was shaking. Just like earlier with Seamus, he had to push down his guilt and grief, but he let his anger show.

It seemed like the air had been sucked out of the room as everyone gasped. Everyone stared, from Harry to Professor Umbridge, waiting to see what would happen. Harry vaguely heard someone calling him crazy, the voice sounding very similar to Seamus’, but Harry only had eyes for the toad, who had dropped the fake smile. 

“Cedric Diggory’s death was an accident,” she said. 

“It was murder,” Harry contradicted her. “Voldemort killed him, and you know it.”

Harry thought she would lose it and start screaming at him at that point, but her face remained blank as she told him to come to her. She wrote something in a roll of pink parchment and then rolled it up. With a tap of her wand, the parchment sealed itself. 

“Take this to Professor Snape, dear,” she said, holding out the note to him. He took it without a word and left the room without looking at anyone. The door slammed shut behind him, and Harry walked along the corridor, hand so tight around the roll of parchment that it wrinkled.

Harry hoped that he would calm down by the time he reached the dungeons and Snape’s office, but his body was still trembling, his chest heaving in fast and short breaths, and his ears were ringing with fury. Harry was tempted to turn around and hide in his dorm, but he knew that it would only make matters worse for him. It’d be better to rip the band-aid immediately and tell Snape that he had disregarded everything he said to him and got himself detention on the first day of class. He couldn’t even claim the record for the fastest detention. He’d already set that bar himself in his second year, when he and Ron crash-landed the flying car into the Whomping Willow on the very first night when they arrived.

When Snape opened the door, all his anger drained out, and he was filled with dread. “Potter, why aren’t you in class?” the professor asked when he saw him. 

“Professor Umbridge sent me to see you.” Harry gulped and offered the now crumpled note to him. Snape took it and observed its state with a look of disdain as he tapped it with his wand to open it. His face was impassive as he read it, but when he raised his eyes to meet Harry’s, there was cold fury in the black irises. Snape raised his arm and went to grab Harry’s shoulder to drag him inside, but Harry flinched back. 

For a moment, Snape wasn’t the one standing in front of him, but Uncle Vernon. Harry could feel the ghost of his uncle’s meaty fingers digging in his arm, the bruises he had from the summer aching with the reminder, and Harry waited for the blow that would follow, but a cold, low voice woke him up from his flashback. Uncle Vernon’s voice was always loud, but especially so when he was angry, so it wasn’t Uncle Vernon’s hands on his arm. 

When Harry raised his eyes, he met Snape’s black ones. The man still looked furious, but there was something else behind that fury, something that Harry couldn’t read. He still had his arm raised in front of him, but he wasn’t touching him. The man’s eyes followed his gaze, and he dropped his arm when he saw Harry looking at his hand apprehensively. Harry hoped he wouldn’t question him. Harry was a good liar, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to lie convincingly to Snape’s face, and he didn’t want to spill his guts out to the man who had made his life hell since the first day they met. It didn’t matter if he was his Head of House.

“Inside,” Snape sneered. The man turned around, robes billowing behind him, and Harry obliged, following him to his desk. The professor sat in the chair behind the desk, and Harry stood, hands in fists at his sides. 

The two stared at each other for a few seconds before Snape broke the tense silence. “So, Potter,” he spat his name. “Are you in need of the Hospital Wing?” 

Harry’s denial sounded more like a question as he frowned at the professor. What was he saying?

“Oh, I thought you were having hearing problems,” he said. “If you are not, then, perhaps, you wish to explain to me why you are not able to listen to the simple demand that I made of you just this morning.” 

“My ears work just fine, sir, I just–” 

“The hat has placed you in Slytherin, Mr Potter,” Snape cut him off. “It has seen inside your head, and it has seen fit to put you in my House. I thought that it had seen some cunning in you, but after this display, it appears I was sorely mistaken.”

He paused and threw the note that he was still holding onto the desk. “This is not the way to convince people the Dark Lord has returned, Mr Potter. The only thing you will accomplish by shouting that he has come back in the middle of class is proving to everyone who believes the Ministry propaganda that you are as deranged as the Daily Prophet is making you out to be, and that will be more detrimental to your cause.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. He was right, and Harry knew it. He’d known it even as he was yelling at the woman, but his anger and frustration had taken over him, especially because his fight with Seamus was still fresh in his mind. 

“Brashness belongs to Gryffindors, Potter, and you are no longer one, as I must remind you once again. You must learn to control yourself and remember who Professor Umbridge works for. Learn to keep your head down and focus on your studies instead. It will be a great benefit to you.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“I will not repeat this again, Potter, so see to it that you actually remember what I told you.” 

“I am doing my best!”

“Clearly, your best is not enough, Potter,” the man snarled. “You must curb your arrogance and show respect, Potter, even when it is challenging to do so. Respect will bring you farther than arrogance, but I know that this must be hard for your feeble mind to comprehend.” 

“I am not arrogant!” Harry grumbled. 

“That is exactly what proves my point, Potter.” Snape glared at him. “Now, leave my sight before I decide to do good on my word and assign you even more detentions.”

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

The little appetite Harry had disappeared as soon as he sat down at the table and saw every Slytherin giving him murderous looks, looking like they might hex him at any given moment. It seemed that the story of how Harry had lost them points had travelled far in a short time. Harry couldn’t help but frown. It was just fifteen points! They’d get them back quickly, as soon as someone answered a question correctly. Why were they making such a big deal of it? He had lost way more points at once as a Gryffindor. 

So, under the scrutiny of the whole of Slytherin House, Harry dished himself some of the dinner and pushed the food around his plate in hopes of reawakening his appetite, but by the time everyone else was done, he had eaten less than a quarter of the already small portion. 

Harry gave up on eating when he saw Hermione and Ron standing awkwardly near the Slytherin table, looking like they wanted to approach him but were afraid of being chewed alive if they dared to do so. Harry took the chance and gathered his bag, fleeing from the glares and nasty comments that he occasionally received from Malfoy—so much for acting civil—and following the two Gryffindors out of the Great Hall. 

The trio walked in silence. Ron and Hermione were in front of him, and Harry noticed with a small smile that their hands were brushing against one another while he walked a few steps behind. The familiar feeling of anxiety crept up in his chest as the duo led him to an abandoned classroom near the Charms classroom. 

Once inside, Harry stared at his friends, wondering who would speak up first. While he waited, he took the chance to take in the two. Ron had shot up even more during the summer. He had always been tall, but Harry bet he now surpassed the twins in height. Hermione looked about the same as when he had last seen her, though her hair seemed tamer, as if she had learned how to get her curls to cooperate. Maybe he should ask her for advice. 

The two looked as unsure about this as he felt, and Harry let himself feel a little bit of comfort at that. Harry really hoped they would still be his friends after they talked and he confronted them about their lack of communication. 

Tired of the tense silence, Harry gathered his Gryffindor courage—to hell with Snape, he was still a Gryffindor even if the hat believed otherwise—and spoke up. “Hi.”

“Hi, Harry,” Hermione said while Ron simply nodded at him. 

“We need to talk,” Harry said. 

“Yeah, we do,” Ron said. “What do you want to start with?”

“Why didn’t you write to me this summer?” 

He meant for it to sound angry, but it came out all wrong—hurt and vulnerable, and maybe that made sense. He had stopped being angry at them a while ago. When he thought about his best friends abandoning him that summer, the only things he felt were sadness and hurt. 

He had plenty of other things to be angry about now. Things that buried the anger for his friends so deep down that it felt like it had deserted him completely. Things like being locked in a cupboard and beaten by people who were supposed to care for him. Like everyone believing him a liar—or worse, a murderer (and maybe he was, but hearing it said out loud made his blood boil) and like being thrown in the snake pit with people who hated him. 

“We’re sorry, Harry,” Hermione started. She took a step closer to him and took his hand gently in hers. “Dumbledore warned us not to write. He said it was too dangerous and that the letters could get intercepted. We sent a few letters behind his back when nobody from the Order was there to tell on us, but we couldn’t manage more than that.” 

“The twins wrote to me multiple times,” Harry said. “They found a way around it.”

“They’ve spent a lot of time outside of headquarters. They must’ve sent the letters then, but Harry, we were stuck there. We couldn’t leave the house, and Mum set us chores to do all day, you know, the house was filthy. It was really horrible!” Ron said.

Harry felt a pang of anger return there. Horrible, really? What should he say about his summer, then? He was beaten and locked in a cupboard while they could roam around the house as they pleased, and even if they had chores to do, they were still together. They had each other to spend the day with and to make the chores easier. He was alone at the Dursleys, stuck with people who insulted him and hit him at every opportunity. But Harry couldn’t say any of that, so he tried to push the anger down. 

“I was alone for the whole summer,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “At least you had each other, and you were with Sirius, while I was stuck with the Dursleys.”

“We know, Harry, but we really couldn’t do much. We would’ve come to get you in a heartbeat, but we don’t have the flying car anymore, and Dumbledore did seem very insistent that you would be safer with your relatives this year. We didn’t want to risk you getting hurt.” Ron explained. Harry scoffed loudly. Yeah, safer at the Dursleys'. Harry had half a mind to remove his glamour and show them how safe he had been there, but he couldn’t. They would only worry, and they would never let it go. They would try to tell someone, and Harry didn’t want anyone to know. Telling people had never worked in his favour, and Dumbledore had already told him he had to stay there. It would be better if they didn’t know how bad they had gotten this summer. 

His anger dissipated again as he reflected on it. He knew it wasn’t really their fault if Dumbledore had requested that he be kept in the dark with no communication of any type. Hermione trusted adults, and Dumbledore was a trusted adult, even though Harry didn’t really like how he acted at times. They just wanted him safe, and he couldn’t really fault them for that. And it wasn’t like they had any information to give him, anyway. Remus had told him that Mrs Weasley hadn’t let them sit at the Order meetings. At this point, he knew more about what was going on than they did.

“I know,” Harry deflated. “I’m sorry for getting mad at you.” 

“Oh, Harry. It’s alright,” Hermione rushed forward to hug him. “ We’re sorry we couldn’t write. We didn’t mean to make you feel like we had abandoned you.”

Harry wrapped his arms around the girl, hiding his face in her slightly less bushy hair and taking in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “I missed you,” he said, loud enough for Ron to hear him as well. Hermione stepped back, smiling at him.

They stood in silence again for a few seconds, and Harry relished in the calm before they addressed the other, bigger elephant in the room. It was Ron who broke the silence this time and brought up the conversation that Harry was dreading. “So you’re a snake now.” 

Harry tried to read his face, to see if he could decipher what he was feeling from it. Ron was usually very expressive. You could tell everything that he was thinking by just taking a look at his face, but today, it was unnaturally blank. His stomach turned, and Harry was glad that he had not eaten much. He was afraid that his dinner would show up again, and he didn’t want to start this conversation by throwing up all over his best friends. They didn’t seem like they were mad at him. Hermione had hugged him, and the two had apologised for not being there that summer, but Harry was scared that they were just pretending, that they were just trying to make him think they were ok with him just to pull the rug from under him. He didn’t really know why they would do that, but Harry wasn’t particularly known to be rational.

“Yeah, it seems so,” Harry replied after a few seconds. “Though I’m not sure I am a very good Slytherin.”

“You have been a Gryffindor for four years. Why did the hat put you in Slytherin?” Ron asked. 

Harry stayed silent, debating whether to reveal the secret that he had kept from them since his first sorting, but he had told the Slytherins, so he felt like he owed his best friends the truth. 

“The hat wanted me in Slytherin back in first year,” he said eventually. “I asked not to be put there.”

Ron’s surprise showed in his face, then he cleared his throat and spoke.“So you’ve always been a snake in lion’s clothing?” 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that, though I don’t really feel like a Slytherin, no matter how many people tell me I must act like one.”

“Then, I guess there are some nice Slytherins, if you were always supposed to be one.” 

Harry widened his eyes at that. Ron wasn’t mad? 

“I’m not going to stop being your friend because you’re a Slytherin, mate,” Ron said, giving him a tentative smile. “I was a horrible friend to you last year, but I’m not going to make the same mistake again. I love you, mate.”

Harry and Ron didn’t usually hug each other, but Harry felt so relieved to hear those words that he dragged the red-haired boy into a hug. It was awkward due to their height difference, but Harry couldn’t care less. Hermione joined the hug with a squeal that made Harry laugh.

“How are the Slytherins treating you?” Ron asked as they pulled back from their impromptu group hug. “How’s Malfoy?” 

“They’re—they’re mostly fine. Nott and Zabini have been sort of nice, or as nice as they can be, I guess. We’ve decided to try to be civil with one another, to avoid fights and survive the next three years, but I’ve already fought with Malfoy a few times, even after the truce. It’s not going to be easy.” Harry sighed. “But I haven’t really interacted much with the girls, or Crabbe, Goyle and Pike really. We sleep in different rooms,” he answered. 

“Different rooms?” 

“Yeah, Zabini told me that they used to be all together, but they were split because of me,” Harry explained. “But you should see the dorms. They’re so fancy. You’d love them, Mione. Each year has a separate common room with tables where you can study.” 

As Harry told them about his first day as a Slytherin, he felt a weight lift from his chest. He was there, chatting and laughing with his best friends. As he listened to Hermione scold him for how he had yelled at Umbridge, he felt like everything would be ok. 

He could deal with anything if he had his two best friends by his side.

Chapter Text

Harry was in a long, dark corridor. The place seemed weirdly familiar, but Harry couldn’t place where he had seen it before. The only light came from two torches on the wall that bathed the corridor in a low, eerie light. The walls were bare and made of dark stone. He walked along the seemingly endless corridor, wondering where he was and why it seemed so familiar when he finally reached the end.

A door stood in front of him. It was tall and made of dark wood, but when he tried to open it, it didn’t budge, no matter how hard he tried. He took out his wand and whispered Alohomora, pointing the wand at the lock. The door clicked, and he turned the doorknob, pushing the door open. 

When Harry stepped through the door, he found himself in a graveyard. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before turning around to go back through the door, but when he opened his eyes, the door wasn’t there anymore. He was stuck there.

Harry’s arm trembled as he raised his wand in front of him. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, tracing a path from his forehead to his eyes, getting stuck in his eyelashes. Despite his sweat, Harry was shaking, chills running down his back as he walked around, trying to find a way out. He was alone, not a soul in sight, but Harry kept his eyes wide open. Harry was sure someone was there, hiding. 

Once in a while, he heard noises, footsteps crunching dead leaves. He turned towards the noise, his wand pointed towards the sound, but nothing was there. Harry weaved through the graves aimlessly, being careful to stick to the path between the tombs. The headstones were all cracked, with moss growing on top and dead flowers resting at the bottom. Years of moss and grime made the engravings intelligible. 

Harry didn’t know why he was there or how he got there, and he hoped he would find out. The tension in the air was heavy, and it weighed down on him, making each step hard. His heart was beating fast in his chest, so loud that he could hear it in the silence of the graveyard, and his stomach was rolling with anxiety. His eyes darted around the place, trying to take everything in, not to miss anything that could hint at danger, but nothing seemed amiss. He was alone in a sea of dead people buried there. 

Harry turned and was startled by the grave that stood in front of him. It was big and tall, taller than any other grave he had ever seen. It towered over him, and it was the only one not covered in greenery and perfectly intact. Harry walked around slowly, his knuckles white as he gripped his wand tightly, and stood before the grave. 

His heart dropped to his feet as he read the incisions on the stone. His breath hitched and got stuck in his throat. 

Cedric Diggory

28 August 1977–24 June 1995

Loving son and friend

Killed by Harry Potter

His ears started ringing as he stared at those words, his breath quickening once again. He shut his eyes, but those words were printed in the back of his eyelids, and no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes in an attempt to erase them, they stayed there. 

“You killed me,” a cold voice said from behind him. 

Harry jerked back and turned around, opening his eyes. He wished he had never done so. Cedric was there, in front of him. He was glaring at him, a look of cold fury that he had never seen on the usually kind and happy boy on his face. 

“My parents are childless because of you,” he continued. “You killed me.”

Harry felt his eyes burning with unshed tears. His lip trembled, and he shook his head rapidly, trying to deny it. “No, no. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“What good are apologies? You killed me. I’m dead.” Cedric took a step forward. “You should be there instead of me. You don’t have parents to mourn you. You killed them, too.”

“No, please. I didn’t—” 

“It’s useless denying it. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows you’re a murderer.” 

Green light erupted from his wand and hit Cedric in the chest. The boy fell to the floor, blue eyes staring at the sky, unseeing. A high, cold laugh echoed in the silent graveyard, but then it shifted, and Seamus’s voice took its place. 

“You killed the spare.”

Harry fell back, hitting the gravestone behind him and dropping to the floor, arms hugging his knees to his chest. 

He didn’t know how long he had stayed there crying, but when he lifted his head, he wasn’t in the graveyard anymore. Familiar walls surrounded him, and Harry felt a sense of dread rise in his chest. The door of the cupboard sprang open, and his uncle’s face scowled at him, angrier than it had ever been. 

He took Harry by his hair, dragging him out and throwing him unceremoniously against the wall. Harry hit his head hard, stars erupting in his vision, but he didn’t have time to focus on that pain because his uncle put his shoe-covered foot on his chest, pushing down with all his strength. 

“We know what you are, freak,” his uncle spat. “You’re a murderer.”

Harry cried and tried to stop his uncle. He heard and felt one of his ribs break under his foot, and he whimpered in pain, but his uncle didn’t relent. 

“After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? Ungrateful, useless freak!” Uncle Vernon lifted his foot, kicked his side and stepped back. His hands went to the waist of his jeans, and he unbuckled his belt. Harry took the chance while he had it. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring his aching chest and ran to the front door. He fumbled with the lock, and those precious seconds allowed his uncle to catch up with him. He felt the buckle connect with his back, one, two, three times.

“Murderer!” his uncle yelled. 

Harry woke up with a gasp, clutching his aching scar. His heart pounded in his chest, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths, lungs tight with lingering panic. His legs were tangled in the sheets, and cold sweat caused his shirt to stick to his chest uncomfortably. He brought his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to him, Cedric and Uncle Vernon’s cruel words echoing in the silent room, and he pressed his fingers hard against his eyes as if he could bury those images under the darkness, but they stayed there, a perpetual reminder of what he had done. 

Once his breathing had calmed down slightly, he got up, grabbed his wand from under his pillow and walked to the bathroom, but as he approached it, the door swung open, and Harry found himself turning his head to avoid getting blinded by the light erupting from the wand. 

“Sorry, Potter,” he heard Nott whisper, and he nodded sleepily. Harry walked past the boy, hoping that the light was dim enough that Nott couldn’t see him without his glamour, and disappeared inside the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face and stared at his reflection, glaring at the increasingly dark bags under his eyes. 

As he stared at his hollow face, Harry’s resolution to keep his nightmares to himself and not ask Madame Pomphrey for Dreamless Sleep was dwindling. He was so tired. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“I’m telling you, he’s wearing a glamour,” Harry heard Nott say to Zabini and Malfoy the next morning as he sat at the Slytherin table. Harry narrowed his eyes at the boy. What were they talking about? Was Nott talking about him? Had he actually been able to see Harry well enough last night?

Miraculously, Harry had been able to fall back asleep last night, though not before tossing and turning in his bed for nearly an hour. As a result, he’d overslept, waking up to an empty room and being late for class.

It seemed like his roommates had taken advantage of his absence to talk about him, and Harry did not like it one bit. He didn’t want their noses in his business. 

“Who’s wearing glamours?” Harry cut in, hoping to shoot down the conversation before Nott could convince the other two of the validity of his claim. 

“Apparently, you are, Potter,” Malfoy answered. Nott hissed his name in warning, shooting him a glare that Malfoy ignored. 

“I would know if I were wearing a glamour, I think,” Harry said, leaning forward to grab the pitcher of apple juice. “I’m not, by the way. Why would I wear one?”

“You looked different tonight,” Nott argued. He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he stopped himself.

“Mm… I think it might’ve been the light, you know? Maybe it cast some shadows that distorted my face. It was two a.m., though. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it because you were still half asleep?” Harry said calmly, taking a bite of his eggs. 

They stared at him for a few seconds before Parkinson demanded the pitcher of apple juice, cutting off whatever Nott had been about to say. Harry cheered internally as they let the matter drop—hopefully for good. He’d have to be more careful when he went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone, but now he’d have to factor in the possibility. The lie might work once, maybe twice, but they were Slytherins. They were supposed to be cunning and clever. They wouldn’t fall for it forever. 

Once everyone was over, Harry and the other Slytherins made their way to Professor Binns’ classroom for two hours of mind-numbing boredom. Harry couldn’t wait to drop this class next year.

Harry doodled on his parchment as Professor Binns droned on. He was halfway through drawing the thestral’s wing when the parchment was suddenly yanked from under his quill. 

“Give it back!” he half-shouted, glaring indignantly at the blond boy holding it out of his reach. Malfoy raised an eyebrow as he looked over the incomplete sketch. Harry had managed to draw the body and head of the winged horse in the first hour of the lesson and was working on the first wing when Malfoy had stolen the parchment. 

“Didn’t know the Boy-Who-Lived had time for arts and crafts between breaking rules and killing Dark Lords. Maybe this is the reason for your abysmal grades,” Malfoy said. Harry glared at him. He did not have abysmal grades. They were mostly average, thank you very much, but he didn’t think that saying that to Malfoy would help. 

“This is not half bad, Potter. What’s this supposed to be?” Malfoy threw the parchment back in front of him, and Harry snatched it up before he could take it back. 

“It’s a thestral,” Harry answered. He dipped his quill in his inkwell and continued working on the wing. He hadn’t really seen what they looked like, but Harry imagined them to look like bat wings. 

“So that’s what thestrals look like?” 

“Yes, it’s a pretty accurate drawing,” Nott chimed in. Harry paused, the tip of his quill hovering on the page. A drop of ink threatened to fall on the paper, and Harry moved it before it could ruin his drawing. 

“You can see them?” he turned to look at the boy sitting next to Malfoy. 

“Yes.”

Harry almost asked why he could see them, but decided against it. “I’m sorry,” he said instead and returned to his drawing. By the time History of Magic had ended, Harry had a new, complete drawing of a thestral, its resemblance to the real thing attested by Nott. Harry thought he could show the drawing to the Weasley twins to let them see what thestrals looked like,e since they weren’t able to see them. Harry didn’t wish the ability of seeing them on anyone, but he thought that a drawing was a good compromise. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on who you asked—the rest of the day didn’t drag on as slowly as History of Magic had. Classes flew between lectures about the importance of the O.W.Ls, people whispering and glaring at him, and trying to avoid fights with his new roommates, and too soon for his liking, dinner had ended. Harry dragged his feet to the second floor, dreading his first detention with Professor Umbridge. 

When the woman opened the door, Harry was met by pink drapes all over the room. Two vases with pink flowers were placed on the woman’s desk. The walls were decorated with ornamental plates, and cats moving around the round dishes. Harry had thought nothing could beat Professor Lockhart’s hideous office, with his portrait all over the place, but her office came in close second. Harry missed Professor Lupin’s office with the man’s gadgets and creatures all around the room. Even Moody’s office had been better, and he was really Barty Crouch Jr, a Death Eater. 

Umbridge smiled widely as she motioned him to sit at a small desk she had placed in front of her own, with a straight-backed chair that looked very uncomfortable. On top of the desk, there was a blank parchment and a black quill next to it.

The woman watched him with beady eyes as he walked to the desk and sat, dropping his bag on the floor with a loud thud. 

“You are going to be writing for me, Mr Potter,” she said sweetly. “I want you to write, I must not tell lies.”

“How many times?” Harry picked up the quill, clenching his left hand under the desk to rein in his temper. He couldn’t start shouting at her, no matter how badly he wanted to tell her that he was not telling lies. Snape was right. Yelling the truth at her would not do anything but get him in trouble.

“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in,” she told him, with that saccharine smile that Harry was starting to despise more than anything else. She went back to sit behind her desk, and Harry turned to face the parchment. He put the quill down on the paper but then realised that she hadn’t given him any ink. When he voiced this, her smile grew wider. 

“Oh, you won’t need ink, dear,” she told him. 

Harry frowned but decided to get on with it. He didn’t want to waste any time. The more he stalled, the longer he would have to stay. He had so much homework to do, and he had promised Ron and Hermione to meet them so they could study together.

With a last look at the woman, Harry placed the sharp tip on the paper and started writing: I must not tell lies. The letters appeared on the parchment in shiny blood-red ink. His eyes widened slightly as he realised that the words were being written in blood. His blood. The same letters that he was writing on the paper were being written in the back of his right hand, and Harry was too surprised to suppress his wince as pain blossomed from the new wounds. A few seconds later, he watched as the skin healed over, leaving only a few beads of blood to indicate that there had been any wound at all.

Harry raised his head to look at Umbridge, who was watching him with a shark-like smile. 

“Is there a problem, dear?” 

“No,” he said quietly. 

He returned his eyes to the parchment and began writing. Once again, the words I must not tell lies appeared on the back of his hand with a sharp pain and then healed over seconds later. Harry wondered why she was allowed to do this, to use such a quill on students, but he didn’t dare ask the question. 

Umbridge kept Harry there well after the sky had gone dark, but Harry didn’t show signs that he was bothered by it. He wouldn’t give in or show weakness. It was nothing. He had suffered worse at the hands of his uncle that summer. The belt hurt a lot worse than the quill, and if Harry could handle that, he could handle a quill that carved words on his hand. He wouldn’t be weak. He may be a Slytherin now, but he still felt like a Gryffindor.

When Umbridge called him over, his skin was bright red, but the wound had healed over, leaving no sign of the words. Umbridge observed his hand, gripping it with cold, short fingers and seemed displeased by the lack of damage. She clicked her tongue in disappointment and dropped his hand. 

“I don’t seem to have made an impression quite yet,” she said, smiling at him. “Well, we’ll have to try again tomorrow, won’t we? You may go now.”

Harry left her office without a word, walking along the deserted corridors until he reached the dungeons and the Slytherin dorms. It was almost midnight now, and Harry wanted to strangle Umbridge. He had been looking forward to studying with Ron and Hermione, and now he hadn’t gotten to see them, and he had a pile of homework waiting for him. 

Yes, a little bit of murder tonight didn’t sound bad at all. Too bad Harry didn’t want to go to Azkaban.

Harry spent half the night doing his homework. He worked on Vanishing Spells, wrote some dumb dreams for his Divination dream diary—Harry wished those were the kind of dreams he had—and started his drawing of the Bowtruckle Professor Grubbly-Plank had assigned, but it was hard to do with only his wand as a light source and Harry had to give up, instead starting on his essays. 

At four a.m., Harry was so exhausted that his eyes were burning like someone had sprayed pepper on his face, and after he had spilt ink on his bedsheet for the second time, Harry put away his things, deciding to try to sleep in hopes of feeling more awake in the morning. It was very unlikely, but one could only hope. Harry made sure to set an alarm with his wand—he had learned a spell for it in a book he got that summer—and then went under his covers, turning off his Lumos. 

Harry was so exhausted from the day of classes, the detention and homework that he woke up three hours later without a single nightmare.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“We were waiting for you, mate,” Ron told him as soon as Harry sat down next to him in Divination. Harry grimaced at the reminder of last night’s detention and gave his friend an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, Ron. Umbridge kept me until midnight.” 

“Midnight?!” Neville shrieked. “She kept you for five hours? What did she make you do?” 

Both boys seemed horrified at that news, and Harry winced at the thought that it was not the worst of it. 

“Lines,” Harry said. 

“Oh, that’s not so bad, then, but why did she keep you for so long?” Ron said. 

“I don’t know, mate, she hates me,” Harry shrugged, content to let Ron think they had been simple lines. 

After that, the conversation shifted to Quidditch tryouts. Ron told Harry he was trying out for Keeper on Friday and invited him to come see him, but Harry had to remind him that he had detention then. Then, Harry’s smile died on his lips. 

“I can’t play Quidditch anymore,” Harry said when Neville asked what was wrong. It seemed such a trivial thing to worry about amid everything else, of his worsening nightmares, his recent exile to the snake house and his detentions, but Quidditch had always been a source of stress relief for Harry. It gave him a sense of normalcy—something that brought him closer to his peers. Harry had always looked forward to practice, to the thrill of the games, to be known for something he did, something he was good at and that he earned on his own, not for surviving a Killing Curse and supposedly defeating a dark wizard as a one-year-old. So, losing Quidditch felt like another blow to his crumbling life. 

It was not enough that he had been beaten by his own family, that he had the whole Ministry of Magic working against him, a fifteen-year-old boy, to discredit him, and that everyone but his closest friends believed he was a liar and going insane, but he had to lose one of his few shots a normalcy. 

Harry felt his mood sour with the realisation.

“I’m sorry, mate.” Ron patted his arm in sympathy. 

“It’s fine, I guess,” Harry sighed bitterly. “I just hadn’t thought about it until now. Angelina must be so mad at me right now.”

“She’ll get over it, it’s not your fault.”

“Thanks. Let me know who the new Seeker is, then.”

After Ron’s agreement,  they stopped the conversation and moved on to talk about the dreams they had come up with. Harry wanted to join the conversation, but he felt as if the little energy that the three hours of sleep had given him had drained away with the realisation. 

Harry was afraid to find out what the rest of the year would bring—they were only three days in. If it was starting out this badly, who knew how much worse it would get?

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry’s dark mood continued for the rest of the morning, and it only got worse at lunch. Harry had received a few more glares that morning, but he had not really paid mind to them. However, when he stepped foot in the Great Hall, almost every head turned to him, hatred and suspicion heavy in their eyes. Only his friends and, strangely enough, his new housemates seemed indifferent to his arrival—Hermione, Neville, and the twins, who were all facing him, did smile and wave at him, but Harry couldn’t manage to return the gesture under the suffocating gazes of the rest of the student body. 

Harry frowned. What had brought on this reaction? 

Harry sat at the spot he had claimed as his and tried to ignore the heated glares thrown at him and the beginning of the whispers that seemed to follow him everywhere these days. 

The other Slytherins were eating in silence, mostly ignoring him, but he could see a few of them glancing at him every once in a while. Harry, fed up with this new behaviour, raised his head, dropping the spoon in his soup and met Nott’s eyes. The boy appeared to be the nicest one of the group, closely followed by Zabini, and Harry had no intention to voluntarily start a conversation with Malfoy, Crabbe or the rest of the fifth-years unless strictly necessary. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. 

Nott cleared his throat, abandoning his soup as well, to turn fully towards him. “Haven’t you read the Daily Prophet?” the brown-haired boy asked. 

“Er, no? I cancelled my subscription after all the shit they wrote about me last year.”

“Oh, so you don’t know? Everybody read it at breakfast.” 

“I wasn’t at breakfast,” Harry said. He had, in fact, skipped it in favour of trying to finish his homework. 

Nott nodded and rifled through his bag for a few seconds before holding out this morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet. Harry took it and unfolded it on the table. 

Bright green eyes glared back at him, face set in a scowl. It was the photo from the wand-weighing ceremony last year—he looked like he wanted to kill whoever was behind the camera, and considering it was Rita Skeeter, he didn’t think he was too far off. Anyway, the picture, unfortunately, went very well with the headline: The Boy-Who-Lived Went Dark?  

The phrase was stamped in huge, black letters above the picture, and Harry felt the tip of his ears inflame with rage as he started reading the article. Harry gripped the sides of the newspaper, paper crinkling under his fingers, as the article talked about his recent re-sorting in Slytherin, in the house of You-Know-Who, and wondered if it was a sign of him going dark, if they should be worried about a new dark lord arising. Harry smelled smoke, and when he looked at his hands, he noticed black tendrils of smoke rising from his fingers. He let go of the newspaper, black marks where his fingers had been, and rose from his seat, grabbing his bag and leaving the Hall with the gossiping students. 

He didn’t want to be there, where everyone now believed him to be a dark lord in training. He broke into a run, sprinting down the corridors without a purpose until he found himself outside. He fell back on the damp grass, panting and stared at the expanse of water in front of him, lost in thought. 

Harry would do anything to make it stop. To stop the gossip, the whispering and the glares. To go back in time and tell his parents not to choose Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper, to trust Sirius or Remus. He wouldn’t be sitting here, having to use a glamour to cover months of starvation and scars, having to deal with his stupid classmates and sadistic teachers. 

He’d do anything to get his parents back, to grow up with them, loved and unhurt, not to be gawked at, and not have people afraid that he was becoming dark just because he got sorted into the same House as the person who had tried to kill him and terrorised the wizarding world. He wasn’t the only Slytherin, though. Were they all evil, about to become dark lords? Harry felt guilty about the assumptions he had once participated in, about so vehemently turning down the Hat’s offer to place him in Slytherin in first year. He felt bad that he had listened to Hagrid’s prejudice back then. But like he had told Malfoy and the rest on the first night, he hadn’t known better then, at eleven. 

“Hey, little brother.” 

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when two bodies plopped down on either side of him. Harry flinched slightly when Fred threw an arm around his shoulder, but relaxed in the embrace when the seventh year pulled him closer. 

“How are you doing, Harry?”

“Fine,” Harry said. 

“Uh, uh, no lies, please.” 

Harry flinched at that, his right hand itching with the reminder. He rubbed the still slightly red spot where the letters had carved themselves, trying to soothe the phantom itch. George frowned at that, and Harry let his hand go, hiding the inflamed skin under his sleeve.

“I’m fine, really. Though you shouldn’t hang out with me. What will people say when they see you with the new dark lord?” Harry said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. 

George clicked his tongue. “Oh, you wound us,” he said with a gasp, bringing his hand to his chest. “We thought you’d take us as your first followers, Lord Harrikins.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“You’d make a much better dark lord, I’d wager,” Fred chimed in. “Lord Mouldyshorts should learn from you, really. What dark lord gets beaten by a one-year-old? And you’ve managed to fight him and survive, what, three times now?” 

Harry smiled tentatively at his friends. 

“But jokes aside, Harry. Don’t listen to them. They’ll make up anything to deny You-Know-Who’s back, and anyone who believes that garbage is, in Snape’s oh-so-wise words, a dunderheaded fool,” Fred said. 

“Your friends know who you are,” George added. “And eventually, the truth will stare right back at them, and they’ll be the ones feeling like a fool.”

“But anyway, onto more important matters. How’s life as a snake? Any secrets that you want to share with us? Anyone to add to our Prank List?” Fred changed the subject abruptly. 

Harry smiled at them and started retelling his first few days as a Slytherin, glossing over the sleepless nights and the real truth of his detentions. 

When the bell rang and Harry left for Herbology twenty minutes later, he felt lighter. Harry hoped the Weasley twins would always be in his life. He didn’t know what he’d do without them. 

Chapter Text

He hadn’t thought it possible, but Harry’s second detention with Umbridge was even worse than the first one. It hurt more on his already irritated skin, and the wound took longer to heal itself, and more blood trailed down his hand, travelling down his wrist and getting absorbed by his white sleeve. Harry winced. He’d have to try to get the blood stain out before it dried too much. He didn’t want to deal with people asking questions. He was almost glad for the practice that the Dursleys had given him, but—when he remembered that that experience came with bleeding wounds on his back and front, and eventual bloody noses from when Vernon forgot to avoid his face—he shook the thought away. 

The pain increased as the hours passed. Umbridge was looking at him with shark-like interest, and Harry wished she would stop. The sensation of being stared at by her beady eyes that reminded him so much of Aunt Petunia—who was so smug every time he got himself a punishment—was almost worse than the pain caused by the quill, but Harry kept his eyes to the parchment, watching as his messy handwriting appeared simultaneously on the parchment and his hand. 

Would all of her detentions be like this? Would she make other students carve words into their hands as well, or was this punishment reserved only for Harry? Harry hoped it was the latter. He did not want to think about eleven-year-olds spending six hours carving words into their skin. Harry could handle it, but even imagining first or second-year students cradling their aching hands and crying made his blood boil. 

He gripped the quill tightly, accidentally pushing down on the paper with more strength. He couldn’t contain his hiss of pain when the pain became sharper and the letter carved itself deeper into his hand. Blood flowed more freely from the deep wound, pooling on the desk, and Harry watched in satisfaction as it stained the pink cloth covering the desk. Harry hoped it would stain, and Umbridge wouldn’t be able to get it off. 

Harry left Umbridge’s office without so much as a goodbye. It was, once again, past midnight, and Harry sighed at the thought that he still had homework to do. He had to work on Snape’s essay if he didn’t want a detention with him, and Harry knew that he would get a Troll for it. He wasn’t particularly good at writing essays to begin with, but at midnight, when he was tired from classes and Umbridge’s torture session? His essay would never get even close to Snape’s standards. Harry only had to hope that the man wouldn’t humiliate him in front of the whole class again. He doubted that, however. He’d have to wonder if somebody was impersonating him if he didn’t take the chance to embarrass him when he had it. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities—after all, Barty Crouch Jr had been polyjuiced as Mad-Eye Moody all last year. It would make Harry question Dumbledore’s ability to recognise his own friends and staff, though.

Harry whispered the password to the empty wall, watching as the door to the Slytherin dorms materialised and swung open in front of him. He entered the common room and headed straight to his dorms, ignoring the few older students still talking quietly on the couches. 

Harry opened the door to his room carefully, trying not to make any noise. He didn’t want to wake Malfoy up and hear him complain about him disrupting his beauty sleep or whatever, but his attempts were in vain as he tripped on Zabini’s bag that he had laid carelessly in the middle of the floor and banged his knee on Zabini’s bed frame. He cursed, only remembering to lower his voice halfway through his long exclamation, and a bright light shone in his eyes a moment later. 

“Wha-?” Zabini muttered sleepily, lowering his wand when Harry moved a hand to cover his eyes. He heard ruffling as both Malfoy and Nott sat up in their beds. 

“What are you doing, Potter? We’re trying to sleep!” Malfoy hissed. Harry could see his glare even in the dark. 

“Sorry,” he apologised, rubbing his throbbing knee. He kicked the offending item lightly, pushing it closer to Zabini’s bed and out of the way. “I tripped.” 

“What were you doing up?” Malfoy asked suspiciously. “I hope you didn’t lose us any more points, Potter.” 

“Detention,” Harry said simply. He walked over to his bed, glad for the light that Zabini still had on, and grabbed his pyjamas. 

“Detention? It’s midnight!” Nott said. 

“Uh, yeah? I had detention until midnight yesterday, too. There just wasn’t anything on the floor to trip on,” Harry glared back at Zabini even though he probably couldn’t see him, “so you didn’t hear me come back.”

Harry went to the bathroom, changing as quickly as he could before returning to his bed. He grabbed his Potions book and closed the curtains around his bed with a flick of his wand. 

He dispelled his glamour there once he was hidden behind the curtains. He didn’t want to risk any of the others catching him without his glamours. Nott had come closer than he liked once before, and he didn’t want to risk it again when the boy might still be suspicious. 

He fell asleep at three thirty a.m., face lying on his Potions essay. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry dragged his feet all the way to the Great Hall, relying on muscle memory and the other Slytherins to lead him to the right place. Even though he had slept about the same amount of time as the previous day, Harry felt more tired than ever. His sleep was uneasy, broken by nightmares, though they weren’t bad enough to wake him up. Harry had almost left without putting on his glamours. Harry wished there was something he could do about these nightmares, but short of not sleeping at all—and he had done that, multiple times, but it was not a good solution at all—he didn’t know how he could fix it. The only times he slept without nightmares were when he was exhausted. Or when Madame Pomphrey had given him some Dreamless Sleep the nights he spent in the Hospital Wing, but once again, getting the potion would mean having to ask for it, and someone would know about the nightmares and ask questions he didn’t want to answer. 

But would it be so bad? 

He didn’t have to tell her about everything. He could lie, just say something vague about the graveyard, and not mention Cedric or Uncle Vernon at all. He was a Slytherin now. Maybe he could use this to practice the skills that the hat believed he had. And Madame Pomphrey was a nurse. Muggle doctors had to respect doctor-patient confidentiality. It would make sense for her to be bound to that as well. It wasn’t like keeping it a secret would harm anyone. 

Harry decided that he would think about it more and sat at his place. He didn’t even have time to set his bag down before he was accosted by two older Slytherins.

“Potter,” the slightly shorter one said. Harry turned to face him. He didn’t know many Slytherins who were not in his year, but he recognised the two of them. Graham Montague, the one who spoke, and Adrian Pucey. They both played chasers for the Slytherin team, and Harry could see the Quidditch Captain badge pinned under the Slytherin crest of Montague’s robes. 

“Can I help you?” Harry asked after a second too much of awkward silence. He looked between them, waiting for one of them to speak up. He frowned slightly at the other chaser. He was looking at Harry oddly, an emotion he couldn’t identify in his eyes as he swept them over Harry’s body before he met Harry’s eyes. Harry broke eye contact and looked at Montague instead. 

“Tryouts are Sunday at eleven a.m.,” the Quidditch Captain told him. Harry raised an eyebrow. What did that have to do with him? Harry was a seeker, and they already had one. 

“I play seeker,” Harry reminded him, glancing briefly at Malfoy, who was pretending not to be listening to the conversation with a scowl on his face. “Don’t you already have one?”

“You’re the youngest seeker in a century,” Montague said. “And you have only lost a match once—and that wasn’t your fault, loath as we are to admit it. We wouldn’t be Slytherins if we didn’t take the opportunity.” 

Harry turned his eyes to Malfoy again. The boy had dropped any pretence that he wasn’t eavesdropping and was openly glaring at Harry and the two Quidditch players. 

“I don’t think Malfoy would appreciate me taking his place,” Harry told them, nodding at the fifth-year Slytherin.

Montague glanced at the boy. “Malfoy has the chance to keep his spot,” he said. “He just has to beat you. Tryouts, Sunday, eleven o’clock. Malfoy, I expect you to be there as well.” 

Harry frowned, looking between the two seventh years standing up and the Slytherin seeker. “I’ll think about it,” he settled to say, turning back to the dishes in front of him. 

The Slytherin Captain nodded and walked away to join his friends. 

Malfoy sneered at him and hastily grabbed his bag, running off to probably sulk somewhere. Harry sighed. So much for getting along. Malfoy would never be civil if he stole his precious seeker spot from under his nose, even if Malfoy Sr. had probably bribed Flint to put his son on the team with new brooms for the whole team. 

Harry didn’t know what to do.

On one hand, he didn’t want to give Malfoy another reason to hate him, to fight, and it wouldn’t be particularly fair if he just took his place out of nowhere, even if he won it by beating him fair and square during tryouts. And if he got on the Slytherin team, he’d have to play against Gryffindor, against his old team and friends. Would they ever forgive him if he played for the enemy?

On the other hand, Harry missed playing Quidditch. It’d give him a chance to be in the air again, chasing after the snitch. It’d give him back the normalcy that he so desperately craved. He could be Harry the Seeker and not Harry the Boy-Who-Lived, even if it was just for match days.

So, no, Harry had no idea if he would take Montague up on his offer. 

Harry glanced at the Gryffindor table where Hermione was discussing something with Ron. Maybe they’d be able to give him advice.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

After a dreadful class with Umbridge, Harry approached his best friends before they could run off, leading them to an empty classroom nearby. 

“I need your help,” he said after closing the door behind him and jumping on a desk near the back of the room. Ron and Hermione were in front of him, Hermione sitting in a chair while Ron stood, leaning backwards on the wall.

“Montague asked me to try out for the seeker position on Sunday,” Harry explained, once he had his friends’ attention. “I don’t know what to do.”

Ron frowned. “Did Malfoy quit the team?” 

Harry shook his head. “No, Montague said something about being Slytherin and taking opportunities. He thinks they have better chances to win with me on the team, I think?” 

“You are better than Malfoy,” Ron said matter-of-factly. 

“But that’s the thing. They already have a seeker, I’d be kicking him out of the team if they choose me,” Harry voiced his doubts. Ron’s expression shifted to one of confusion. 

“So? You’d be playing that way. Don’t you want to? And he bought his way into the team.”

“Yeah, but it’s not fair to Malfoy, I guess… he’s already been on the team for three years, no matter how he got there.”

“Since when do we care about being fair to Malfoy? He’s a git!” Ron exclaimed. 

“Ron, Harry’s right,” Hermione interjected. “It wouldn’t be very fair to him.”

“And I don’t want to give him any more reasons to hate me,” Harry added. “I’m trying this ‘being civil’ thing with them, and Malfoy and I get into enough fights already without me taking his spot. I don’t want to imagine how it would be if I did. He was already angry at breakfast when Montague asked me. He stormed off.”

Harry paused, looking at his friends. “And if I got the spot, I’d have to play against Gryffindor. What would the team say? I’d be betraying them.”

“Professional Quidditch players switch teams all the time,” Ron reasoned. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“But…”

“Listen, mate, I think you shouldn’t care about Malfoy or what other people will think and try out,” Ron cut him off. “You miss Quidditch. You said so yourself just the other day.”

“Yeah, but…” 

“At least go to tryouts. You don’t have to make a decision immediately.”

“Ok,” Harry said. He was still not convinced, but Ron was right. It wouldn’t hurt to go to tryouts. He didn’t have to decide immediately if he wanted to be on the team, and he’d have the chance to fly around. And it wasn’t certain that he would get on the team. He was out of practice, not having flown since third year—he wasn’t counting the first task. Flying for Quidditch and flying to flee from an angry dragon were two completely different things—and he felt weaker from the little food he’d had in the past few months. 

Decision made, Harry chatted with the two until it was time to head to the dungeons for Potions.

Harry hoped Snape wouldn’t have a reason to take points and humiliate him this time. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“Invading our room wasn’t enough, Potter?” Malfoy sneered at him when Harry went back to his room after Transfiguration was over. He had two hours until dinner and then his detention with Umbridge, and he had gone back to his dorm to work on his homework before he had to leave. However, he wasn’t expecting Malfoy to be there with Nott. He thought they’d be hanging out with Parkinson and Zabini elsewhere, out in the grounds or in the library where they seemed to spend most of their time. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked tiredly, walking over to his bed and kicking off his shoes so that he could sit.

He wasn’t really in the mood for a confrontation. He was exhausted—he had a ton of homework to complete and a torture session to go to in less than three hours. Fighting with Malfoy was far from his preferred activity. 

“You’re not trying out.” Malfoy approached his bed, towering over Harry. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring daggers down at him. Harry wished he were standing up, not sitting on his bed, as he had to stare upwards to return the glare. 

“I’m doing whatever I want, Malfoy,” Harry said. “You can’t really stop me.”

“That spot is mine, Potter. I’ve been playing for Slytherin since my second year. You can’t just come strutting and claim what isn’t yours! This isn’t Gryffindor! I earned my place, and I will not let you take it!” 

“Earned it? Didn’t Daddy Dearest buy your way onto the team?” Harry sneered back. 

“He didn’t!” 

“What do you call the seven brand-new brooms he gifted to the Slytherin team in second year, then? They certainly looked like a bribe to me. I’m surprised that the son of the Death Eater who bribes his way into the Minister’s good graces doesn’t really know the definition of a bribe.”

“Shut up, Potter, you know nothing of what you’re talking about!” Malfoy took out his wand, pointing it at Harry. Nott quickly stood up from his bed, rushing to put himself between Malfoy and Harry. 

“Stop it, both of you,” he said, glaring at the two boys. 

Malfoy ignored him, pushing his friend out of the way so that he could have a clear view of Harry. “I earned my spot at tryouts like everyone else, and my father bought the brooms after I got on it as a congratulatory gift.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m meant to believe that?” Harry scoffed. 

“You’re acting like children,” Nott interrupted, but he didn’t stand between them again. 

Malfoy sent a stinging hex at Harry, hitting him right on a wound on Harry’s collarbone from Vernon’s belt. Harry winced as the slash flared with pain as the hex irritated his half-healed skin. 

“I was still thinking about whether I wanted to try out or not. It didn’t seem very fair, but now you can bet that I’ll be there,” Harry said. “We’ll see who the best one is.”

Harry gathered his books, not wanting to be in the same room as him anymore and left, bumping shoulders with Zabini, who was coming back to the room. Harry didn’t turn to apologise but instead dropped his books on the table in the fifth-year common room, dragging the chair back loudly. 

Any doubts Harry disappeared as he angrily pulled his Transfiguration book towards him and unrolled some parchment on the table to start McGonagall’s essay. Harry was going to try out for the seeker position. He was going to do his best and steal Malfoy’s place right under his nose, and there wasn’t anything the blond could do about it. Harry would make sure of it. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry felt lightheaded as he walked back to the dungeons at midnight. His right hand throbbed with pain, blood trickling copiously down his hand and falling to the floor as he walked. His last detention with Umbridge had been the worst one. The wound had stopped healing completely, causing the blood to flow freely. 

Harry had already been feeling lightheaded—he had not even started gaining back the weight lost during the summer and was even losing weight—and the blood loss from the quill made his head spin, the corner of his vision darkening as he walked along the corridors, the tip of his wand lit up in front of him. When a bad bout of dizziness caused him to stumble and almost fall on his arse, he started walking closer to the walls so he could rest if he got dizzy again. 

Harry was glad that his detentions were over. He didn’t want to spend another minute in that horrendous, pink office, and Harry would be ecstatic if he only saw Umbridge during her classes. Harry hoped the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position would take her out, too. If it didn’t, Harry might just have to take care of it himself. He was sure some Slytherin was willing to help him. That all Slytherins were evil was a stupid stereotype, but there must be some evil ones in there somewhere, someone willing to get rid of an annoying, equally evil toad. Maybe they’d take care of Snape as well while they were at it. No, he was their Head of House. Harry would be on his own for that. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Malfoy’s foul mood lingered throughout the weekend like a particularly nasty storm cloud, dark and ready to thunder every time they passed each other in the dorms or the corridors. Harry, whose mood was also soured by his aching hand, tried to avoid Malfoy like the plague, not wanting to start another fight with the blond. He was sure the next one, especially when Malfoy was this angry, would end up with one of them, or both, in the Hospital Wing. Harry hated the Hospital Wing. He did not want to go there, and so avoiding Malfoy it was. He took advantage of the Marauder’s Map, checking it to see where the boy was, and going in the opposite direction. He spent time studying with Ron and Hermione, dragging them out of the library and to an abandoned classroom whenever Malfoy’s dot on the Map approached them. 

Harry hoped the boy would cool down soon. It was tiring avoiding him, especially because they now slept in the same room, but he had endured it over the weekend, and now he was making his way to the Quidditch pitch, his Firebolt on his shoulder. Harry hoped his injured hand wouldn’t give him too many problems.

Harry changed into his old Quidditch uniform in the Slytherin changing rooms—he’d have to get a new uniform if he made the team, but that was all he had, and the Slytherins would have to accept that if they wanted him to try out. 

Once he was in his Gryffindor uniform, he grabbed his broom and approached the pitch, where Montague was standing with Pucey, Warrington, the other two chasers, and Bletchey, the keeper. He was the first of the people trying out, and Harry cursed his luck. Now, he’d have to stand there awkwardly with four older Slytherins that he hadn’t really interacted with outside of Quidditch matches. 

He wished he hadn’t turned down Ron and Hermione’s offer to come to tryouts. He didn’t think the Slytherins would appreciate him bringing two Gryffindors there, so he had told them that he would meet with them later, but now he was alone, without anybody to talk to. Harry wondered when the others would arrive. He wanted to get this over with, get on his broom, catch the snitch, and show Malfoy who the better seeker was. 

As if they’d heard the summons, other Slytherins approached the pitch, Malfoy in the lead. He still looked angry as he walked towards them, and he was flanked by two equally angry Crabbe and Goyle. Harry saw from his periphery that Zabini, Nott, and Parkinson climbed on the audience’s bleachers, probably there to root for Malfoy and his two bodyguards. 

Once Montague decided that everyone was there, he made them line up in front of him, divided by the role they were trying out for.

There weren’t many people there. Crabbe and Goyle, plus three more students that Harry didn’t know—not very surprising, Harry barely paid attention to the students in his year, with a few exceptions for Quidditch players—lined up on the right to try out for the two Beater positions available. Harry and Malfoy stood side by side on the left as the only seekers trying out. 

Harry flew around the pitch to warm up while he waited for the Beater tryouts to be done. Harry kept an eye on the players, both to see how they were faring, and to dodge the stray bludgers that sometimes found their way towards him. Harry thought Crabbe and Goyle were aiming at him on purpose after the third bludger that barely missed him. 

The other three trying out for beaters weren’t particularly good. One of them was a scrawny third-year student. His arms looked like twigs, and the bat seemed massive when he held it. He didn’t think he’d make a very good beater, but he’d make a good seeker when Harry or Malfoy, whoever won, graduated. The other two—both were fourth years, Harry thought—were burlier and held the bat more confidently, but they didn’t come close to Crabbe and Goyle, who towered over the three of them. They were packed with muscle, and they reminded Harry of Dudley. They weren’t the best Beaters—the two fourth years had better aim—but their brute strength made up for their lack of aiming skills, and it wasn’t anything that a bit of practice couldn’t fix. And from what Harry had learned from playing against Slytherin, the team valued strength, so the two fifth years had a great chance of making the team. 

As Harry predicted, Montague announced Crabbe and Goyle as the new beaters and sent the other three hopefuls away before calling out to Harry and Malfoy to come. 

He took out the practice snitch, which would come back when summoned, unlike the real one, and laid out the rules. They’d do a few seeker’s games, at first without any bludgers, but after a while, they’d introduce them to make it harder and simulate a real game. 

Harry flew into position, eyes glued to the golden ball as Montague released it. The snitch was fast, though, and both he and Malfoy lost track of it. 

Harry rose higher to get a better view of the pitch, doing lazy laps around. Malfoy stayed lower to the ground, eyes darting everywhere, glaring up at Harry whenever their eyes met while searching. 

After a while, Malfoy joined him higher in the sky, flying closer to Harry. Harry narrowed his eyes at a glint of gold near the stands, but he realised that it was only the sun reflecting on someone’s watch. 

Bored and with the snitch still nowhere to be seen, Harry angled his broom downwards and shot towards the ground. He flattened himself on his broom to gain speed and watched as the grass became increasingly closer. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Malfoy was hot on his tail. 

Before he could crash to the ground—he probably could’ve gone a few more meters, but he didn’t want to risk it just for a tryout, and he didn’t want Malfoy to potentially hurt himself; Malfoy might be a git, but he didn’t want to get the spot only because Malfoy got injured because of him—he pulled out of the dive, slowing down slightly, but not enough to give Malfoy time to catch up with him. 

As he was rising, he saw the familiar glint flying near the goal hoops—this time, there was no doubt it was the actual snitch—and shot off towards it. Malfoy had just recovered from Harry’s Wronski Feint and was not close enough. Harry was completely free to wrap his hand around the small ball. 

He brought the snitch back to Montague with a victorious smile, though it faltered slightly when he saw Malfoy’s thunderous expression. 

Montague made them play three other games—two won by Harry again, while Malfoy caught the snitch during the last one—before he told Crabbe and Goyle to join them in the air with one of the bludgers. 

Harry won the first game, but he wasn’t so lucky in the last two. Crabbe and Goyle clearly favoured Malfoy and wanted him to win, so they doubled their efforts on Harry, only occasionally throwing one in Malfoy’s direction, and Harry lost the last two games, too worried about not breaking his bones to look for the golden snitch. Harry thought it wasn’t particularly fair, but Malfoy was their friend, and Slytherins weren’t exactly known for their unwavering morals and fair ways. Harry had still won four games out of seven, though, so he wasn’t too worried about it.

The four of them landed in front of the other Quidditch players. 

“Potter’s won more games, so he’s got the spot,” Montague announced. “You need new Quidditch robes.”

“This is ridiculous!” Malfoy snarled. “I’ve played for the team for two years! You can’t just cast me aside because the Golden Boy has to get everything!”

“We have lost every game against Gryffindor since Potter got on the team. We want to win, so you’re going to have to deal with it.”

Malfoy glared at Harry, bumping harshly on his shoulder as he walked past him to get off the pitch, quickly followed by the two new beaters. Harry barely held a wince and the urge to rub his aching shoulder. 

“Welcome to the team, Potter.” 

Harry murmured a thank you and walked off, going back to the changing rooms. Harry expected to find Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle there and dreaded the confrontation, but they were blessedly empty. 

He removed his arms, legs and chest guards, placing them in his bag and taking out his change of clothes. He thought he’d go back to the dorms for a shower, but Malfoy was probably there to take his own shower, and Harry didn’t want to see him just yet, so he opted to use the showers in the changing room, seeing as he was alone. 

As he walked towards the shower stalls, he heard the door to the changing room open and footsteps approach him. 

He swivelled around to see who had entered the room and met the boy’s hazel eyes. He was giving Harry the same odd look from Thursday morning, and Harry felt unease building in his stomach. 

The chaser’s lips turned up in a smirk as he looked at Harry. He walked closer to Harry, who took a step backwards to put more distance between them. Harry didn’t like the feeling the boy was giving him, nor did he like the smirk that didn’t leave his face.

“I must give you my congratulations, Harry,” Adrian Pucey said.

Chapter Text

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Pucey’s smile became softer, eyes trailing down Harry’s body with a hungry gleam in his eyes. Harry swallowed down the lump forming in his throat. His eyes darted to the door, but the older boy was blocking it. 

“You were amazing up there, Harry.” Pucey took another step forward, and Harry stumbled backwards. He wondered when he had become Harry. Every Slytherin called him by his last name, and he wasn’t sure he liked his name out of the boy’s lips. “You looked good as well.” 

The boy was still advancing on him. Harry clutched his clothes tighter in his hand, glancing at the door again. He didn’t know what Pucey wanted, but his gut told him that it wasn’t anything good. He trusted his gut as it had rarely driven him wrong. He didn’t like the look on Pucey’s face or the way he was slowly backing him up into a corner. Harry cursed himself for putting himself in this position. He should’ve just braved his dorms and faced Malfoy. At least the blond wasn’t an unknown. He knew how to deal with him, and he could make sure there were other witnesses around so the fight wouldn’t get too bad. 

But he didn’t know Pucey. He didn’t know what was going on in his mind, how he would react, or how to fight him and win. His wand was in his bag, too far away to reach, and Harry did not know wandless magic. 

He wondered if he’d be able to run past him and get out. He was quick. He knew that from summers spent running away from Dudley, but Pucey was fit, unlike Dudley. He’d be able to keep up with Harry, and usually, when running away from Dudley and his gang, he wasn’t cornered like this. It was outside, where he could hide in the side alleys. 

“I can’t wait to see you in our robes,” Pucey said. “I know they’ll look so good on you.” 

Harry’s back hit the wall, and the boy’s smile widened imperceptibly, but Harry, who was trained to notice every change of Uncle Vernon’s mood, saw it, and the pit of anxiety forming in his stomach grew. 

The chaser was now in front of him, close enough to touch. He was tall and towered menacingly over him. The boy raised an arm, and Harry flinched back, trying to lean away from his touch as much as possible as he grazed his fingers on his cheek. Shivers ran down Harry’s back at the unwanted touch, and Harry froze, dread growing in his gut. He wanted to close his eyes, to will himself anywhere but there, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the boy. 

“But I’m sure you’d look even better with the robes off, sweetheart. Why don’t I help you?” 

Pucey’s hand trailed down his cheek to his neck and then down his collarbone. He caressed his chest until he reached the hem of his Quidditch sweater. As the boy started lifting it, Harry unfroze, shaking off the trance he had fallen into and pushed the boy back with all his strength. Pucey didn’t hesitate to bridge the gap that had formed between them, but Harry now had gained enough space to move, and he punched the older boy in the jaw, causing him to stumble back and bring his hand to his bleeding nose. 

Harry didn’t waste any time and made a run for the door, giving the boy a wide berth as he ran past him, but when he reached the door, he found it locked. 

“Petrificus Totalus! ” He heard the shout behind him. The spell hit him so fast that he didn’t have time to dodge, and his body went rigid, falling face-first against the door. He heard Pucey walking towards him. He gripped his shoulder and turned him around, making him lean against the door. 

Harry’s heart started beating hard against his chest. He kept his eyes trained on the smirking boy, who resumed his caresses on Harry’s cheek. His eyes had taken a predatory gleam, pupils blown as he ran his hands down Harry’s chest, creeping down to his waist. 

“You cannot escape, beautiful.” Pucey leaned down on him and purred the words into his ear. Then he pressed kisses down his neck, his breath warm on his skin. As he got reached the curve between his neck and shoulder, he pulled down the collar of his sweater, he bit down harshly, teeth digging in his skin, and then he sucked at the spot. Harry tried to tell him to stop, but his mouth didn’t obey under the influence of the spell. The word came out as a whimper, which was not what Harry wanted. Just like Umbridge, he didn’t want to show weakness to the boy. He didn’t want to let him know he was scared. The Slytherin would revel in his fear. He would taunt him. Harry could handle it. He had survived his uncle and Umbridge’s weird quill. He would survive this. 

“The Dark Lord doesn’t want us to kill you,” Pucey spoke as he peeled away his sweater, manipulating his body so that he could get it off without taking off the spell. “It’s a shame, really. It would’ve been so easy with you in our House, but we must respect our Lord’s wishes. He’s wise, and He knows best. But he hasn’t said anything about toying with you.” 

Pucey trailed kisses down his bare chest, sucking on a few spots. Harry felt his stomach churn in disgust. He stared at a spot on the wall, doing his best not to look down at the boy. He felt hot tears form in his eyes as the boy undid his zipper and his trousers pooled down at his feet, leaving him in only his boxers. 

“I’m going to have so much fun breaking you, Golden Boy,” he purred. “My Lord will be so pleased with me. You will be so broken that He will have no problem doing away with you, and my family will rise above the others.” 

Pucey Vanished his own clothes with a flick of his wand, sending them folded on the bench, while Harry’s clothes lay discarded on the floor. He then slipped his finger under the elastic of his boxers, rubbing the skin on his hip and causing a shiver to run down Harry’s body. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he almost choked as he tried to swallow it down.

As soon as his boxers came off and Pucey’s hand trailed down, the first of Harry’s tears betrayed him and traced a path down his cheek. The boy licked the liquid off his face, smirking at the sight of tears. “You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it.”

Harry tried to push what was happening to the back of his mind, drowning out his voice and his hands on his body, touching everything as if it were his, but he couldn’t sink back into his mind like he did during Vernon’s punishments. His body was betraying him, feeling physical pleasure, but at the same time, his skin felt like burning under his touch. 

He cried out as the boy sank to his knees, and Harry wished he could disappear. The tears fell on his cheeks faster, sobs breaking out from his lips, and his body started to shake as the spell that was keeping him immobile faded. “Please, stop,” Harry cried out, once he was able to. He was trembling, and even though the spell wasn’t on him anymore, he felt rooted to the spot. 

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see anything anymore, as the older boy sucked him, hands holding on to his thighs in a bruising grip. Harry tried to plead with him to stop, but the boy only laughed cruelly, digging his nails deeper into his skin.

Harry finally managed to slip back into his mind, immersing himself in one of his best memories and letting the numbness overcome him when Pucey forcibly turned him around.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

When Harry came to, he was alone, sprawled out on his stomach on the floor of the Slytherin changing room. For a minute, he didn’t know what had happened, how he had gotten there, but then the memories came rushing back. 

He closed his eyes as if it would stop the memories replaying in front of him. He could still feel phantom touches, his mouth sucking on his skin, and he became very aware that he was still lying naked on the floor. 

He was still shaking when he tried to get up, mindful of the pain as he twisted around in a sitting position. He sat there for a moment, struggling to breathe through the panic that had taken hold of his body. His lungs felt constricted, as if there was a hand wrapped around them, squeezing and cutting off his air supply. His breaths came in short, broken puffs, alternating with sobs that Harry could not stop, no matter how hard he tried. 

He pointedly didn’t look down at his body. He didn’t want to see the bruises or any more evidence of what Pucey had done. The feeling of his hands on him, the echo of his laughter and cruel words in his mind were enough. 

He was shivering badly, though he didn’t know if it was because he was panicking or because it was cold. When he saw that the panic wasn’t subsiding, that the sound of his frantic heartbeat in his chest was still drowning out any other sound and that he was getting lightheaded from the lack of air, he rose to his feet, stumbling slightly when a wave of dizziness hit him. 

He blinked away the dark spots clouding his vision, and he walked back to where his bag lay discarded on the bench. He looked for his clothes, glaring at his useless wand that he had stupidly left there, but he couldn’t find them. Then he remembered through the haze of panic that he had dropped them when Pucey attacked him and went back to the shower stalls, ignoring the way the hand around his lungs tightened and the dizziness returned, making his ears ring. 

He picked up the clothes with trembling fingers, fighting to get his hand to close around the fabric. He looked at the showers, remembering that he was supposed to take a shower, but the thought of standing there naked made the shivers worse, and it made Pucey’s face resurface in his mind. With that thought, he got dressed as quickly as possible, wanting to be out of there. 

He grabbed the bag from the bench and then turned towards the door. He froze as he saw his Quidditch uniform lying on the floor. He glared at the offending item, remembering how the boy had peeled it off his body slowly, dragging it out, while he simply Vanished his own clothes. 

He kicked at the clothing until his trousers, his sweater and his boxers were all in a pile and took out his wand. 

“Incendio!”

He watched the fire consume the fabric, waiting until the very last bit had turned to ash before extinguishing the flames. With a flick of his wand, he Vanished the ashes. Still gripping his wand—he’d never go anywhere without it again, and he felt stupid for letting his guard down—he left the changing room, vowing never to set foot there again.

The panic subsided slightly as the cold air hit him and the door closed behind him. His pulse was still racing, and his breaths were still coming short, but he had left the oppressive air of the changing room. He wasn’t stuck there again, with no way to escape, so he let the numbness take over as he walked back to his dorms. He tried to push everything to the back of his mind now that he was out of the changing room, working on calming his racing heart and his breath. For now, he was walking alone, but he’d soon get to the castle, which would be crowded. 

He didn’t know how long he’d spent there, but he thought it was around lunchtime. Hopefully, everyone was still in the Great Hall eating, and he wouldn’t have to run into anyone.  

He entered the castle, turning towards the dungeons, but he was intercepted before he could. 

“Hiya, Harry!” came a familiar voice from behind. He tried to walk faster as he heard footsteps closing in on him, his hands shaking at his sides. He closed his hands in a fist, digging his nails into his palms. The sharp pain made the cloud of panic retreat slightly, but he flinched back violently as an arm was swung over his shoulders. 

He turned to face Fred, the one who had thrown his arm around him. The boy looked over him, frowning with growing concern as he took in his dishevelled appearance. His hair was messier than usual, ends sticking out everywhere, and he had thrown his clothes on without particular care. He looked down and winced as he saw that he had put his t-shirt on backwards. He didn’t want to know how his face looked, but it must be bad from the look of pure concern that both twins were giving him. The serious expressions didn’t look good on the usually cheerful boys.

“Harry,” Fred started slowly. “Are you ok? You don’t look good at all, mate.”

“I’m—I’m fine,” he said, his shaky voice betraying him. 

“You’re not. Are you crying?” George took a step towards him, raising his arm to touch his arm. He probably meant to comfort him, but Harry stepped back and away from his touch. Harry brought a hand to his cheek to find that he was still crying, and he wiped off his cheeks hurriedly, in horror at having been found crying.

The two boys looked at each other. 

“Harry, did something happen?” Fred said gently. 

Harry shook his head firmly. He felt his hands roaming on his body, squeezing him and stroking him. He didn’t want them to know. He felt dirty, weak —‘You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it’ echoed in his mind—and he didn’t want them to know that he was contaminated. That he had just lain there, frozen on the floor and let Pucey do whatever he wanted to him. 

“No, no. Nothing happened,” he said. “I’m fine, guys. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

He gave them a small, strained smile that did nothing to convince them, and he could see it from the worry still written plainly on his face. 

“Harry…” 

“I’m ok, guys. I’ll be ok. Just—just drop it. I need to take a shower and—and I need to be alone,” he said. “I’ll see you guys.”

Harry ran off before they could say anything else, leaving them standing in the corridor and looking at his retreating form worriedly. 

Harry hoped the fifth-year dorm would be empty, but when he got there, Malfoy was sitting on the couch, surrounded by Nott, Zabini, and Parkinson. 

The four of them turned to look towards him when they heard him, and he scrambled to get to their room before they could start a confrontation. That was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t think he’d be able to get through a fight without spiralling into panic again. 

He locked the door with the strongest locking charm he could manage, and sure enough, he heard someone—probably Malfoy, come to beat him up for stealing his place—struggling to open the door. 

Harry ignored it and the lump forming in his throat at the thought of being cornered again and escaped to the bathroom, using another locking charm on the door. 

He jumped into the shower, undressing quickly without looking at his reflection, and he set his wand on the shower shelf before turning on the water and letting it cascade down his body. 

The water felt nice against his aching body, but there was a downside. He was alone, and the shower was the perfect place to let his thoughts wander. He shut his eyes hard as Pucey’s smirking face came back to him. His body tingled as he felt his hands digging into the skin, scratching his hips and thighs. He felt his teeth sink into his neck, his tongue licking his sweaty skin.

Harry turned the knob, and water became scalding. He poured half the bottle of body wash on his body, scrubbing hard on his skin to get rid of his touch, of the sensation of his hands and mouth still on him. 

He rubbed his body until he was sure any dried liquid from the other boy had been washed away completely. His skin was red and raw when he stopped, but his body still didn’t feel clean enough. He was exhausted, though, and he slid down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest as violent sobs wracked his body.

He couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d heard of a third-year girl in Hufflepuff being molested by an older student when he was in his second year, but he hadn’t paid much thought to it. It had felt distant at the time. He remembered feeling sorry for the girl when he’d heard of it, but he was twelve and didn’t really understand the implications. He’d never entertained the thought that it was something that could happen to him, that he’d have to fear it, but now it did. And he didn’t know what to do. 

How could he go on when he had been violated like this? Would he always feel the ghost of his touch on his body? Would he remember his face everywhere he went? 

Would everyone look at him and be able to tell he has been used, thrown around, and played with like he was a doll? Would they think he was dirty if they knew? Would they think him weak? 

‘You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it.’ 

Those words swirled in his mind, wrapping around his every thought. He couldn’t help but think it was true. 

He was weak.

How else would he explain how he had let people walk all over him? He had let Uncle Vernon use his body as a punching bag, to take his frustrations out on him and punish him for things he hadn’t done. He had let Umbridge watch as he carved words into his hand with her quill. And he had allowed Pucey to corner him, to touch him and to use his body however he liked.

How could he call himself a wizard if he couldn’t even defend himself? 

Would they even believe him if he told? Would they do anything? 

It’d never worked out for him. He’d tried to tell a teacher in elementary school, but the Dursleys had talked themselves out of the accusations and turned the blame on him. They’d been so mad once the investigation was over. He’d spent a week in his cupboard, only leaving it to go to school, with only lunch to sustain him. That teacher never believed anything he said after that, and he became a liar and an attention-seeking, no-good kid to her, too.

And when he’d tried to ask Dumbledore if he could stay at Hogwarts over the summers, when he’d told him that his relatives hated him, the man had just given him a spiel about families loving each other and that he was safe at Privet Drive. Even Mrs Weasley had done nothing when the twins and Ron had told her about the bars on his windows and that they were starving him. 

Nobody ever did anything. He didn’t think it’d be any different now, especially because it was another student who had hurt him. The girl who’d been assaulted was younger and innocent. He was older, he was supposed to be strong. He should be able to handle it.

Harry did wonder what they saw in him that made them want to hurt him. Was there something wrong with him? Was there something about him that screamed ‘touch me’, ‘hurt me’, ‘break me’? Had he done something wrong?

Maybe this was punishment for Cedric, for letting someone so good die. He had been weak then, too. If he’d been stronger, quicker, he could’ve saved him, shoved him out of the way, killed Wormtail before he had the chance to kill Cedric. Or he could’ve at least prevented him from performing the ritual and bringing Voldemort back to life. He could’ve killed Voldemort there if he’d been stronger and smarter. 

But it had happened, and Harry was paying a price he never wanted to pay. He wished he’d pushed Cedric out of the way and taken the curse himself. They would still have Cedric, Hogwarts’ pride and joy, and they’d be rid of someone like him. Someone so dirty and useless. 

He didn’t know how long he’d spent under the hot stream of water. He had become desensitised to the scalding water, not caring how it irritated his healing wounds, but he decided to get out of the shower anyway. 

He turned the water off, stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Water droplets dripped down his body to the floor, but Harry didn’t care that he was getting water all over the place. 

He hesitated before stepping in front of the mirror, and when he saw his reflection, he wished he’d just gotten dressed without looking at himself. 

His glamour had accidentally fallen while he was in the shower, revealing the mass of fresh and almost healed bruises and reddened skin from his attempts at cleaning his body. Vernon’s bruises had faded a lot in the past week, and they were now turning yellow. The belt marks were now almost closed, and Harry hoped the scars would disappear. 

Even though he had eaten throughout the week, he hadn’t gained much weight. 

Harry’s eyes, however, focused on the fresh bruises. His chest was littered with hickeys and bite marks. They trailed down to his waist and disappeared under the towel. Harry could see finger prints poking out of the white towel and he imagined that the bruises continued down to his thighs. 

Harry felt bile rise in his throat, and he turned around sharply, falling on his knees in front of the toilet as he threw up his breakfast.

After brushing his teeth, Harry quickly got dressed and made his way to his bed. He unlocked the door to the room in case his roommates needed to come back to the room and pulled the curtains around his bed shut, hoping that they would stay closed and that it would be enough to deter the other boys from bothering him. 

After that, he hid himself under his bed sheets, holding the duvet up to his nose, and stayed there for the rest of the day, staring blankly at the curtain and wishing that the memories would stop playing in his head. He didn’t know how he would sleep ever again. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“Come here, you freak!” Uncle Vernon shouted. His voice sounded distorted, as if Harry was listening to it with his head under water. 

Harry felt his legs move, to run away from his uncle, who was right behind him, belt wrapped around his hand with the buckle dangling down. Harry didn’t look back to see how far behind his uncle was, but he tripped on his shoelaces, falling to the floor. 

His uncle was on him immediately, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around. He placed his foot on Harry’s windpipe, cutting off his air, and Harry struggled to breathe, clawing at his uncle’s ankle to get him to raise his foot. 

“You’re a freak,” he said. “We’ve always told you that, and now you’re a dirty freak.”

He raised the buckle high above his head and then brought it down on Harry. Sharp pain erupted in his lower body, where Uncle Vernon had hit him. Harry closed his eyes and tried to shut the blinding pain out. 

“Everybody can see how dirty you are, what a freak you are. You can’t escape it,” his uncle continued his speech while hitting him with his belt. 

“You deserve this, freak. There’s no point in crying. You killed Cedric and your parents, and we got stuck with you. You see what we’ve got to put up with? What we’ve had to endure since you were dropped on our doorstep?”

Vernon threw him a disgusted glare. 

“We’ve been so good to you, we’ve done everything for you, but the only thing you do for us is contaminate our house with your freakishness, with your dirt.” He was panting now as he brought down the belt again, hitting his stomach. “You deserved it, and you know it.” 

When Harry opened his eyes, Uncle Vernon wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t at Privet Drive, but in the changing room. Pucey was towering over his prone body, a terrible grin on his face as he looked at his suddenly naked and bruised body. 

“Hello, Harry,” he purred. “Are you ready to have some fun?” 

His voice was smooth and deep, and it grated on Harry’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. 

“You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it,” Pucey laughed. He was joined by a cold laugh that Harry recognised. Soon, Voldemort stood beside the boy, watching as the chaser played with his body. 

Harry tried to scramble back, but he was frozen in his spot. Pucey’s face blurred, but when it went back into focus, Harry met Cedric’s pale blue eyes. The boy’s usual smile turned into a sneer as he saw Harry under him. “It’s your fault, you filthy, useless murderer.”

Voldemort raised his wand, pointed it at Cedric and hit the boy with a flash of green light. Cedric’s body fell on him, and he was forced to stare at his dead eyes. 

Harry woke up with a sob, shooting up from his bed. His face was wet with tears, his hair was messy from tossing around, and he was sweating again, even after his shower. 

He swallowed down his sob and checked the time. It was eight p.m., and Harry wanted to cry at the prospect of a full night spent avoiding sleep or stuck in nightmares. 

After the shower, he had lain on his bed, staring at nothing in particular for a few hours before his body had given out from exhaustion, and he had fallen asleep.

The thought of having another nightmare was what brought him to get up from his bed. He went back to the bathroom to apply his glamour once again, and then he grabbed his invisibility cloak. He stuffed it in his bag and then left the Slytherin dorms. 

As soon as he was outside, he made sure nobody was there and then draped the cloak around his body. He wanted to make sure that nobody saw him, especially his friends. 

He made his way to the Hospital Wing, ducking inside an alcove near the infirmary to remove the cloak, and then knocked on the door. 

He went inside once Madame Pomphrey answered and greeted the nurse with a small smile. He pushed down everything he was feeling—he was scared that the woman would read right through him, that he wouldn’t believe him and would find out the truth about the Dursleys and Pucey, and he couldn’t allow it. He didn’t want anyone to find out how dirty and weak he was. It was bad enough that Pucey knew it and that the twins had seen him in that state. No, Madame Pomphrey couldn’t know.

“What are you doing here, Mr Potter? Have you injured yourself?” the woman said, leading him to a bed. 

“No, ma’am. I’m fine,” he said. “I was wondering if I could have some Dreamless Sleep. I’ve been having nightmares about—about the graveyard.” 

“Why haven’t you come to me before, Mr Potter?” the matron gave him a disappointed look. 

“I thought I could handle it by myself, but—but they’ve gotten worse, and I’m afraid that it will interfere with school,” he answered.

“Alright, dear, wait here for a second.” 

The matron went to the back of the wing and disappeared into a cupboard, reappearing with a black velvet pouch. 

“Here you go, dear,” she said, handing it to him with a comforting smile. “No more than three times a week, though. They’re addictive, and it’s not good to use them for a prolonged period of time. These should last you for about three weeks. Come back to me in a month, and we’ll see if the nightmares haven’t gone away.” 

Harry thanked her, clutching the Dreamless Sleep to his chest. 

“Now, off you go, dear. You look tired.”

Madame Pomphrey shooed him off, and Harry left, making his way back to the dorms under his cloak. 

Harry took the Dreamless Sleep as soon as he was back behind his curtains in his pyjamas, and in a few seconds, he closed his eyes, falling into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Potter was insufferable. 

Draco had known that since the very first day, when he’d offered his hand in friendship and been rejected for a Weasley. 

He’d known it when Potter strutted around the castle, bending rules without consequence, when he’d been made the Gryffindor Seeker in first year—even though first-years weren’t even allowed their own brooms.

He’d known it when the House Cup had been stolen from right under their noses at the last minute, back in first year.

And he’d known it last week, when the hat shouted ‘Slytherin’, condemning him to three long years of sharing a dorm with the boy he disliked so much.

Only a week had passed since Potter had moved to the Slytherin dorms, and Draco had already had enough of the boy, his clumsiness, his inability to follow the rules and keep his head down. He’d had enough of staring at the bird nest that he had for hair. 

Potter was insufferable, and he’d been reminded of the fact when the Gryffindor—he refused to call him anything else; he was a disgrace to Slytherin and didn’t deserve such a noble title—snatched his seeker position that he’d worked so hard for after barely a week in his House. 

Potter was insufferable, and if anyone else asked him where the prat was one more time, he was going to hex their tongues off.

Draco stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork, glaring at the meat on his plate. 

“What has the chicken done to you, darling?” Pansy asked him with an amused smile. 

“Nothing,” he murmured. “I’m just sick of Potter.”

“Potter’s not even here,” Theo pointed out. 

“Exactly. I’m sick of people asking us where he is as if we’d know. We’re not his nannies. It’s always Potter this, Potter that. Just bloody shut up about the prat!” 

Potter had not shown up for breakfast. At first, they thought he’d simply slept in, but then he was missing in both their morning classes, and he still had not shown his face. Draco and the others had repeatedly been questioned about his whereabouts, firstly by Professor McGonagall, then Professor Snape, and Potter’s Gryffindor fans. Granger and Weasley had been particularly insistent in their questions, saying that they were supposed to meet with the Golden Boy yesterday, but he’d stood them up. 

“Still mad about the tryouts?” Pansy asked, voice turning serious. 

“Yes, I can’t believe Potter stole my spot,” he seethed. “He just has to get everything, doesn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, darling. If you want to get even, we’ll help you.” Pansy patted his arm, and Theo nodded along. 

“I wanted to play nice with him, but stealing your place like that wasn’t cool,” the boy said. 

“Thanks, darlings.”

Draco took another bite of the chicken and then slid over closer to Theo to leave a space for Blaise, but the boy waved at them and walked farther along the table, stopping where Montague was sitting with his friends. He gave the Quidditch Captain a folded note, which Montague took with a nod, and then walked back to them, taking the spot Draco had freed for him. 

“What was that about?” Draco questioned, raising an eyebrow at the dark-skinned boy. 

“I went back to the dorms to get my Divination book and saw Potter. He’s asked me to pass a note to Montague,” Blaise explained. 

“What does the note say?” he asked him, but Blaise didn’t have the chance to answer as Draco’s name was called. 

He turned around to see Montague standing behind him, a small scowl on his face and clutching Potter’s note in his hand. 

“You’re back on the team,” the Captain said. “Potter turned down the position.” 

Montague held out the note for him, and Draco took it with a frown, opening it. 

I can’t be on the team. Give the spot back to Malfoy. I’m sorry. 

Harry Potter.

He scoffed as he read the short message, handing the note back to the older boy. Montague walked away after telling him to be at practice the next day after dinner. 

“Did you threaten Potter to give you back your place?” Theo asked, once they were alone. 

“No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since he came back to the dorms after the tryouts.”

“We didn’t see him either. I wonder what he was doing after the tryouts were done. He disappeared for two hours, and it didn’t look like he was taking a shower in the changing room. Granger and the Weasel said they were supposed to see him after, but he never showed up,” Blaise added. 

“Who cares?” Draco waved his hand in the air. “What I want to know is why he humiliated me if he was going to turn down the offer.” 

He scowled at the thought. He wasn’t going to let Potter get away with it. He’d pay for the humiliation he’d felt when Montague announced Potter as the new seeker. 

He’d have the last laugh, and he would learn not to mess with him and what was his. 

He’d promised Blaise and Theo that he’d act civil. He had tried even though it was impossible, but enough was enough. Malfoys didn’t let themselves be humiliated. 

His fork clattered on his plate as he dropped it. He grabbed his bag and got up from the bench. 

“Where are you going, Draco?” Pansy asked. “You’re not done eating.” 

“Potter and I need to have a chat,” he said. 

“I’m coming with you,” Theo told him as he got up as well. 

“There’s no need.”

“Somebody’s got to make sure you two don’t kill each other,” Theo reasoned. “I promise I’ll only intervene if things get bad.” 

Draco nodded, and the two Slytherins walked back to their dorm after making sure from Blaise that Potter was still there. 

Sure enough, when they opened the door, they saw that Potter’s curtains were drawn shut, hiding the boy from their view. 

Draco crossed the room in quick strides, a scowl on his face. He pulled the curtains open, revealing the Gryffindor curled up on his bed, still under the covers. 

At first, Draco thought he was sleeping, but then he noticed that his green eyes were open and were staring blankly at the curtain—or where the curtain had been—in front of him. 

“Potter, get up!” Draco said harshly. 

The boy barely reacted, not giving any sign that he’d heard him. Draco shared an uneasy glance with Theo, who was now standing right beside him and staring at Potter. 

The next attempts to rouse him failed miserably, and Draco felt his frown deepen. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t place it. 

Sick of the boy ignoring them, Draco shouted at him to get up again, grabbing the covers and pulling them away from the boy. 

Potter jerked back at the sudden movement, flinching so hard that his head hit the headboard of his bed with a loud thud. He didn’t seem to have registered the pain, though. Instead, he was now staring right back at them with an emotion that Draco couldn’t place in his eyes. 

His eyes looked glazed over, but when the boy realised he was not alone anymore, he sprang up, jumped out of his bed and stood in a fighting stance in front of them. 

His hand gripped his wand desperately as his eyes darted between the two boys and the door. 

Draco took a moment to look at Potter. There was something different about him, and Draco couldn’t help but sweep his eyes over the boy. He could see Theo doing the same next to him. 

His eyes were slightly bloodshot, almost as if he’d been crying, but he couldn’t imagine the Golden Boy crying for anything in the world. 

He was—if at all possible—even more dishevelled than usual. His head was sticking out in every direction, his skin was almost as pale as his, and it looked slightly grey. There were huge dark bags under his eyes that Draco swore weren’t there before, and his cheeks looked sunken in, as if he’d lost a lot of weight.

But this wasn’t possible. He looked fine just yesterday, but now the boy looked like death warmed over. 

He couldn’t reconcile this boy in front of him with the one who had stolen his Quidditch position just yesterday morning. 

That thought reminded him of why he had come here, and he shoved any worry he might have felt for the prat to the back of his mind. 

“What the hell are you playing at, Potter?” he said, glaring at him. Potter stayed silent, returning the glare, but it wasn’t as heated. 

“Did you have fun humiliating me?” Draco said slowly. “Did you have fun when you made me try out for my rightful place on the team, stole it from me, just to quit the next day? What were you trying to do? Wasn’t the humiliation of Montague wanting to replace me enough?”

Draco advanced on the boy, mouth set in a scowl. His eyes were fixed on the boy in front of him, who seemed to be frozen in his spot as Draco strode closer. The Gryffindor's grip on his wand became tighter as he raised it slightly in front of him, but his hand seemed to be shaking. 

“Draco,” Theo warned in a hiss, eyes not moving from Potter. Draco glanced at him and saw him subtly shaking his head, nodding at the boy, but he didn’t care.

Once he was within arm’s reach, Draco stopped and went to grip the boy from the front of his t-shirt, but Potter cowered back suddenly, stepping away from his reach. Draco saw fear flash in his eyes as the boy started trembling in front of him. 

Draco stood there, arm still raised, staring dumbfounded at the Gryffindor. Since when was Potter scared of him? He’d always fought back with all he got, with no sign that he was afraid of Draco. Potter was supposed to be the bravest of them all, the model Gryffindor, and Draco doubted that his new sorting had taken his Gryffindor qualities out of him. So why was Potter recoiling as if afraid of him?

“Answer me, Potter,” Draco said, taking another step closer to the boy. He meant to sound angry, but the obvious fear in Potter’s eyes caught him off guard. His eyes were shining with fear as he stepped back again. His back hit the wall beside the bed, and the shaking seemed to get worse. Potter’s breathing was now coming in quick pants, his chest moving up and down too quickly. Potter was still staring at Draco, but he didn’t seem to be seeing him. His eyes looked distant, as if his mind was stuck in another place. 

“Please—Please, don’t,” Potter spoke up for the first time, voice barely above a whisper, but both Draco and Theo could still hear him in the quiet of the room. His voice was trembling, as was the rest of his body. “Stop! Please, I—”

The boy’s knees buckled, and he slid down the wall, falling on the floor. 

Draco stepped back. The scowl disappeared from his face as he stared in confusion at the panicking boy in front of him. Theo stepped next to Draco, and he turned to him. 

“What the hell?” Draco asked him. He didn’t know what to do. He hated Potter. He didn’t want to help him, but he couldn’t leave the boy sitting there in a panic. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Draco half-shouted. Potter whimpered pathetically from the floor. 

“How am I supposed to know?!” Theo answered. 

“Do something!” Draco shouted at his friend, waving his arms towards the Gryffindor. Theo glared at him but stepped in front of him, crouching in front of the hyperventilating boy. 

“Potter?” he called out, his voice softer than usual and low. “What’s wrong?” 

Theo brought his hand forward, placing it on the boy’s knee, but Potter flinched back, curling further into himself. 

“Please, Pucey, no. I don’t want—” Potter broke off with a sob. He hugged his arms close to his chest. 

From where he was kneeling, Theo froze, his face paling slightly. 

“I’m not going to touch you, Potter, but you need to calm down,” Theo said, voice wavering slightly. “He’s not here.” 

“What’s going on, Theo?” Draco asked, not taking his eyes off Potter. 

“I think—I think he might be having a flashback?” he sounded uncertain as he turned slightly to face Draco.

“A flashback? Of what?” 

“How would I know? But if my suspicion is right… It’s not good, Draco.” 

Theo’s face had a grey tint as if he was going to be sick. He glanced up at him. 

“I think you should sit down,” Theo said. “I don’t think you towering over him is helping.”

Draco sat down next to Theo. He watched as Theo tried to calm the boy down, speaking in a soft tone. 

Draco wondered what they had done to end up here, comforting Potter, when they had come to yell at him for humiliating Draco. 

Draco didn’t listen to what Theo was saying to Potter, content to simply watch as the boy’s breathing slowed down. 

Even though the boy didn’t look like he was panicking anymore, his eyes were still fearful as he looked at the two of them. 

“Sorry,” he said, voice weak. He started to get up, pushing himself off the floor, but Draco stopped him, raising a hand but thinking better of it when he saw Potter's eyes shift to his hand warily. 

He let his hand drop to his side with a sigh and fixed his eyes on Potter again. “Not so fast, Potter,” he said. “What was this about?”

“Nothing,” Potter spat. His fear seemed to have receded, replaced by a cold look. “Why do you care anyway?” 

“I don’t care, but I want to know why you were panicking. What are you so afraid of, Potter? Is the Boy-Who-Lived so weak that he can’t take two people confronting him?” 

Potter winced at his words, a flash of fear returning to his eyes momentarily before his expression turned blank. Theo hissed his name in warning. 

“It’s none of your business,” Potter reiterated. 

“Then explain why you tried out for Quidditch if you weren’t going to take the spot you stole. That is my business and what I came here to know before you went and freaked out,” Draco said, inching closer to Potter. Theo’s hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging slightly until he stepped back. His friend was still observing Potter, probably making sure that they wouldn’t set him off again so that they wouldn’t have to deal with another flashback or whatever the hell that was. 

Draco wasn’t going to deal with it again. He had stayed there because it had taken him off guard, but he wasn’t going to help Potter again. Not after the stunt he pulled. 

“I thought about it, and I don’t want to be on the team,” Potter said. 

“Why? I thought you were the Quidditch prodigy. Youngest Seeker in a century and all.”

“I just don’t want to play with Slytherins or play against my friends,” he answered. He averted his eyes, gazing down at his hands for a moment before meeting Draco’s glare again. 

“That’s a lie,” Draco sneered. “Just tell the truth, for Merlin’s sake! You owe me that much at least!” 

“That’s the truth!” Potter raised his voice. “I’m not lying! I don’t want to be on the team with… with—” 

Potter was glaring at him, anger clear on his face. His breathing was picking up again, his chest heaving visibly. 

“You don’t want to be on the team with Pucey. Is that what you want to say? What did he do?” Theo asked slowly as if he was talking to a wild animal that he was trying not to spook. Draco frowned at him, throwing him a questioning glance.

Pucey? What did Pucey have to do with this?

“No, he—he didn’t do anything. He didn’t—” If possible, Potter’s face paled even more, the dark bags under his eyes a stark contrast against his white, greyish skin. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. Why was Potter afraid of Pucey? As far as Draco knew, Potter had never interacted with the older Slytherin. The only times he saw the two of them together were during Quidditch matches and at tryouts yesterday. 

So why had Potter paled at the mention of his name?

“I don’t think I believe you, Potter,” Theo remained calm, eyes locked on the slightly trembling boy in front of them. “What did he do?”

“Nothing!” Potter’s voice cracked in the middle of the word, and the panic in his eyes returned. “Please, drop it.”

Draco’s concern grew at the pleading tone.

“If Pucey’s done something to you, if he’s threatened you, or—or hurt you,” Theo’s voice wavered slightly at the last word. “You can tell us. We can help you.”

“Why do you care?” Potter said. “We’re not friends, you hate me, and you came here to fight. So why are you pretending to care now?”

“We’re not monsters, Potter. If Pucey’s done something to you—” Draco said, remembering that he could talk. He didn’t know what he could do for Potter, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to do something to help Potter, but Theo seemed determined to help, and while Draco didn’t care for Potter, he cared about Theo. If his friend wanted to help so desperately, he’d help him help Potter. 

Plus, he did want to know what Pucey could’ve possibly done to leave Potter in this state. Theo must have had some sort of idea, but Draco had not mastered Legilimency, and therefore, he couldn’t get the answer out of his mind. Had he threatened him so that he would quit the team? Threatened to hurt one of his friends?

But those threats didn’t explain such a reaction. Potter started panicking. He had never seen him that scared—well, he had never seen him scared, but he imagined that even the Gryffindor Golden Boy felt fear once in a while. Draco had a feeling something really bad had happened to warrant this reaction. But what?

“I’ve told you. Nothing! He’s done nothing to me! Now if you will kindly fuck off, I have better things to do!” 

“We’ve been Slytherins longer than you, Potter. The only person you’re fooling is yourself,” Draco drawled. “Spill.”

Theo glared at him for his harshness, turning back to the boy.

“Please, Potter, we just want to help,” Theo interjected. 

“I don’t need your help. I’m fine,” Potter said. He got up from the ground on still shaky legs, and they followed him up. Potter crossed his arms in front of his chest, glaring daggers at them. 

“You’re not fine, or you wouldn’t have had a panic attack,” Theo told him. “What did Pucey do?”

Potter shook his head and tried to walk around them, but Draco stepped in front of him, not letting him walk away. 

“Let me go,” Potter ordered him, but Draco stayed put, crossing his arms and planting his feet resolutely on the floor. 

“Let me go!” he said, his voice louder. 

“Not until you answer.” Draco stood his ground. 

“Potter, I can see bruises peeking out of your shirt,” Theo said. “Pucey’s obviously hurt you in some way. If you show us, I have some bruise salve for it.”

Draco looked closer at the boy, noticing the bruises on Potter’s neck for the first time. He frowned, not knowing how Potter could’ve gotten those in that spot. It was a weird position for a bruise. 

“Can you remove your t-shirt?” Theo asked. Potter shook his head, backing away from them. 

“It’ll feel better with the salve.” He tried again. 

Potter closed his eyes for a few seconds, his lip trembling slightly. He seemed to ponder his options, looking hesitantly from Draco to Theo when he opened his eyes again. 

After a moment, his shoulders slumped, sagging in defeat as his trembling hands grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and lifted it off his body. 

Draco blinked as he stared at Potter’s bare chest. He heard a sharp intake of air from Theo, and one look at his friend told him that his face had lost all colour. He looked sick as he took in Potter’s body. 

Potter’s body looked like he had not seen food in a long time. His ribs protruded, skin stretched around them. His stomach looked sunken in. He had yellowish bruises across his chest, focused around the ribcage, and he could see a few slash marks on his collarbone, wrapping around his shoulder and disappearing in his back.

But Draco’s attention was focused on the fresh-looking bruises. His chest was littered with dark bruises and red marks that looked suspiciously like bite marks. They were concentrated on the lower part of his neck and shoulders but went down his chest, disappearing under his trousers. 

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he realised the implications of what those bruises were and what they meant. Theo seemed to be feeling pretty much the same thing. 

Nobody spoke for a while, but Draco couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Are those—are those hickeys?” Draco wheezed out. 

Potter looked down, looking ashamed. “Y-yeah,” he whispered. Draco barely heard him under the buzzing in his ears. 

“I didn’t—I swear I didn’t want it.” Potter’s voice was pleading as he looked at them with tears in his eyes. He’d never seen Potter look so lost, eyes begging to believe him. 

“I couldn’t stop him,” he continued. It seemed like the dam had broken, and the boy couldn’t stop himself from spilling out the words. Draco felt sick as he watched his nemesis—it seemed so silly to call him that now—cry and stumble through his words. 

“I tried, I promise. I’m not—I’m not weak. B-But I didn’t—I didn’t have my wand, and he’s—” He stopped as a whimper broke out from his lips. “He’s so much stronger than me. He used Petrificus Totalus. I couldn’t do anything—I tried, I promise.”

Theo closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. “I know, Potter. We—We believe you.” 

Draco couldn’t hold it anymore as the image of Potter lying helplessly on the floor, not even able to tell him to stop, while Pucey held him down and forced himself on him. He ran to the bathroom, not stopping to close the door and threw up his lunch. 

How could he do that? How could Pucey look at Potter, at anyone, and decide to force them to… to… He’d been in his same House since first year, known him personally since the second. He’d spent hours with him at practice and celebrated their wins with him, like he wasn’t—like he wasn’t some monster who liked to prey on fifteen-year-olds. 

Draco retched again and bent over the toilet bowl. 

He could hear Theo trying to reassure Potter in the room, as the boy mumbled apologies and pleas.

Once he was sure that he wouldn’t throw up again, Draco stood up and washed his hands and face. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the awful taste in his mouth, and then, when that image faded from his mind, he returned to the room. 

Potter was wearing his t-shirt again and was now sitting on his bed, back against the headboard and knees drawn up to his chest. 

“Should I get someone? One of the professors?” Draco said once he sat on his bed next to Theo. 

“No!” Potter shouted. “No one can know!” 

“What? Potter, you need to tell someone!” he looked at the boy with an incredulous look on his face. “You can’t let Pucey get away with it.”

“I don’t—I don’t want anyone to know. And isn’t Pucey your friend?”

“Whether he was my friend or not is not important. He’s—he’s disgusting, and I don’t want to be friends with someone so sick,” Draco said. “Someone needs to know, Potter.” 

Potter shook his head. “No one, please.”

“Please, promise me you won’t tell anyone.” Potter looked at them with pleading eyes. “I don’t need anyone to know how—how dirty I am.”

“You’re not dirty, Potter,” Theo said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is! There are a lot of things I could’ve done differently! But I let him…I let him…I let him touch me, and now I can’t stop feeling his hands and his mouth on me.” Potter’s voice cracked as he talked, his face crumpling in pain. 

“It’s not your fault, Potter,” Theo reiterated. “You've heard of that Hufflepuff girl a few years ago?” 

Potter nodded jerkily, eyes dropping to his hands. He was scratching at the back of his right hand. Draco thought he could see scars on his hand, but he couldn’t see them clearly as his fingers covered them. 

“Do you think it was her fault that she got raped by an older boy?” 

“No!” Potter shouted without hesitating. “It wasn’t her fault! He was older and stronger!” 

“Then, why would it be your fault? No offence, Potter, but Pucey is stronger than you. He’s eighteen, an athlete, and does not look like he’s been starved. He also knows more magic than you, and he literally made it so you couldn’t move.” Theo paused to let the message sink in. Potter had his eyes closed, hands in a fist. 

“You need to tell someone so he can be punished.” 

“I can’t—I can’t . I can’t tell anyone, and it’s not like they will do anything about it!”

“They got the Ravenclaw expelled. Why wouldn’t they help you?” Draco cut in.

“Nobody’s ever done anything for me. They either don’t believe me or they don’t care, if you haven’t noticed. They only care when I save their arses. That’s the only thing I’m good for.”

“What about Dumbledore?” 

Potter scoffed at that, lip twitching in disdain. “He’s ignoring me. He won’t care, and he has bigger things to deal with.”

Draco frowned at that. The Golden Boy speaking that way about his beloved headmaster? What had the world come to? But Draco shook that thought away. It wasn’t important then. They had bigger matters to deal with.

“I can’t believe that the headmaster won’t do anything to help you,” Draco said. “Aren’t you his Golden Boy?” 

“I’m not anyone’s Golden Boy!” A look of mixed fury and fear passed through his eyes as he shouted and glared at him. 

“Potter, I’m just trying to help.”

“I know… just—just don’t call me that, please. He—”

“Alright. I’m sorry. I won’t call you that anymore,” Draco agreed. “But Potter, Dumbledore will help you, I’m sure of it.”

“He hasn’t said a word to me at my trial. He’s sent me back to my relatives even though he knows we don’t get along and ordered my friends not to write to me. He will just pat me on the back, offer a lemon drop and send me on my way.”

“I don’t think—” Draco tried, but Theo silenced him with a slight shake of his head. 

“Professor McGonagall will surely help then, Potter,” Theo attempted, only to receive another denial from the boy. 

“She told us to go outside to play when we tried to ask her for help in first year. She’s a great teacher, but I don’t think she’ll be much help either.” 

Draco hesitated before speaking. He suggested Professor Snape, but he was met by Potter’s loud scoff. “He hates me. He’s despised me from the moment I stepped foot in his classroom. He’d probably kill himself before doing anything to help me.”

“He’d never—he’d never do anything of the sort! He cares about us, and no matter his feelings about you, you are his student. I know he will put aside any animosity to help,” Draco said, affronted on Snape’s behalf. 

“You need to tell, Potter.”

“No. I don’t want anyone to know,” Potter repeated. “Please drop it and don’t tell anyone.”

“Potter—”

“You’re not my parents, you’re not even my friends . I know you don’t like me, but just do this one thing I asked and don’t tell anyone.”

Draco was about to shout at him again, but Theo shook his head, resigned. 

“Alright, Potter. We’ll—we’ll keep it secret,” Theo acquiesced. 

Draco stared dumbfounded at his friend. He wanted to say something, that they couldn’t let it go, but Theo grabbed his wrist and stood up just as the bell that signalled the end of their break rang. Draco hadn’t realised how long they’d spent here with Potter.

“Thank you,” Potter said as his shoulder slumped in relief. 

“Malfoy?” Potter called out to him hesitantly. Draco raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak. 

“For what it's worth, I’m sorry about the tryouts,” he said. “I didn’t really mean to steal your place, but I did miss Quidditch, and I convinced myself to try out.” 

Draco waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s fine. I’m not mad anymore.” 

Draco’s anger had dissipated in the face of what they had found out. Having his place back felt bitter now that he knew the reason why Potter had turned it down. 

“Are you coming to DADA?” Theo said after a moment. 

“No, I can’t. I need to be alone right now.” 

Theo nodded, grabbed the bag that he had left on the floor and dragged Draco away. 

“We can’t let Pucey get away with this,” Draco said once the door was closed behind them, spitting out his name with disgust. 

“I know, but we won’t go anywhere by pressuring him right now. He’s stubborn,” he said. “We’ll keep trying. He needs help.”

“I can’t believe—I can’t believe Pucey did that,” Draco shivered at the thought. 

“Me neither,” Theo said as they left the Slytherin dorms. “He’s disgusting.”

“He’s so thin,” Draco said after a while. “And some of those bruises looked old. That cut on his collarbone, too.” 

“I know.” Theo seemed lost in thought. “We can try to get him to tell us. Maybe he’ll trust us. That is, if you don’t bait him and start fights with him.”

“I won’t. Not after this.” 

The two walked in silence after that, and soon they joined Pansy and Blaise in front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. 

“Where did you two go? You’ve disappeared for two hours!” Pansy said when they approached them. Both Blaise and Pansy frowned as they saw the look on their faces. 

They were still looking grim, and their faces had not yet regained their colour. 

“You haven’t killed Potter, have you?” Blaise said slowly. Draco scowled at his friend for the suggestion. 

“No, we haven’t killed him, Blaise. He’s just not feeling well.”

“Have you settled the matter?” Pansy asked, linking her arm with his. 

“Yes, we did.” Draco felt sick again, but he fixed a strained smile on his face. 

He followed his friends inside, but he couldn’t focus on the lesson. His mind was stuck on the conversation they’d just had with Potter, the image of those hickeys on his frail body burned into his eyes. 

His whole view of Potter had done a whole one-eighty, and Draco wasn’t sure what to feel about that.

Chapter Text

Before that Sunday, Harry had only seen Pucey at Quidditch matches. He had never crossed paths with him anyway, not in the corridors and not even in the common room after he was sorted in Slytherin. 

Now, Pucey was everywhere. 

Everywhere he went, Harry saw his face. He was in the corridors, with a knowing smirk every time Harry accidentally met his eyes. He was there at breakfast, eager to remind Harry of what he had done. 

He’d walked past him that morning, laughing with Montague, and brushed his hand, covered by his robe, so nobody else would see it, on Harry’s back in passing. Then he pretended like nothing had happened while Harry sat there, frozen in a memory. He’d dropped his fork—not that he was eating anything, he couldn’t get anything past the lump that had lodged itself in his throat—once he had recovered enough to move and rushed out of the Great Hall under the worried gazes of Nott and Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s glares softened after Harry had told them. He hadn’t glared at him once that day, when Harry had decided to use some of his Gryffindor bravery he had left and go back to class. He wasn’t looking at him with hatred anymore, but instead, he had a speculative look in his eyes, as if Harry was a puzzle he had to solve, or maybe something that he wanted to fix.

Harry didn’t know how to feel about that, if it was better or worse. On one hand, Harry didn’t need the feud with Malfoy on top of everything else. It was nice that the blond didn’t try to start a fight with him anytime they saw each other, that he could breathe without worrying about the boy’s taunts. 

But on the other hand, it reminded him of what had happened to cause that shift, that Malfoy and Nott had found out about it and probably thought he was too weak to handle it or that he was a challenge, something broken beyond repair that they wanted to try to fix.

Harry didn’t know what had gotten into him—why he’d answered his questions truthfully, why he’d revealed what had, in the span of a single day, become his biggest and darkest secret. It had barely taken one day for someone to find out, and now they knew. They knew how dirty he was. How he’d been used. They wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering how weak he’d been, without thinking of how he had cried and panicked.

The two Slytherins had surprised him yesterday, though. He’d expected them to turn around as soon as he started panicking, or to keep yelling at him. He’d expected them to sneer at him, to deride him and tell anyone who cared to listen once they found out. 

But that hadn’t happened. The two boys had looked uncomfortable, but they had tried to help him. Nott had talked him out of his panic, being more patient than anyone had ever been with him. They had seemed genuinely worried, and Harry couldn’t fathom why. 

They hated him. He knew that. Harry was the epitome of what their parents fought against. He wasn’t a Muggleborn, but he was a Halfblood and, most importantly, he was Harry Potter. Their master was after him. He wanted him dead, and Harry didn’t doubt that their fathers would kill him—or bring him to Voldemort—if they ever met him. 

But Malfoy and Nott didn’t seem to hate him then, when they made him tell and as they promised not to tell anyone. They seemed disgusted on his behalf—Malfoy had even thrown up after Harry confirmed what happened. Or at least Harry hoped they were disgusted with Pucey and not him. 

They’d told him it wasn’t his fault. They were very adamant about it, but Harry wasn’t sure he could believe them. They were Slytherins. They were in this House for their cunning, and they were supposed to be the best liars. So, how could Harry know they weren’t simply lying to his face? What if they actually thought it was all his fault? What if they thought he deserved it? 

He said he’d done it to endear himself and his family to Voldemort. What if they thought the same thing? What if they were secretly applauding him for doing this to him? What if they were lulling him into a false sense of calm, trying to get him to trust them so they could hit him when he least expected it? 

Somehow, though, he didn’t think they’d do that to him. They had seemed too earnest, their disgust so plain on their faces and their reaction so quick that Harry didn’t think they were faking their concern. 

Harry was left with too many questions swirling around his head and no answers. He didn’t know if the two Slytherins would end up hurting him, but at this point, he didn’t know if he cared. Everybody seemed to want to hurt him. What were two more people in that already long list?

He was now sitting at the Slytherin table, sandwiched between Nott and Parkinson. Malfoy was sitting directly in front of him, with Zabini next to him. Greengrass, Bulstrode and Davis were engaged in a conversation, not paying attention to the conversation his three roommates and Parkinson were having, while the other three Slytherin boys—Crabbe, Goyle and Pike—were eating silently further away. 

Nott nudged his thigh, looking pointedly at his dish. Harry sighed and took a reluctant bite, nausea rolling in his stomach. Nott had started to keep an eye on him after their conversation. He’d pestered him all day, both at breakfast and lunch and now at dinner, until he had to eat something just to stop the boy from bumping his leg and giving him those pointed looks. The boy was stubborn, and he didn’t relent until at least half of the already small portion was gone, and Harry hated him for it. 

He didn’t feel like eating. The food tasted like ash in his mouth, making his stomach turn with nausea. He’d had to escape to the bathroom twice after eating since that Sunday, and he didn’t care if he was losing the progress he had made on starting to eat normal portions. Harry hated throwing up, and if not eating was the solution, well… it’d have to do until the food stopped feeling like lead in his stomach.

Harry didn’t know why Nott had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on him. He wasn’t six. He could take care of himself. And even when he was six, he’d never really had anyone who took that role for him. Hell, the Dursleys spent more time making sure he didn’t eat than feeding him. 

The Slytherin had been nice to him since he was sorted in Slytherin, and even when we was still a Gryffindor, he had mostly stayed in the sidelines, not interacting at all with Harry and his friends, but he wouldn’t consider him a friend, and Harry doubted the boy thought he was his friend. So why was he so keen to help him? Why was he so insistent that he ate?

Nott averted his eyes, returning to the conversation. They were discussing Umbridge’s appointment as Hogwarts High Inquisitor and Umbridge’s interruptions to class while she examined the professors. Harry had missed both Professor McGonagall’s and Snape’s classes on Monday when Umbridge had supervised their lessons, and, if Draco’s dramatic summary of them was accurate, Harry wished he had been there to see it. 

Just as Harry pierced a potato with his fork, a pink rolled-up note appeared next to his plate. Harry frowned as he picked it up. The spell that kept it closed faded, and the note rolled open, showing Umbridge’s handwriting. 

Mr Potter, 

In light of your unexcused absence in all of your classes yesterday morning, on 8 September 1995, you will be required to come to my office today after dinner to start your week of detention. 

I will see you promptly at 6 o’clock. 

Dolores Umbridge, 

Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts

Hogwarts High Inquisitor

Harry scowled at the note, shoving it in his bag before going back to glare at his plate, hand trembling slightly. 

“What was that, Potter?” Malfoy drawled. 

“I’ve got detention for skipping yesterday,” Harry said. 

“Did she really give you a detention for that?” Malfoy continued. Harry nodded at his question, pushing his food around. 

“A week's worth of detentions, actually.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy frowned. “She really hates you.” 

“Who doesn’t?” Harry said dejectedly. 

Harry ignored the rest of the conversation, playing with his food for another five minutes, but not eating any, before he grabbed his bag and left. 

It was almost six. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late for detention, and he’d gain another week of detention. He walked numbly to Umbridge’s office, sitting in the familiar chair without a word to the woman. 

Umbridge seemed content to stay in silence, only speaking to tell him that he was to continue writing I must not tell lies. 

In the Great Hall, he’d been able to drown out his thoughts with the conversations all around him. Malfoy, Nott, Blaise and Parkinson were always talking about something. There was always some gossip going around, and Parkinson liked to discuss it with the three boys. Harry didn’t add any contributions to it, but he’d listened to them talking just so he didn’t have to listen to his thoughts, which always went to him in the moments of quiet. He didn’t want to start panicking in the middle of the Great Hall, where everyone could see him. Where he could see him, where he could see the effect that he’d had on him, that he’d manage to crack him like he’d wanted. 

Now, the room was quiet. He could hear his heart beating rhythmically in his chest, and his even breathing. He could hear the scratching of a quill on parchment coming from Umbridge’s desk, and his own scratching. 

It was the perfect time for his thoughts to escape their carefully created prison. The quiet was replaced by Pucey’s whispered words, by his laugh, and the sound of his kisses trailing down his bare skin. His phantom touch joined the echoes of his voice. It was like the boy was there with him, on his knees in front of him, taking him in his mouth and gripping his hips to keep him still, even with the body bind already in place. 

His voice grew louder, and Uncle Vernon and Cedric’s voices joined it in his head. They were telling him it was his fault, that he deserved it. The room started spinning as the tornado of thoughts swirled inside his head, his pulse racing and loud in his ears.

Harry pushed the tip of the quill harder on the parchment, and his head cleared from the thoughts as sharper pain stole his attention. His head felt blessedly quiet as he continued writing with more strength, blood pooling on the desk from the deepening wound on his hand.

He’d never thought he’d appreciate pain, but now it felt grounding. The thoughts stopped when he focused on the pain, and he could breathe easier. 

The four hours he spent there—Umbridge had taken a look at his hand with a frown and dismissed him two hours early— flew by quickly as he kept his eyes on the blood flowing from his hand. 

Harry felt dizzy as he walked back to the dungeons. He had to rely on muscle memory as black spots filled his vision, barely allowing him to see. His ears were ringing loudly, making every noise feel distant and underwater. 

He didn’t realise someone was calling him until they touched his shoulder. He recoiled from the touch violently, the room spinning dangerously at the sudden movement. Harry stayed still, hoping that his vision would settle and clear so he could see who was talking to him. He could hear them speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words, leaving him staring blankly ahead. 

Finally, the dizziness disappeared. Red hair and worried blue eyes appeared in front of him as the black spots cleared. Harry hid his injured hand in his pocket, hoping that Ron hadn’t seen it. 

“Harry? Are you ok?” his friend asked him. 

“Yeah, I’m alright, Ron. You? What are you doing here?” 

“Prefect rounds. Gotta check the corridors for students out of bed. What are you doing out?” 

“I had detention with the toad,” Harry answered, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. The worst of the dizziness had passed, but he was still feeling lightheaded. “I’m going back to the dorms now.” 

“I’ll walk with you,” Ron offered. 

“Oh, it’s not really necessary, Ron. I don’t want to keep you from—” 

“I haven’t seen you in a while, mate,” Ron cut him off. “I thought you’d agreed to meet us after your tryouts? And you’ve been avoiding us since Sunday. Why weren’t you in class yesterday?”

Harry forced himself not to react to the mention of the tryouts, to keep his mind away from what had happened afterwards. He shook his head slightly, hoping Ron couldn’t see the pallor of his face in the low light. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry started, voice shaking slightly. He cleared his throat before he continued, keeping his eyes ahead of him and away from Ron’s own gaze. “I wanted to hang out with you, but something came up. And I promise I’m not avoiding you and Hermione.” 

He was avoiding them. He’d tried to subtly dodge their attempts to talk to him in class, pairing with Nott in Care of Magical Creatures and with Neville in Herbology. He wanted to avoid their questions, Hermione’s overbearing worry that would for sure come when she saw him. He knew that even with the glamour on, he didn’t look good. Harry thought that the glamour was fading in strength because his magic was tiring from the constant use and the lack of rest it needed to replenish, but he didn’t know how he could fix it. He had Dreamless Sleep now, but Madame Pomphrey had warned him against using it more than three times a week.

Anyway, the glamour managed to hide just how thin he was—Harry didn’t think he’d be able to escape Hermione otherwise—but the bags under his eyes were visible. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t look as bad as they were in reality, but Hermione would still worry and ask him a million questions about his sleeping habits, why he wasn’t sleeping, and she’d give him a lecture on the importance of eight hours of rest that Harry didn’t want to hear. 

Harry had known that questions about Sunday would come, and that he would need to lie to them. Harry hadn’t been able to convincingly lie to Nott and Malfoy. He didn’t know if he could do it to Ron and Hermione about this. They’d known him for four years. They were the ones who knew him best, who knew his tells. He used to tell them anything, with the exception of the true extent of the Dursleys’ hate towards him and now this. 

He didn’t want them to know about that Sunday. He didn’t want Hermione’s pitying looks. She’d go to the library immediately, researching ways to help him. Ron would hover, not really knowing how to act. They’d try to get him to get help from someone, like Malfoy and Nott had tried to do, but they were possibly the only ones who’d succeed and get him to tell. 

Harry didn’t want that, and he didn’t want to know if this would be the thing to change their friendship. They’d stayed with him during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco, through the year where he’d thought Sirius was after him, and through the tournament, except for the few months leading to the first task, and Hermione had been there in the aftermath of Cedric’s death, holding him while he cried, while Ron went to get mugs of steaming hot chocolate from the kitchens. They hadn’t written to him during the summer, but they’d talked it out and apologised, and they’d stayed with him after his sorting, Ron putting aside his prejudice for Slytherin to be his friend. 

Harry had always been the one to save them at the end. He’d always been alone at the end, when confronting Quirrel, when he’d fought the basilisk and Tom Riddle’s memory. He was the strong one, the brave one. Would they stay with him if they knew what a coward he actually was? That he’d not been able to stop him from hurting him, that he’d been so weak, only able to cry while his body was being used?

Harry wanted to believe they wouldn’t think he was dirty and weak, but a voice in his head told him that nobody would want to stay with him once they knew. That he’d be left without friends. 

So Harry had avoided them and the rest of his friends all day. He’d only paired with Neville during Herbology because the other Slytherins had already been paired off, and while Neville was his friend, he wouldn’t be able to read him as well as Ron and Hermione would. 

“Did you get the Seeker position?” Ron interrupted his thoughts.

“No—well, yes, but I turned it down,” Harry answered. 

“What? Why?” Ron’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing in surprise. 

“I don’t want to cause problems with Malfoy,” Harry lied. “You didn’t see him. He wasn’t happy at all when I won.” 

“I thought you wanted to play, though,” Ron argued. They turned, and the Slytherin dorms came into view. 

“Yeah, but I’d like to survive in Slytherin more.” Harry let out a tense chuckle. “And Malfoy’s been less hostile since he was put back into the team.” 

“Oh, as long as you’re happy with it, I guess,” Ron said, still sounding perplexed. “Will you help me practice, then? Since we won’t be on rival teams?” 

“Of course.”

Harry gave his friend a strained smile as they stopped in front of the wall that led to the Slytherin dorms. 

“Thanks for walking with me,” Harry said. 

“No problem. Just… you know we’re there for you if you need to talk, right? I know it didn’t seem like it this summer, but—”

“You’re sounding an awful lot like Hermione there, Ron.” Harry chuckled at the affronted look on Ron’s face. 

“Hey! That’s not—” he stopped, a pensive look on his face. “Alright, I did sound a bit like Hermione, but you try spending time with her when she’s so worried about you!”

“You don’t need to be worried, I’m fine,” Harry tried to reassure him. 

“You don’t look fine, mate,” Ron said. “Fred and George told us that they ran into you on Sunday, and you looked like you’d been crying.”

Harry frowned at that. He didn’t think the twins would tell anyone about how they’d found him on Sunday. Why were they talking about him to his best friends? 

“They were worried too and wanted to ask if we knew anything about what got you in that state. What happened?” 

“Nothing!” he rushed to say. The ringing in his ear came back slightly, and his hand started to tremble in his pocket. He clenched his fist around the fabric to stop the shaking, taking a few slow breaths to calm his breathing before he could start freaking out. “Nothing happened, Ron,” he said slowly. 

Ron, like the twins on Sunday, didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press him. 

“Alright. You can talk to me, or Hermione, though, if you need to. I’m sure the twins will listen as well,” Ron said. 

Harry nodded. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

Harry turned with a last smile, but Ron stopped him before he could speak the password and disappear into the Slytherin dorms. 

“Wait! I’ve got a letter for you!” he said. “It’s from Snuffles. He thought it’d be safer to send it to us at the Gryffindor table than, you know…”

Harry took the folded letter from Ron’s hand, any colour he had in his face draining at the thought of Sirius writing to him. He hadn’t heard from him since the sorting, and with all that had happened—the sorting, Umbridge’s detentions, dealing with his new roommates and… and Quidditch tryouts—he hadn’t even thought about how Sirius would take the news of his sorting. He’d have to have heard it by now, either from the Daily Prophet, Dumbledore or Ron or the other Weasley kids writing back to their family. 

How would Sirius react? What would he think of him, now that he was in Slytherin? All his family—who Harry knew he hated—had been in Slytherin, and Sirius himself had done everything he could to distance himself from them. Would he still want him? Would he want to have anything to do with him? His father, Sirius’s best friend, was a Gryffindor. Would Sirius accept him now that he wasn’t in his father’s house?

Harry said goodbye to Ron, waiting until he turned the corner to whisper the password and enter the dorms. 

He made his way to his room with the letter gripped tight in his left hand. When he entered his room, Nott and Zabini were talking, sitting on their beds. Malfoy wasn’t there, but his bed was unmade and his outer robe was abandoned on top of the covers, so he must be in the bathroom. 

Harry sighed. He needed to clean his hand before he got blood everywhere. He didn’t need the Slytherins to find out another one of his secrets.

He placed Sirius's letter carefully under his pillow and sat on the edge of his bed, careful to keep his right hand hidden in his pocket. 

“How was detention, Potter?” Nott asked. Zabini gave his friend a peculiar look but didn’t say anything. 

“Fine,” Harry answered, meeting Nott’s eyes. “Just lines again.” 

“She hasn’t kept you as long as last week,” he commented. 

“Guess the message has sunk in faster, this time,” Harry said. “Though I still have to go tomorrow.” 

“It’s ridiculous that she’s given you a whole week of detention for skipping one day. Have you told her you weren’t feeling well?” Zabini joined the conversation. 

“She hasn’t given me time for excuses,” Harry said. He hadn’t even tried to justify his absence, but he wasn’t going to say that. He also didn’t think that Umbridge would care. She’d probably expect him to go to class if he were actively dying, and probably wanted to use any excuse to give him detention so that he’d have to carve words into his skin. 

“She’s awful,” Zabini continued. “We aren’t going to learn anything from her classes. We have got O.W.Ls this year! How are we going to pass? Mother is furious that the Ministry is interfering with our education, but there isn’t much she can do about it. Too many people support Fudge and that cow, and the situation’s too critical with You-Know-Who’s at large.”

“You believe me, then? That Voldemort’s back?” Harry interjected before he could stop himself. The boys flinched at the use of his name. 

“Of course. I thought it’d be obvious,” Zabini said. “You didn’t look in any state to be making up stories when you returned from wherever you went with Cedric’s body.” 

It was Harry’s turn to flinch at the mention of Cedric’s name. 

“Also, Nott and Malfoy’s fathers were there, and they told Theo and Draco about it, and they told me.” 

“ Blaise!” Theo hissed, throwing a glare at the boy and then glancing meaningfully at Harry. 

Harry frowned at the interaction. “I already knew your father and Mr Malfoy were at the graveyard, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Harry told Nott. 

“Oh,” Nott deflated slightly. 

“Voldemort wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. He wasn’t expecting me to leave the graveyard alive, so he probably didn’t care that I knew the names of his Death Eaters.”

“Your parents aren’t Death Eaters, then?” Harry turned to Zabini. Nott winced at the question, and Harry filed that information for later, but he didn’t take his eyes off Zabini. 

Zabini hesitated, looking briefly at his friend before returning his eyes to Harry. “My mother sympathises with some of what the Dark Lord preaches,” he said. “But we’re neutral. We won’t fight for him or follow him. My mother is powerful and is protected by the Italian Ministry of Magic since we live there, so we’re able to escape him.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Not many people do, outside of Slytherin. They don’t really care to ask, they just assume.”

Harry felt called out and averted his eyes, feeling slightly guilty. He had made that assumption. 

Malfoy left the bathroom, interrupting the conversation, and Harry grabbed his change of clothes and went inside. 

He peeled away his robe, dropping it to the floor—he’d have to wash it as it was probably covered in blood—and removed the rest of his uniform. Then he jumped into the shower, keeping his hand under the stream of cold water for a while. He murmured a few healing spells he learned from the book he’d gotten in Diagon Alley. They weren’t very effective, but they stopped the blood flow and made the wound look a little less angry, which was enough for Harry. 

Then, he turned up the heat, letting the hot water fall on him. It hurt slightly, but it was the only way he felt clean now. The heat removed the feeling of his hands on him, even if it was only temporary, but Harry would take what he could get. 

Once he was done, he dried himself, put his pyjamas on and made sure his glamour was still on, covering his new scar as well. 

He returned to his bed, saying goodnight to the others before closing the curtains, setting up his privacy charms and whispering Lumos, making sure his wand would give him enough light. 

He grabbed the letter from under his pillow and unfolded it with trembling hands. 

Harry really hoped he’d still have his godfather.

Chapter Text

Harry,  

We received news about you resorting to Slytherin. Why haven’t you written to us? Can you get to a fireplace on 10 September at one a.m.? We would like to talk to you. 

Love, 

Snuffles and Moony

Harry stared at the letter, hands trembling slightly as he gripped the paper. He reread the short message a few times, eyes going slowly over the loopy letters. 

Harry felt the little food he had eaten turn in his stomach as he thought about what his godfather and his professor wanted to talk to him about. 

They obviously wanted to talk about his resorting, but what would they tell him? Would they yell at him? Would they be disappointed that he wasn’t in Gryffindor anymore, in his parents’ house? Sirius had been happy to go to Gryffindor, the only one in his family to do so, to demonstrate that he was nothing like them. Would he hate Harry now that he was in his family’s House? 

Ron didn’t hate Harry, even if he had hated Slytherins before Harry’s sorting, so maybe his godfather and his professor wouldn’t either, but Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up. 

It would hurt more if he didn’t think about the possibility that they’d reject him, and then it happened. Harry didn’t know if he could take their rejection. They were his last link to his parents—Harry absolutely did not count his Aunt Petunia. She’d never talked to him about her sister, had even told him that she had died in a car accident because she was drunk. The less he associated her with his mother, the less the fact that she hated him hurt.

He didn’t want to lose that connection. 

And he loved the two of them. They were some of the few adults who loved him, who offered help without asking for anything in return. He’d never forget that Sirius had asked him to live with him, even if it wasn't possible in the end. And he’d never forget how Remus had helped him learn the Patronus Charm so that he wouldn’t be defenceless against the Dementors. 

Plus, Sirius and Remus were just his. They were two adults who didn’t have any other kids to worry about, not like Mrs and Mr Weasley. He loved the Weasley parents and would forever be grateful for the help they’d given him throughout the years, for taking him in for part of the summer and sending him food at the Dursleys, but they weren’t his. He’d be a burden to them, even more than he already was. They had seven kids to care for, and he would always be just their son’s best friend. He couldn’t be more than that. 

The only thing that kept him from spiralling into total panic was the ‘Love’ at the end. They wouldn’t have signed it off like that if they hated him, right? Maybe he still had a chance that they still loved him, even if he was a Slytherin. 

On that note, Harry folded the letter and placed it in his trunk. Then he lay on his bed, staring at the canopy, thoughts swirling without control in his head. He stayed like that for two hours, worrying about his godfather’s reaction, until his eyes closed of their own accord, burning with exhaustion that never seemed to leave Harry lately. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry’s sleep was plagued by nightmares.

They shifted from one to another. He’d start dreaming of the graveyard, of the bright green light of the Killing Curse hitting Cedric, Voldemort’s cold laugh echoing in his mind, and then Uncle Vernon would be there in Voldemort’s place, laughing at him while beating him up. 

Then, Pucey would appear, sometimes joining Uncle Vernon in his cupboard, other times, Uncle Vernon would disappear, and the scene would shift to the changing rooms.

What they all had in common, however, was the words that they repeated over and over. Cedric. Voldemort. Uncle Vernon. Pucey. They all told him how disgusting, how worthless he was. That nobody would love him anymore. That he was a murderer and that Sirius, Remus, his friends and even his roommates didn’t deserve to be tainted by him. That he’d hurt them all with his presence. 

The dark corridor made its appearance at least once during his dreams, but Harry still couldn’t recall where he had seen it before and why it was showing up in his dreams.

Harry wished he could take the Dreamless Sleep every night, but Madame Pomphrey had warned him against it, and he had to make the few vials she had given him last. 

He’d taken it both on Sunday night and Monday night, when he was sure that his nightmares would keep him up at night, but now he only had one dose for the rest of the week. He’d have to endure three more days of either nightmares or not sleeping at all. He didn’t know if he could ignore the fatigue anymore. Maybe if he only took half of the last dose and split it between two days…

But no. He’d survived months without the potion at Privet Drive—he could make it a few nights per week without it. Harry didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t take the whole prescribed dose, and he didn’t want to find out. He’d have to go to Madame Pomphrey for help if anything went wrong, and it’d taken him so long to ask her for the potion in the first place. 

Harry was fifteen. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He could deal with this on his own. 

Harry swung the duvet away from his legs and dispelled his silencing charm so that he could go to the bathroom to get ready for the day. 

Once ready, he slipped away from the room, careful not to disturb the others. It was barely five thirty am, and his three roommates wouldn’t get up until at least seven.

He sat at the desk in the common room and took out his books. He had a lot of homework to get through, and while he could’ve done it in his bed, Harry thought he’d be more comfortable there. His lower back still hurt from that day, and sitting on his bed, hunched over his books, didn’t do anything for his pain. 

He spent the next two and a half hours like that, working on his various essays, not even noticing how long he had spent there until footsteps approached the table and a voice made him jump, ink spilling all over the table. 

“Shit!” He exclaimed, grabbing the ink well before it could spill any more ink. Harry watched in dismay as the ink seeped through the pages of his Potion book, completely ruining it. 

He tried a few cleaning spells, but after none of them worked, he looked up, meeting Zabini’s eyes. Nott was standing beside him.

“Did you need anything?” Harry asked, not able to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He was making good progress on his Potions essay, but now that his book was ruined, he couldn’t go on. Snape was going to kill him. 

“We were just wondering if you were ok, Potter,” Zabini said. “I heard you get up at five thirty.” 

“I’m fine, thanks. I just have a lot of homework to do, since Umbridge is taking up all my evenings,” Harry answered as he swept all his books off the table and back into his bag. 

“Are you sure? You look like you haven’t really slept,” Zabini continued. 

Harry glared at them. “I’m fine. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Once again, Potter, we’re not heartless. You look like you need the Hospital Wing. You’ve almost passed out last week, and you aren’t looking much better now. What’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” Harry tried to keep his voice even. 

“Something’s obviously wrong with you, Potter, if only—” Nott started, the same worried expression he’d been giving him since their conversation on Sunday on his face. Harry knew where that sentence was going, and he wasn’t going to allow him to spill his secret to Zabini.

Harry pinned Nott with a heated glare. “Nothing’s wrong with me, except that there are too many people minding my business. Again, I don’t either want nor need your help, I’m fine, thank you.”

Harry closed his bag, throwing it on his shoulder and leaving the two of them standing there. He had to stop himself from running away from the common room when he saw him sitting on the couch with his friends. He was facing him, and the older boy smirked at him when he passed by. 

Harry felt his stomach churn, and he hastened his footsteps to get more distance between them. As soon as he was out of the Slytherin common room, he ducked into an empty and darkish corridor and put on his invisibility cloak, which he had started bringing with him everywhere in case he had to make a quick escape. He still remembered Nott’s warning against walking alone as a Slytherin, and he didn’t fancy being attacked. He’d—he’d had enough of that. 

He walked along the corridors, dodging students until he found an empty room where he could hide until his first class. He couldn’t stomach food after his nightmare, and he didn’t want to deal with Nott’s annoying and uncharacteristic concern, so he decided to skip breakfast. Harry only hoped that Zabini wouldn’t join in. He didn’t know if he liked this shift in the three Slytherins. 

He settled down on the floor near the door, bringing his legs to his chest and hugging them loosely. He lay his head on the wall, closing his eyes. 

He stayed there until the bell rang and he had to go to Divination. Hopefully, Zabini, the only one of his roommates who took Divination, would leave him alone, but Harry could easily hide behind Ron and Neville if he didn’t. 

When Harry got to the classroom, Ron and Neville were already there, and they had saved him a seat. Harry thanked them with a smile as he sat there, back facing where Zabini was sitting with Parkinson, Greengrass and who he thought was Davis. Harry really needed to remember his classmates’ names.

Thankfully, even though Harry could tell they were a bit concerned, they skipped over the ‘how are you’ questions, and instead, they started talking about homework. 

Harry had just agreed to meet Ron and Hermione during their break before lunch when Professor Trelawney entered the classroom, halting their conversation. 

The low lights and Trelawney’s soft voice did nothing to help his tiredness. His eyes were threatening to close every few seconds, and Ron had had to poke him a few times when they stayed closed too long, causing him to flinch slightly from the unexpected touch. Ron had narrowed his eyes at him, and he could see him looking at him more closely, taking in the dark bags under his eyes that the glamour wasn’t quite covering. Both Ron and Neville were shooting him concerned glances once in a while, and Harry started wondering when Ron had started paying attention to things. Hermione was usually the perceptive one. 

Harry hoped the class would be done soon, so he could escape his friends’ worried gazes. He didn’t know why they were even worrying about him. He did look tired, especially as his glamour wasn’t working properly, but he didn’t think it was worse than when he was getting ready for the Triwizard Tournament, and he’d never really had the best sleep schedule even when his nightmares weren’t as bad. He’d always had dark circles under his eyes. It wasn’t anything new.

Thankfully, his wishes were granted, and Harry hurried away from his friends. He followed behind Zabini but far enough that they wouldn’t be able to talk. 

Charms with the Hufflepuff was uneventful. He received the usual death glares from the badgers, and occasionally a rude comment was whispered when he was in hearing range, but nobody said anything to him directly, opting to convey their hatred with their eyes instead. 

Harry had to fight to stay awake, which, if Nott’s occasional glances towards him and his nudges told him anything, didn’t go unnoticed. He put all of his attention on the task Professor Flitwick had assigned, in hopes that it would keep him awake. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

After Charms was over, Harry met Ron and Hermione in the same abandoned classroom where they had their first conversation last week. He dodged Hermione’s questions, assuring her that he was ok and pulled his Charms book out of his bag to start on his homework, which Hermione and Ron did as well, even though Ron grumbled about it. 

“Snuffles is going to Floo Call tonight,” Harry said after a few minutes of silence. 

“Oh, is that what the letter said?” Hermione asked, and Harry nodded. “How are you going to do it?

“There’s a fireplace in the fifth-year common room,” Harry told them. “I can put up a privacy charm so the Slytherins can’t hear me, and probably a Notice-Me-Not Charm as well. Do you think it could work?”

“Yes, but be careful,” Hermione said. “You don’t know what they’d do if they saw you talking to Snuffles. I know you said they’ve been decent, but I don’t think you should trust them.” 

“I’ve only said Nott and Zabini have been decent, and Malfoy still has his moments. There’s still Crabbe, Goyle and Pike. I’m more worried about them than my roommates, honestly,” Harry said. “And I don’t trust any of them, even if they haven’t tried to hex me.”

“Just be careful, then. There’s not much you can do about it,” Hermione said. “I’d let you in Gryffindor, but we don’t have common rooms for each year. There’s a bigger risk of being found out.”

“Yes, and I don’t think anyone’d appreciate the resident liar in there,” Harry said bitterly. “I don’t want to risk running into Seamus.”

“Let us know what Snuffles says,” Ron said. Harry agreed hesitantly, looking down at his parchment. He frowned at his essay, noticing he had hovered on the page with his quill for too long and the ink had stained the page, covering the last word he wrote. He wished he could write with Muggle pens. Writing essays would be much easier and less time-consuming. 

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione asked him, frowning at him. 

“Nothing,” he started, but one look at his best friend told him she wasn’t going to let it go so easily. He sighed. He guessed he could confide in them, for at least this. “It’s just…” 

Hermione looked at him expectantly, putting down her quill to give him her full attention. 

“I’m scared of Snuffles and Professor Lupin’s reaction to my sorting,” he admitted. “They said they’d heard of it, and they were wondering why I had not written to them… What if they hate me now? Snuffles’ family was all in Slytherin, and he hated them. He told me about it in one of his letters last year.” 

“They don’t hate you, mate,” Ron told him. “Snuffles loves you. He wrote to us, too, when he sent the letter for you, asking why you haven’t written to him yet. He sounded very worried.” 

“Oh.” Harry let out a breath. “He was worried?” 

“Yes, Harry. Ron’s right. He loves you, and he was worried when he didn’t hear from you, especially since he hasn’t seen you or talked to you in so long. He probably expected you to write to him immediately after you got resorted,” Hermione said, with an undertone of exasperation in her voice. 

“Oh.”

“I don’t think you should worry about it,” she continued. “He probably just wants to make sure you’re doing alright, which we all want, actually. You look like you haven’t been sleeping, and you’re looking so down recently—” 

“I’m fine, Mione,” Harry cut her off before she could go on a rant. “Just stressed with classes and Umbridge’s detentions. Haven’t got much time to do my homework, and I stay up late to do it sometimes.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie, but not the whole truth either. He wasn’t going to tell them about the nightmares, about how Cedric, Uncle Vernon, and now Pucey haunted him everywhere, when he was awake and when he was asleep. Those secrets were following him to the grave. He’d kill himself before he’d let anyone—or anyone else, since Nott and Malfoy knew part of his secret—find out about it. 

Harry and his two best friends continued working in silence after they reassured him to the best of their abilities that Sirius and Remus weren’t going to hate him. He wasn’t fully convinced that what they were saying was true, but a weight lifted from his chest nonetheless, and he could focus on his Charms work a little better. 

Harry found that immersing himself in his homework, especially when he was with his best friends, helped keep his thoughts at bay. His mind felt calmer than it’d been in a while, focused only on writing the right information about the spell they were studying, and listening to Ron and Hermione’s bickering in front of him. 

By the time the bell announcing the end of their break rang, Harry felt tired, but his head felt lighter. Hanging out with his best friends, even if they were just studying together, felt refreshing. He felt safe with them, in this classroom, especially when Hermione dialled down her concern. 

He was sad when they had to separate, Ron and Hermione going to the Gryffindor table for lunch, while Harry took his seat beside Nott, the only one left available. 

As always, he ignored his classmates, putting one of the sandwiches that were being served on his plate and began eating it in silence. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry stumbled through the corridors, clutching his injured hand close to his chest. His head spun as more and more blood spilt on the floor. His feet felt like lead as he dragged his legs, walking with his body pressed to the walls to support himself. His vision was darkening, and he could barely see where he was going, but he didn’t stop. It was midnight, and he had to get to his dorm if he wanted to have time to clean up and set up his privacy spells. He didn’t want to risk missing Sirius and Remus’s call. 

Harry had spent hours upon hours bent over the desk, his handwriting becoming increasingly shakier as the pain increased. While working on homework with his friends allowed Harry to escape from his thoughts temporarily, the repetitive motion of writing I must not tell lies didn’t do anything to stop his overactive mind. Like the day before, Harry got stuck in his mind while he wrote his lines, memories replaying in his head and the voices from his nightmares reminding him how worthless he was, and the only thing that helped was pressing harder on the parchment, replacing the swirling storm of thoughts with blinding pain. 

Umbridge had let him go early the previous evening after seeing the amount of blood he was losing, but she was in a nasty mood today, and she kept him until midnight, like she had done the previous week. 

The extra two hours of bleeding profusely left Harry feeling weaker than he’d ever felt before. He was so exhausted that he felt like he would fall asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow, and he thought he might not even need a Dreamless Sleep tonight, but he couldn’t go to bed immediately. He needed to talk to his godfather. He needed to know. 

The ringing in his ears grew louder as Harry walked at a snail’s pace towards—he hoped he was going in the right direction—the Slytherin common room. He’d had to stop a few times, but after what felt like an eternity, he arrived at the dorm entrance, whispering the password and sliding inside. 

His knees felt like jelly as he ascended the stairs, and he had no idea how he’d managed to get to his room without passing out, but he sighed in relief when he dropped his bag on his bed. He reached blindly in his trunk, grabbing a roll of bandages he had brought from home and his pyjamas before going to the bathroom to clean his hand and change. 

Once the bleeding stopped, he bandaged his hand tightly and changed into his pyjamas, making sure his glamour was still on. He wasn’t sure how well they’d be able to see him from the Fire Call, but he didn’t want to risk it. 

A Tempus told him it was now five to one, so he left his room, making sure not to make any noise and approached the fireplace. He stole a pillow from the couch and placed it in front of the fireplace, sitting on it. 

Once he was settled, he cast the privacy charm and the notice-me-not spell and hoped that nobody would leave their rooms. He felt fairly confident that his spells would work, but it was better that nobody tested them. 

Harry played with the hem of his pyjamas, waiting for Sirius’s face to appear in the fireplace. He hoped they would call soon. He was so tired and dizzy, and he didn’t know how long he could stay up.

Right as Harry thought that, the fire flickered and Sirius’s face appeared between the flames. 

“Harry!” the man exclaimed, a bright smile on his face. 

“Hi, Sirius. How did you know where to call?” Harry breathed in relief at the smile on his godfather’s face and asked his question that had been bothering him all day. Sirius was a Gryffindor, and they didn’t have common rooms and fireplaces for each year. 

“My brother was a Slytherin, and he told me about this back when we were in Hogwarts. I figured it was still the same,” he answered. “Remus is here beside me. He can hear you,” Sirius told him before he could ask about his brother. The fire flickered, and his face was replaced with his old professor's. 

“Hi, Professor,” Harry smiled at him. 

“I thought I’d told you to call me Remus, Harry,” Remus scolded him. 

Harry apologised awkwardly before the two switched again. 

“So, kid, what’s going on? Why haven’t you written to us?” Sirius asked him, voice shifting to a more serious tone. 

Harry’s smile faltered. “I’ve been, er, busy. A lot of homework, and Umbridge has me in detention all week,” Harry answered, reusing the half-truth, half-lie he had given Ron and Hermione. “It’s slipped my mind, you know.”

“You’ve been in detention all week?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Er, at first it was because I yelled at her that Voldemort was back,” he answered. “Then she gave me detention this week because I didn’t go to classes on Monday.” 

Harry looked at the concern on his godfather’s face and hastily added, “I’m fine! I just wasn’t feeling very well on Monday, but she hasn’t let me explain.” 

“Anyway, Harry, that is not what we called you for,” Sirius said, changing the subject. If possible, his tone of voice was even more sombre. “You’ve resorted to Slytherin.” 

Harry felt his heart beat faster against his ribcage as Sirius got to the point of the call. Any relief he felt when Sirius smiled at him left him at once. 

“I-I did. I’m sorry, I—” 

Sirius frowned. “Why are you apologising, kid?” 

“I’m not in Gryffindor anymore,” Harry said quickly. “I’m in Slytherin. You must hate me—”

“We would never hate you, Harry, never,” Sirius said firmly. “Why would you think that?”

“Because—Because you hate Slytherins! All your family was in there, and you told me you hated them and that you didn’t want to be in Slytherin!” Harry felt a fist constrict his lungs as he worked himself up, the same worries that had taken hold of him last night returning with a vengeance. His vision darkened as he struggled to let in air, Sirius’s face in the fireplace becoming blurry. He held his hands out slightly away from his body to catch himself in case he fainted. He hoped he didn’t. He didn’t want to pass out in front of his godfather. He didn’t want him to know how weak he was. 

He tried to calm himself down, taking a few deep breaths to calm his erratic breathing.

“Harry, you need to calm down. You look about to pass out,” Sirius said slowly. He could faintly hear the worry in his voice under the ringing in his ear. “Look, I didn’t want to be in Slytherin because I hated my family, yes,” He paused, looking intently at Harry’s eyes. “I thought they were evil, and that everyone in Slytherin was evil. So I didn’t want to be.” 

Harry flinched, averting his eyes. His eyes burned with unshed tears that threatened to fall and show them how weak he was.

“But, Harry, I was eleven. I was hurt and prejudiced and didn’t want to do anything to do with them, but I grew up and learned that it is not all so black and white,” he said. “There are bad Slytherins, yes, but just like there are bad Gryffindors. Look at Wormtail.” 

His name came out in a sneer, and Harry clenched his fist as he thought about the traitor. “My cousin, Andromeda, was in Slytherin too,” he continued. “But she’s not evil. She ran away and got disowned for marrying a Muggleborn. She’s a nurse in St Mungo’s now, and one of the nicest people I know. And I know that Slytherin must not be so bad, if you are one, Harry.” 

Sirius gave him a fond look. “Remus just said he agrees with me. We love you, Harry, and nothing, nothing could change that. Our love is not conditional. We don’t love you any less than when you were wearing red and gold robes. We’ll always be there for you, no matter what.” 

A tear escaped his eye, trailing down his face. Ron and Hermione had assured him that they wouldn’t abandon him, but hearing them say it out loud felt like a balm on his sore heart. His heart was still beating fast in his chest, but it had calmed down slightly, and his lungs no longer felt like they were being squeezed.

“My parents—” 

“Your parents would be proud of you as well,” Sirius cut him off before he could say anything. “They loved you so, so much, and you being in Slytherin wouldn’t have changed anything. One of your mother’s best friends was in Slytherin.”

Harry frowned at that. His mother had a friend in Slytherin? Who was it? Nobody ever really talked about his mother. He knew next to nothing about her.

“How’s it going in Slytherin, pup?” Sirius asked. 

“It’s fine,” Harry said, looking down. 

“Harry, don’t lie to us. What’s wrong?” Sirius said. 

“I’m not lying, it’s fine. I’ve had a few… complications with some of my housemates, but—but it’s fine. I can handle it,” he said in one breath and tried to keep the thought of what those complications were out of his mind. “My roommates have been nice to me. I’ve fought with Malfoy the first few nights, but it’s fine now. We’ve come to a truce, I think.” 

“Mmh…” Sirius hummed, a pensive look on his face. “I’m glad they’ve been nice to you, but be careful with them, though. You know who their fathers are.” 

“I will be careful,” Harry reassured him. 

“Good, how’re classes going? How’s Defence? Learning anything fun?”

Harry scoffed at that. “Yeah, right. Defence is as fun as History of Magic nowadays.”

“Seriously? They can’t possibly be that boring!”

“She’s not letting us use any magic at all!” Harry exclaimed. “She’s having us read the freaking textbook all class and then listen to her drone on and on about how great the Ministry is, how I am a filthy liar and Dumbledore an old fool! We’re not learning anything!”

“Well, that makes sense,” Sirius said. “Word here is that the Ministry doesn’t want you trained in combat.”

“Trained in combat?! What? What do they think we’ll do? Form an army?”

“That’s exactly what they think, Harry,” Remus said, his head replacing Sirius’s in the fire. “Fudge is afraid that Dumbledore is forming his private army to fight against the Ministry.” 

“That’s so stupid!” Harry said, scratching an itch on his neck. 

“Harry,” Remus said slowly, his eyes fixed on the hand that he had used to scratch his neck. “What happened to your hand?”

Harry stopped scratching and held out his hand. His heart dropped as he realised he had used his right hand, and Remus had seen the bandage on his hand. His wound had reopened slightly, and some blood had seeped through the fabric.

“Nothing, it’s fine,” Harry said, trying to think of a convincing lie. “I just cut myself in Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Did Madame Pomphrey look at it?” Remus asked, and Harry nodded. 

“Yeah, yeah, she did. It’s just taking longer to heal because it was from a magical creature,” Harry lied. 

“Alright, Harry. We’ll let you go now, you look dead on your feet,” Remus smiled at him and said goodbye. Sirius took his place again and said his goodbyes with a last smile at Harry. 

“We love you, Harry. Write to us when you can,” Sirius said before disconnecting the Floo Call. 

Harry stared at the fire for a few seconds, closing his eyes in relief. He replayed Sirius’s words in his mind as he got up, a smile growing on his face. 

His smile died as a wave of dizziness, worse than he’d ever felt so far, hit him. The room was spinning so fast that he couldn’t tell which way was up anymore. He stumbled towards what he thought was his room, holding his hands out so he wouldn’t hit the wall face-first. 

He couldn’t see anything, a black blanket covering his eyes. His ears were ringing badly, but at the same time, they felt like they were stuffed with cotton balls. His body felt heavier than ever as he dragged his limbs forward. He knew he was going to pass out at any moment now. He just hoped he could get to his bed, at least.

His hand hit metal, and he blindly grabbed the round knob with his clammy hand. He had to try twice as his hand slipped from the sweat that was coating his hand. He managed to open the door, but he barely took a step inside before his knees gave out, unable to hold his weight anymore.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was someone shouting his name.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up to the sound of the door swinging open and a string of curses coming from Theo’s bed a few seconds later.

He pushed his curtains aside, grabbed his wand from his nightstand and muttered a Lumos before pointing it in the direction of the noise. He could see that Blaise had done the same. 

“Theo?” Draco called out to his friend, taking a step towards him. He could see that he was crouched over something, but his bed covered the view. 

“Potter’s passed out,” Theo announced, just as Blaise turned on the room’s lights with a flick of his wand. Draco approached the bed and finally saw Theo kneeling on the floor, hovering over Potter. 

The boy was lying on the floor, eyes closed. His face was ashen, paler than he’d ever seen it, and the circles under his eyes made him look like he had been punched repeatedly in the face, in sharp contrast with the whiteness of his face. With how hollow his cheek looked and how pale he was, Draco was scared for a second that he was dead, but his chest was still rising and falling. 

“He looks…” Blaise started. He was staring at Potter with a frown on his face, eyes taking in the way his pyjamas engulfed his small frame, probably a size too big and making him look smaller than he already was. “He looked bad this morning, but it wasn’t this bad.” 

“He wears glamours during the day, I’m pretty sure,” Theo said. “But that’s not important right now. He needs help.” 

“Should I get Professor Snape?” Draco asked. 

“I don’t think he’d want that,” Theo said unsurely as he grabbed his left wrist and felt his pulse. Draco wondered how he knew how to do that. 

“Why do we care about what he wants? We need to call Snape!” Blaise said. “I’m not blind, you know. I’ve seen how he barely eats—and I know you’ve noticed as well, because I see you forcing him to eat, Theo—and he’s been looking dead on his feet all week. I might not like him, but he can’t kill the Dark Lord if he’s dead, and I very much would like him to!” 

Blaise looked at them with a frown on his face when neither of them agreed with him. Draco did want to bring Potter to Snape. It was probably the right thing to do, but Potter was only passed out, right? Draco wouldn’t want to bother the Professor past midnight either if this wasn’t anything serious. Theo looked worried, but not scared that Potter would die at any moment. They were probably just being dramatic. And Potter had refused to go to him when Pucey... He wouldn't want to go for this either.

“Why don’t you want to go to Snape?” Blaise asked.

“It’s—It’s complicated, Blaise,” Draco said, after a second of thinking.

“Why is it complicated? Do you know something I don't?” 

Draco and Theo looked at each other, and the brown-haired boy sighed, speaking up. “Yes, but we can’t tell you, Blaise. We—we promised him.”

“Should we move him to his bed?” Draco said, interrupting whatever Blaise was about to say. Draco crouched down and slid an arm behind Potter’s back and one behind his knees without waiting for an answer. He rose to his feet and stumbled slightly as he regained his balance.

Theo pushed back Potter’s bed covers, allowing Draco to deposit the unconscious boy in his bed. He frowned when he saw something white poke out of his right pyjama sleeve. 

“I think he’s injured,” Draco said, grabbing the boy’s right hand gently and holding it up. He pushed the sleeve back, revealing a bloodied bandage wrapped around his hand. Before he could unwrap the bandage to reveal the injury, however, Potter moved his hand, whimpering slightly. 

His eyes flickered open, glancing groggily around the room before fixing them on him. 

“Wha—what happened?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but Draco managed to hear him anyway in the quietness of the room. 

“You fainted, Potter,” Draco informed him. “Woke us all up.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Potter said. He tried to sit up on his bed, but Theo pushed him down to lie on his bed again. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Theo asked him once Potter stopped fighting to get up. 

“Yeah, I’m ok. Just exhausted,” Potter said. 

“Then, sleep. If you’re not feeling better tomorrow, you’re going to the Hospital Wing, though. We don’t want to deal with it if you die on us,” Draco said.

Potter half-heartedly glared at him, but didn’t say anything. “Where’s my wand?” 

“Here,” Blaise said, crossing the room to give the wand back to Potter, who thanked him and then spelt his curtains shut, disappearing behind them. 

“Are you sure we shouldn’t bring him to Madame Pomphrey or Snape now?” Blaise said once again.

“Yes, Blaise. I think he just needs to eat more,” Theo said before walking back to his bed. He said goodnight and shut his curtains. 

Blaise went to bed as well, but Draco stood there, staring at the spot where Potter’s curtains had closed. He couldn’t erase the feeling of Potter’s jutting bones as he held him, or the fact that he barely weighed anything. 

Potter hadn’t been eating a lot during these past few days. He’d watched as Theo took it upon himself to subtly force him to eat, but Potter never finished his meagre portions. 

But it had been only a few days. Potter looked like he hadn’t touched food in weeks, if not months, and he’d looked this bad even on Monday, when Draco and Theo had seen him without his glamour on for the first time. Two days of not eating were obviously not enough for him to lose this much weight. What was wrong with Potter?

Draco shook himself out of his thoughts and went to bed. With a last look at Potter’s bed, he closed his own curtains and fell asleep, trying to figure out the puzzle that was Harry Potter. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Draco watched as Potter pushed his food around his plate. He was staring at the food with a blank look on his face, but Draco could see the exhaustion in his eyes. He had his glamour on, so he didn’t look as bad as he did last night, after passing out, but he could see that it wasn’t as strong as it was at the beginning. He still looked slightly pale, and there were shadows under his eyes. 

Both Theo and Blaise were subtly looking at Potter, and Draco wondered when and why they had started paying this much attention to the ex-Gryffindor. It had barely been two weeks since they had come back to Hogwarts and found themselves rooming with Potter, but there had already been a shift in all of them. 

Potter was not at all like he was expecting. 

The previous four years, he’d been the picture-perfect Gryffindor: loud, brash, always running to save someone. He’d always held his head high, even when half the school accused him of being the Heir of Slytherin back in second year. He’d always responded in kind to Draco’s taunts, never let himself appear too ruffled by his jeers. 

Now, he’d still responded to Draco’s taunts before their truce, but there was a change in him. 

He seemed quieter, always tense and looking over his shoulders. He noticed how he seemed to avoid his friends at times, and how he got lost in his thoughts, staring at nothing with a haunted look in his eyes. 

He saw how he flinched every time his eyes met Pucey’s, how he would clench his fists,  break eye contact and walk faster to get distance from the boy. Draco didn’t really blame him. He’d taken to feeling disgusted every time he was in the same room as Pucey as well since he discovered what he’d done to Potter. 

He watched as he didn’t say anything to Snape that morning, even as the Professor yelled at him in front of the entire class for turning in an incomplete essay, even if not long ago, Potter would’ve said something to anger the man. But now he didn’t. He simply nodded with a resigned look as the Potion Master told him to rewrite the essay, but double the length. Blaise had looked slightly guilty at that, but Draco didn’t know why. 

Ever since that Monday, every time he looked at the boy, he saw the way his eyes had flashed with fear when Draco cornered him, how he was shaking when he admitted what Pucey had done, how he’d begged them to believe him. Draco couldn’t shake the image of Potter’s protruding ribs and his concave stomach out of his mind. 

Potter pushed his food around the plate once more, and Draco was done. He grabbed the bowl of salad that was sitting in front of Pansy and pushed it in front of Potter. 

“Take some salad, Potter. You’re glaring at that chicken as if it personally offended you,” Draco said. 

Potter raised his head and paused his attempt to destroy the chicken to look at him. His green eyes glanced from his face to the bowl in his extended hand, and he hesitated a few seconds before reaching out and taking the offered bowl. 

Draco stole a glance at his right hand. It was still bandaged, but Potter had changed the dressing. Draco wondered how he’d gotten injured, but he knew that he wouldn’t get an answer if he asked. 

Potter pushed the chicken away and replaced it with a scoop of salad. He looked at it wearily—Draco couldn’t tell what he was thinking—but he seemed to give in, and he started eating it. 

Satisfied with himself, Draco returned to his own meal and watched as Theo did the same. Draco wouldn’t think too much about why he cared that much if Potter ate, but while he wasn’t a Healer, he was sure that being that thin wasn’t healthy. Not eating would kill Potter eventually, and if they wanted someone to save them, they would have to make sure that Potter survived first and wouldn’t drop dead in the middle of the night. 

Draco was sure that was the only reason behind his concern. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“I think they’re trying to kill us,” Draco said as he left the Transfiguration classroom with Theo and Blaise. 

“Probably,” Theo agreed. 

“It’s only our second week back, and we’re already drowning in homework. I wanted to go flying!” Draco complained loudly, throwing his hands in the air. 

“There, there, Draco. It’ll be alright,” Blaise said, patting his pack. “You have Quidditch practice tomorrow, you can fly then.”

Draco glared at the boy next to him, but followed him to the common room anyway. 

When the three arrived at the fifth-year common room, Potter was already sitting at the desk, nose buried in his Potions book. He was frowning in concentration, his tongue poking out as he squinted at the page, holding the book close to his face. 

“Potter,” Draco called out, lifting a brow. “What are you doing?”

Potter looked up at him, meeting his eyes briefly before he returned his attention to the book. 

“I’m trying to decipher what the book says, since I can’t get the stain out,” he answered. 

“Oh,” Blaise said from beside him. “Sorry, Potter. Do you want to use my book?”

Potter looked up again, this time turning his head towards Blaise. 

“Would you mind? Snape gave me until tomorrow to write this essay, and I’ve got detention with Umbridge later.” 

Blaise walked towards the table, dropping his bag next to the chair in front of Potter and sitting down. He got the Potions book out and slid it towards the ex-Gryffindor, who thanked him quietly. 

Theo joined Blaise after a beat, taking the seat next to him and leaving only the spot next to Potter empty. He could sit at the other table alone, but his friends had sat with Potter…

He sighed and went around the table to sit next to the green-eyed boy. He took out his own homework and started working. 

They spent the next thirty minutes like that, Theo, Blaise and Draco helping each other while Potter worked silently beside him.

A loud thud interrupted Theo’s explanation, and Draco turned to look at Potter. He had dropped his head on his book, eyes closed. 

“Potter?” Draco called out to the boy warily. Had he passed out again? 

“Mmh?” was his answer. 

“What’s up with the dramatics?” Blaise asked, “I thought Draco was the only drama queen here.” 

Draco made an affronted noise, turning to the dark-skinned boy with a glare. “Hey! You’re just as dramatic as I am!”

Potter huffed a laugh, lifting his head.

“Just wondering if I should just kill myself right now and save Snape the trouble. I’ll never get this done in time,” Potter said, glaring at the parchment in front of him as if it had personally offended him. 

Draco looked at the boy, and then at his own homework. He was almost done with his Charms essay, and he could spare a bit of time, probably… 

“Give me that,” Draco ordered, holding a hand out. He hoped he wouldn’t regret helping Potter. 

Potter looked at him with a frown, confusion written on his face. 

“Your essay, Potter. I haven’t got all day.” 

Potter gave him a surprised look but obliged hesitantly, handing over the parchment. 

Draco read over what he had already written, eyes straining to make out the chicken scratch that was Potter’s handwriting. 

“Merlin, Potter. A monkey would write better than you!” 

Potter glared at him and reached out to get his essay back, but Draco held it out of his reach. 

“You don’t have to help me if you’re just going to insult me, you know.”

“How sensitive you are, Potty. You can’t possibly believe that your handwriting is in any way good.”

Potter scowled but didn’t say anything, and Draco went back to read his essay. The essay itself wasn’t so bad, once he managed to translate his terrible handwriting. 

“This isn’t terrible, but you definitely have room for improvement. You should go into more detail about the reactions between the ingredients, and talk about why stirring anticlockwise helps stabilise the potion,” Draco suggested, returning the parchment to Potter. 

“Thanks,” Potter said. 

Draco went back to his Charms essay, occasionally helping Potter and his two friends when they looked like they needed it. In return, Potter helped them with Defence when he’d heard them complain about the essay that Umbridge had set. 

“Why are you helping me?” Potter asked after an hour and a half had passed. He directed the question at the three of them, but his focus was mainly on Draco and Theo. “We aren’t friends. Hell, you hate me. So why are you sitting with me and helping me? What’s in it for you?”

“We don’t hate you, Potter,” Theo said. “You look like you need help, and nobody else is there to do so.”

“I have friends, you know, who’d help me,” Potter said. “But I don’t need help, so why are you bothering?”

“Yeah, right. You can keep denying it all you want, Potter, but you do need help. And where are those friends? Have you even told them? Have they noticed how much you're struggling? Maybe we should tell them so they can get you help since you won't listen to us.” 

Blaise looked between Theo and Potter, a frown on his face as he tried to understand what the two were saying, or better, weren’t saying. 

“Once again, I’m fine. I don’t need help,” he said. He looked down at his essay that he had almost finished thanks to their help. “Maybe with this essay, yes, but the rest? You can go back to despising me and minding your business, and don’t you dare tell them anything! ”

“Why are you so keen on not receiving help?” Draco interjected. “You clearly need it, Potter. Need I remind you that you passed out just yesterday? You’re going to keel over soon and stay there if you keep going like this.”

“I bet your Lord would be happy if that were the case,” Potter sneered.

“But your friends wouldn’t,” Theo told him. “And they wouldn’t even expect it since they don’t know how bad you are under that glamour.” 

“I’m fine,” Potter spat again. 

“You’re not,” Theo said calmly. “And I will tell you I told you so.”

Potter closed the Potions book with a loud thud, sliding it back to Blaise before he packed up his belongings and left without another word. 

Draco stared at his retreating back and sighed. Is this the thanks they got for bothering to be decent people and helping him? Why were they doing this at all?

“What was up with that? What doesn’t he want help with?” Blaise started once Potter was out of earshot. “What doesn’t he want his friends to know?”

“We can’t tell you, Blaise. We’re trying to convince him, obviously, but if we betray our promise, he’s not going to trust us,” Theo said. 

“Convince him?”

“We found out something about…. About something that was done to him. We’re trying to convince him to tell, but he doesn’t want to,” Draco said, hoping it would be enough to convince Blaise to drop it. 

“Is this why he isn’t eating?” Blaise asked. 

“Probably,” Theo shrugged. “But he looked like this even before this thing happened, so I think there’s something else going on as well.” 

“I was not expecting that having Harry Potter as a roommate would be like this,” Blaise said. “He’s nothing like I thought he was.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” Draco commented. “Though I don’t think he was always like this. Something must have happened during the summer.”

“Well, I don’t think seeing Diggory die and the Dark Lord return when he was kidnapped did anything to help his mental health,” Blaise drawled. “Maybe he’s struggling with that?” 

“Probably, but I don’t hear him having nightmares,” Draco said. 

“He uses privacy charms,” Theo said. “I hear him cast them sometimes.” 

“Then, it’s probable that he has nightmares. It would make sense why he looks exhausted.” Draco frowned. “But enough about Potter. We sound obsessed with him.”

“You've been obsessed with him your whole life, Draco,” Blaise commented. 

Draco tore a piece of parchment and rolled it up, throwing it at his traitorous friend and hitting him square in the face. 

“Theo, have you found anything about that plant Professor Sprout was rambling about?” 

Draco was not obsessed with Potter.

Chapter Text

Harry stormed out of the common room, letting the door slam behind him. He couldn’t spend one more minute with them. 

How dare they? How dare they act as if they wanted to help him, after four years of animosity, of Draco taunting him, laughing at him, pretending to be Dementors to scare him? 

He didn’t think they were helping him just for the sake of it. They were Slytherins. They always had ulterior motives. Did they want to keep him alive just so they could bring him to their Lord for him to kill? Were they trying to get him to trust them?

He didn’t know what to think about the way Theo, and now Malfoy, kept encouraging him to eat, how they seemed worried when he’d passed out, and wasn’t that embarrassing? 

Harry hated feeling weak, and in those moments right after he woke up, he felt so weak—not as much as in the aftermath of… of Pucey, but he felt vulnerable. He couldn’t have stayed unconscious for long, but it was enough for them to do anything they liked to him. Harry’d have expected them to take advantage of it, to hurt him while he couldn’t defend himself, but they hadn’t. 

Or at least they hadn’t done anything that showed immediate results. For all he knew, they could’ve cursed him and he’d find out in a week. 

Harry sighed. He’d never understand Slytherins and how they did things. He wished he was still in Gryffindor, with his friends. He knew how to navigate the Lions’ House. They were a loud, brash and impulsive bunch, but at least they were predictable. Harry knew what to expect from them, mostly. He had a fifty-fifty chance of guessing how they’d react to things, how they’d behave. 

Slytherins were a whole different story. They kept their feelings hidden, their motives buried deep in their mind. They showed nothing of what they were thinking. He couldn’t predict their behaviours, their reactions, what they thought of him. 

Harry didn’t know why the hat had put him with them. He didn’t feel like a Slytherin. He was a lion stuck among the snakes, and it was only a matter of time before the snakes poisoned him with their venom. One of them had already managed. 

Harry knew he hadn’t been wrong when he begged the hat to put him anywhere but Slytherin. None of this would’ve happened if he had just stayed in Gryffindor. 

He’d still be with his friends. Seamus and the others would still hate him, probably, they would still think him a liar, but he’d have Ron and Hermione’s support all day, not just the few hours they got together. He wouldn’t have tried out for the Slytherin Quidditch team, wouldn’t have been in the Slytherin locker rooms, and Pucey wouldn’t have had the chance to hurt him. He wouldn’t feel this dirty, this disgusting. 

But alas, it was useless to ruminate on the would-have-beens. Harry was a Slytherin. He had tried out for the Slytherin team, gone into the changing rooms, and Pucey had hurt him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. And now Harry had to deal with the fallout, the panic he felt whenever he was too close to the older Slytherin, the feeling that he would never be rid of his touch and that he would never be clean enough. Meanwhile Pucey went on with his life with that knowing smirk in his face, well aware of the fact that he had ruined Harry, and that he was too weak to do anything about it. 

And the last people Harry wanted to find out about it now knew. Harry was waiting for the time the two Slytherins were done with whatever game they were playing, stopped pretending to care about his well-being and told everyone just how pathetic Harry was. 

Harry, hopefully, would be ready, then. 

For now, he hid in the same abandoned classroom until it was time to go to dinner in thirty minutes. He wasn’t hungry at all, and he would’ve skipped dinner altogether if he didn’t have detention with Umbridge afterwards. But Harry couldn’t afford to skip it this time. Harry thought a big factor in his passing out was that he had skipped dinner before detention, in his attempt to finish some of his homework. The lack of food and the blood loss probably didn’t agree with each other. Harry wanted to avoid that experience. He didn’t want to pass out again. 

At dinner, he completely ignored his roommates, sitting as far away from them as he could, and he ate his soup slowly, dreading the moment he’d have to get up to go to detention. 

But, unfortunately, that moment came, and Harry had to leave the Great Hall. He dragged his feet towards the Defence classroom, hoping that tomorrow would be the end of his detentions with the toad. 

“Harrikins!”

Harry turned to the sound of Fred’s—he thought it was Fred at least, he could tell them apart, but their voices often tripped him up—voice and saw the two brothers approach him with bright smiles on their faces.

“Going to detention?” George asked him, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. He stiffened under his touch but tried to bury any discomfort down. He trusted the twins. They would never hurt him. “Hope you don’t mind us joining you for your date with lovely Umbridge!” 

“What?” Harry stopped in his tracks, turning to face George. 

“She caught us pranking Filch. We got detention with her tonight,” Fred said. “But at least we have your company!”

Harry felt dread rising in his chest. The twins had detention with Umbridge. She would make them use the quill, make them carve lines in their hands. Unless she reserved that punishment for him, but Harry doubted it. They would see him carving lines in his hand anyway and would probably figure out that he’d been doing it for two weeks straight. 

Another one of his secrets would be discovered today. The only thing that Harry could hope for was that the twins would learn to keep their head down this year, that they wouldn’t make Umbridge give them another detention. Harry hoped that this would be their only detention. If it was, their hands wouldn’t scar. It would hurt, but the only thing they’d get was a bit of redness and soreness for a few hours. 

Harry hoped they wouldn’t see how bad Harry’s wound actually was, but the chances of keeping it a secret were low. 

“Harry? You alright?” Fred asked when Harry stayed silent for too long. 

“You've got to keep your head down,” Harry told them in lieu of an answer to that question. Harry was tired of it already. “You can’t get any more detentions with her. I know that you need to test your products, but you need to be more subtle.”

The twins shared a look above Harry’s head. 

“What do you mean, Harry?”

“You can’t make her angry,” he continued. “And whatever you see today, please don’t tell anyone. Just make sure nobody else gets detention with her.”

“You’re worrying us, Harrikins. Is she really that bad? What are her detentions?”

Harry didn’t answer, just started walking again. He didn’t want to be late and get even more detentions. Tomorrow would be the last one for the week, and Harry would try to make it the last one for the whole year. Umbridge wouldn’t get to see him bleed any more than she already did. 

The three of them arrived at the woman’s office, and Fred knocked on the door. When Umbridge saw them, she gave them a sacharine smile and invited them to sit. She had conjured a long desk that would fit all three of them and had set a parchment and a quill in front of each chair. Umbridge directed the twins to seat in the outer seats, while Harry took the middle. So much for trying to hide the extent of his wound to his two friends. They would be able to see everything. 

“Mr Potter, I hope you haven’t forgotten your line. Messrs Weasley, you will be writing, I must not play childish pranks. There will be no talking. You may begin,” Umbridge said before she took her seat behind her desk. 

“Professor? You haven’t given us any ink,” Fred said, very reasonably. 

Umbridge’s smile was sharp as she regarded the twin. “There’s no need for it, my dear. Just write until the message has sunk in.”

With that, she took out her own quill and ink and started writing on a parchment. 

Harry shifted his attention to his blank parchment. He didn’t want to lift his hand, knowing that when he did his hand would be in display, but he knew that he was only procrastinating the inevitable. Soon, the twins would begin their own lines, and they’d know. The more time he wasted, the longer he’d have to stay there. 

Harry grabbed his quill reluctantly, hand slightly shaking as he steeled himself for the pain that would come as soon as he wrote the first letter. The wound was easier to reopen now. It was red and raw, and it reopened at the slightest brush against a rough surface. He had taken to bringing bandages with him. 

Harry felt George stiffen beside him. The older boy was sitting on his right, and one glance at him told him that he had seen the angry wound on Harry’s hand. George was staring at his hand, eyes wide as they flickered between his hand and the quill he was holding. Harry shook his head subtly, hoping the older boy wouldn’t say anything and just start, and thankfully, George seemed to get the message. 

Fred, however, hadn’t seen his hand, and he let out a gasp as he wrote the first line. Harry could see that the words had formed in the back of Fred’s right hand, but they were faint and only a small bead of blood formed around the wound.  Fred’s eyes darted to Harry’s hand, as wide as his brother’s. 

Harry sighed and wrote the first line. The effect was instant. The barely closed wound reopened immediately as Harry was expecting, and blood gushed out of it, trickling down his hand and staining the parchment. Harry ignored the twins’ reactions as the amount of blood increased the more he wrote, until a small pool of blood had formed around his hand.

The three of them didn’t utter a word, only the scratching of the quills filling the quiet, but Harry could see the glances that the twins kept throwing him. Their faces had paled slightly, but Harry knew that it wasn’t because of the blood they were losing. Their wounds would still heal over as it was only their first detention. They had probably connected the dots, figured out that Harry had been carving himself every night for two weeks. 

At least their presence deterred the thoughts from making him spiral. Their quiet presence was enough that he didn’t feel the need to press harder on his parchments to silence the voices that reminded him how worthless and dirty he was.

Umbridge kept them until eleven thirty, and by the time she dismissed them, Harry was dizzy again, but he felt slightly better than yesterday, probably because he had actually eaten before the detention. 

The twins didn’t say anything as Harry led them outside of the office on shaky legs. They walked in silence for a few minutes, gaining distance from Umbridge, both boys standing close to him. Harry knew that they would question him as soon as they stopped. 

His legs felt like jelly, his head pounding, and Harry would give anything to be able to Apparate inside of Hogwarts. He wanted to curl up inside his bed, no matter that he would get nightmares when he fell asleep, and forget that his secrets were slowly being discovered. It had only been two weeks, and he hadn’t managed to keep half of his secrets. What a pitiful Slytherin he was. Harry wanted to talk to the Sorting Hat again and ask him why he thought he’d make a good Slytherin again.

Harry stumbled, knees growing weaker with every step he took, but a pair of hands grabbed his elbows before he could pass out and hit the floor again. Fred helped him sit, resting his back against the wall, and then he sat in front of him, taking his right hand gently in his. 

George did the same, muttering a Lumos and shining it over his hand so they could see the damage better. 

“How long has this been going on?” Fred asked. All the humour that usually coated his voice was gone, replaced by a seriousness that Harry rarely heard from the twins. He didn’t like it. 

“I’ve had detentions every day for the past two weeks, except for the weekend,” Harry answered. He had no energy to come up with a lie. Not to them. It would be pointless anyway.

Fred gently pulled his right hand closer to his face, examining the wound with a frown. He pointed the tip of his wand at his hand, cleaning the blood with a spell. More blood poured out of the wand immediately, and Fred worked to stop the flow. “Ours don’t look this bad. It healed immediately. Why is yours like this?”  

“It stops healing after the third detention and gets worse the more you do it,” Harry said weakly. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and just wanted to go to sleep. “I have bandages in my pocket.” 

Fred hummed in acknowledgement and fished the roll of bandages from his robes. Once the blood flow had stopped, he worked to wrap the gauze tightly around his hand. Harry wanted to thank him, but he was too tired to speak up. 

Fred sat next to him once he was done with his hand, and Harry rested his head on his shoulder, leaning on him. He felt safe with them, and even if he despised touch usually, they were two of the few people he didn’t mind the physical comfort from. 

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” George asked. He had sat in front of them, his lit-up wand resting at his side to give them a bit more light. 

“She’ll know she got me if I tell someone,” Harry said, eyes still closed.

“We’ve got to tell McGonagall!” George shouted. Harry shushed him, reminding him to be quiet. He didn’t want to attract Filch’s attention or one of the other prefects. They’d give them detention, and with his luck, it would be with Umbridge. 

“I don’t know how much power she has over Umbridge. She’s the High Inquisitor or whatever bullshit they came up with,” Harry said. 

“Dumbledore, then,” Fred suggested. 

“He’s been ignoring me all year,” Harry shook his head. “And he probably has too many things to worry about, more important things than me getting one more scar. Yours won’t scar if you don’t get any more detentions.”

“Harry…” Fred started, but Harry cut him off. 

“She has the Ministry's backing. There's nothing we can do about her. We just need to make sure to avoid detention with her. Spread the word. No mentioning my name.” 

“Are you feeling alright?” George asked him after a few minutes of quiet. 

“Yeah, just tired,” Harry said. “One more detention, and I’m done.”

“Want us to walk you back to Slytherin, Lord Harrikins? It’ll be our first job as your followers!”

“If you don’t mind,” Harry agreed. He didn’t particularly want to be escorted back to his dorm, but it felt nice to spend time with them. He hadn’t seen much of them since he sorted into Slytherin. 

“Do you think Voldy goes everywhere with his Death Eaters? Do they escort him to the bathroom as well?” George asked as the three of them got up, and Harry led them towards the Slytherin dorms. 

Harry laughed at that. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him next time I see him.” 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry didn’t have classes on Friday so he grabbed his bag and made his way to the library. He still had so much homework to complete, and this would be the perfect time to do it. 

Nott and Malfoy were in Arithmancy, Zabini had a date somewhere in the castle, and he doubted any other Slytherin that was currently in the library would willingly interact with him, so he felt safe sitting there. 

He needed a few library books to finish his Potions essay, which he had until the afternoon to turn in, and the library was quiet now the perfect place to study, with only a few N.E.W.T. students bent over their books in a corner who didn’t even raise their heads when Harry entered the library.

Most of the fifth-years were probably in Arithmancy right now or hanging out somewhere else. He wouldn’t imagine Ron voluntarily entering the library without Hermione, who Harry knew for sure was taking Arithmancy. 

It was too early in the semester for the other years to hole up in the library, so Harry was glad that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. He’d like to hang out with his best friend, but he really needed to get his homework done, and keeping Ron focused on his homework without Hermione’s help was a task. If Hermione weren’t there, Harry and Ron would probably get nothing done together. 

Harry found the books Malfoy had recommended before Harry had set off on them and started working on the last part of his essay. Harry felt a little guilty about his tantrum the day before. Malfoy was just trying to help him, even if Harry hadn’t asked him to, and Harry had gone off on him without the boy even saying anything to him. Even though Harry was pretty sure they had ulterior motives, they probably didn’t deserve to be yelled at out of nowhere. Harry had thought about this a lot last night while trying to avoid the nightmares. They weren’t doing anything bad, they just acted concerned, just like his friends. But they weren’t his friends, and Harry couldn’t think of what they would gain from helping him, other than lowering his guard and possibly ambush him and hurt him when he least expected it. 

But Nott and Malfoy seemed genuinely concerned when they’d found out about Pucey, and when they pushed food towards him and asked him if he was alright. And something in his gut told him that they didn’t have any nefarious plans, but Harry didn’t know if he could trust himself. After all, his gut hadn’t told him anything in the maze. It didn’t give any indication that something was wrong until the portkey had transported them to the graveyard and Cedric… 

Cedric paid the consequences of his instincts failing, but this time the only person who would probably suffer from the consequences was him. Would it really be horrible if he pushed down any feeling of animosity he still felt towards them and tried to act friendlier? They would never be friends, but maybe it would make his life easier if he stopped trying to avoid them, if he didn’t snarl at them every time they offered help. He’d just have to decline the help in a nicer way. He didn’t need their help, or anyone’s really, but he didn’t need to yell at them whenever they acted nice. It would probably make them go back to how they were before, when they laughed at him and taunted him every time they saw each other. 

Harry had gained a new enemy in Slytherin—a bigger enemy than a bunch of kids who only used their words to hurt—maybe it was good that he had three less people to worry about, though he would never trust them completely. Maybe they’d keep helping him with his homework if they were on semi-friendly terms. Malfoy excelled in Potions, after all, and Harry did want to improve his grades.

He was lost in his thoughts, but he snapped back into focus when the chair in front of him was pulled out. 

He raised his head, and his eyes met Parkinson’s blue eyes. The girl was looking at him with a neutral expression on her face. Her eyes didn’t falter when Harry made eye contact, and she didn’t sneer at him like she did every time they passed each other in the hallways. 

Even her voice when she called his name was neutral, tone even and without a hint of hatred and derision. “Potter,” she started. “My friends told me you’ve helped him with their Defence homework.” 

Harry nodded, looking at her in confusion. What did she want?

“Would you mind terribly helping me out with the essay?” Parkinson asked. 

Harry looked at her, pondering what he should do. Parkinson had been as nasty as Malfoy to him and his friends, always laughing, but if he was giving Malfoy a chance, didn’t she deserve the same treatment? Harry went back to what he was thinking about before she had interrupted him. It would mean another Slytherin not antagonising him. He could give them the benefit of the doubt, give them a chance until they turned on him and backstabbed him. It would give him a few months of reprieve, of not being taunted by all of his new housemates. He’d just need to keep an eye on them, and maybe they’d let something slip and he’d find out what they were up to. What was the saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? He wasn’t sure they were his enemy anymore, but he thought it would still work for his situation. 

With that in mind, he agreed to help Parkinson, who gave him her first genuine smile and took out her things. “Draco said you wouldn’t help me.”

“Malfoy’s never right.”

Harry didn’t know what had happened to the Slytherins and why four of them were being nice to him, but in that moment, he could feel a shift happening.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry and Parkinson had spent most of the morning working on the Potions essay and Defence essay respectively, and the rest working on the Divination assignment. Harry was surprised that he was having a good time making up dreams for the diary with the Slytherin girl. It wasn’t the same as doing it with Ron, but Parkinson, when she wasn’t sneering at him and making fun of him, was funny. 

When the bell rang for lunch, the two made their way to the Great Hall together. He listened to Parkinson complain about Umbridge’s teaching methods. They sat together near Harry’s roommates and the other Slytherin girls. Nott, Malfoy and Zabini gave them weird looks when they saw them talking, but didn’t say anything. Instead, they joined in the conversation. 

Once it died down, Harry turned towards the three Slytherin boys sitting in front of him. He hesitated, wondering if it was the right decision, but when Malfoy raised an eyebrow after he stared at him too long, Harry took a deep breath and gathered all his Gryffindor courage. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. Malfoy looked startled by the apology, as if that wasn’t what he was expecting to come out from Harry’s mouth. It probably wasn’t. Harry couldn’t see the reason why the blond would think he’d apologise to them. “It was rude of me to go off on you like that when you were just trying to help.” 

Something flashed in Malfoy’s face, an emotion that Harry couldn’t identify, before the boy schooled his face back to the emotionless mask he wore whenever he wasn’t sneering at Gryffindors or laughing with his friends. Nott and Zabini did the same. 

“Whatever, Potter.” Malfoy waved him off, returning to his meal without saying anything else. 

Harry couldn’t help but be slightly offended at that. He looked at Nott and Zabini, but they had also gone back to eating and talking to Parkinson and Greengrass. 

Harry had apologised and this was the reaction he got? Whatever, he’d done his part. 

He ate in silence after that. The food still tasted weird in his mouth, but some of his appetite had returned that day. 

After lunch was over, Parkinson, Nott, and Malfoy headed to Ancient Runes, while Harry and Zabini walked towards the Slytherin dorms. Zabini had gone with him to Snape’s office to drop of his essay and was still following him around. 

“Do you need anything?” Harry asked after a while. 

“No, Potter. Just safety in numbers. I thought Nott had told you,” Zabini said. “A Slytherin second year was just hexed yesterday by an older Gryffindor.” 

Harry frowned at that but didn’t say anything. The two of them walked in silence and sat together in the fifth-year common room. Harry took out his homework again. He was done with Potions, and he had a good idea of what to write for Defence, since he had helped four people with that essay already, but the pile of homework he had still seemed never-ending. 

“Thank you for the apology,” Zabini said after casting a privacy charm around them.

“You didn’t seem to appreciate it,” Harry told him, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. 

“I can get away with being openly friendly with you, since my family is not aligned with the Dark Lord, but Nott and Malfoy can’t afford that. It’ll get back to their parents, and you know who they are,” Zabini explained. 

“But you all have been trying to help me in public, and we haven’t been fighting.”

“They can explain that because Slytherins are not supposed to fight each other in public, and you’re a Slytherin now, and they’ve been subtle enough with nudging you to eat that only I noticed, and that was because I pay attention to my friends.”

“Oh.”

“Slytherin is a dangerous place at the moment,” Zabini said. “But you will be safe with us, Potter.”

Harry looked down at his parchment, scribbling down a sentence from the book. 

“And we’re sorry too, for insisting. We shouldn’t have pushed you. But you have to understand how it looks to us. You passed out, you look like you haven’t slept or eaten in a while… we may not be friends, but this will kill you if you let it.”

“It won’t,” Harry said, shaking his head. 

“It will. I know it, from experience. I had a friend back in Italy. She stopped eating. Wanted to be perfect for her mother, who put pressure on her to stay thin. I came back from my third year here at Hogwarts, and my mother had to tell me she was dead.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Zabini, that sucks.” 

“It does,” Zabini agreed, still looking at Harry. “That’s why I don’t want that to be you. I don’t know why you’re refusing to eat. You may have different reasons, but the end result will be the same.”

“Why do you… why do you care this much?” 

“Potter, you’re fifteen. Nobody wants someone this young to die.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, scoffing. “I know a few people who don’t care that I’m fifteen and would like me to die, actually.”

“Alright, that was stupid of me, but I don’t want you to die. And I don’t think Theo and Draco want that either.”

“Thank you for not wanting me to die, I guess. You still haven’t really told me why.”

“I forgot how curious Gryffindors are. I don’t want the Dark Lord to win,” Zabini admitted. “I’m—I’m prepared to fight for you, but you have to be alive for that.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say to that. “Do Malfoy and Nott…?”

“I can’t speak for them. It’s not my place. You should talk to them if you really must know, but I don’t know if they’ll reveal their allegiance to you.” 

“Ok.”

“Potter, I would appreciate if this conversation stayed between us,” Zabini said after a bit. “Most people know I’m neutral, but if people knew I intend to fight against the Dark Lord when the time comes, it won’t end well for me.”

“I will keep your secret,” Harry promised. 

By the time Zabini left, Harry’s mind was aching with everything that he had found out today. Harry was glad that he could take the Dreamless Sleep tonight after detention.

Chapter Text

After Umbridge’s last detention, Harry had taken the Dreamless Sleep and finally had a nightmareless night. He was still tired; one night of good sleep didn’t erase months of restless sleep, but he felt slightly more awake. Good enough that he actively looked for his best friends on Saturday morning, walking over to the Gryffindor table when he saw they had finished breakfast. 

“Hey, guys,” Harry greeted them when they stopped before him. Harry could see the glares from the other Gryffindor students, but he ignored them. 

“Hi, Harry, how are you?” Hermione asked. 

“Alright, you?” 

Harry directed them towards their abandoned classroom, wanting to talk to them without being overheard, and they chatted about meaningless things like classes on the way. It felt nice to be with his friends. 

Once the door was closed behind them, Harry cast a privacy charm and sat on the desk. Hermione and Ron took the seats in front of him. 

“I talked to Sirius and Remus on Wednesday night,” Harry started immediately, wasting no time. 

“Oh, that’s right. What did they say?” Hermione asked, straightening up. 

“Just reassured me about me being in Slytherin really. Said they wouldn’t disown me for being a snake.” 

“We told you, mate. You didn’t have anything to worry about,” Ron said. 

“Sirius has a cousin who was in Slytherin. Andromeda, I think. He said she’s nice and she ran away with a Muggleborn.” 

“We’ve heard of her!” Hermione exclaimed. 

“We did?” Ron gave her a confused look. 

“Yes, Ronald, just because you don’t pay attention… Anyway, she’s Tonks’ mother. You’ve met Tonks, right? She picked you up for the hearing,” Hermione said. 

“Yes, I did. She seemed nice.” 

“She’s funny as hell, mate. I wish you were there at headquarters. Mum went crazy because she knocked everything over whenever she tried to help.” 

“Did they tell you anything else?” Hermione asked, changing the subject. 

“Not really. We talked about classes mostly. I complained about Umbridge. They reckon she’s not teaching us how to fight because the Ministry is scared Dumbledore is forming an army against the Ministry behind their back.” 

Hermione’s thoughtful look made an appearance at that, and Harry left her to her thoughts while he asked Ron about Quidditch practice. 

“I’m a mess, mate. I don’t know why Angelina picked me,” Ron said, shoulders slumping. 

“I’m sure you’ll get better with practice. She wouldn’t give you a place on the team without a reason,” Harry tried to comfort him. “I reckon it’s just nerves.”

“I think that’s what we should do,” Hermione cut in their conversation. She was staring at Harry and Ron with her I-want-to-do-this-and-nothing-is-going-to-stop-me face, mouth set in a straight line and eyes glittering with resolve.

“Do what?” Ron turned towards Hermione. 

“Learn to fight behind the Ministry’s back!” Hermione said. “They don’t want us to learn, but there’s a war coming, and we need to know how to defend ourselves.”

She had a point, but how were they going to do that? If Umbridge didn’t want to teach them, she wasn’t going to let them teach themselves either. She’d try to stop any attempt they made. 

“Also, we have the O.W.L.s this year, and we’re all going to fail if we don’t learn the practical stuff,” she continued. “I’m not going to fail my O.W.L.s because of the Ministry!”

“How are you going to do that?” Harry asked. He swung his legs back and forth, trying to resist the itch on his hand. It seemed dangerous, and Harry had sworn he would keep his head down and not give Umbridge any more reasons to give him detentions. 

“I don’t know yet,” Hermione said. “I’ve had too little time to think about the details, but I’m sure people will come if we form a study group.”

“But who would teach us how to defend ourselves?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked to the side for a moment, hesitating just a second, and Harry narrowed his eyes at her. 

“No.” 

This was not keeping his head down. Leading a secret defence society would give Umbridge plenty of reasons to give him detentions, and Harry wanted to keep his blood inside his body, thank you very much. He was tired of having to stumble back to his dorms lightheaded and fearing that he would pass out at any second. 

“Harry, please think about it!” 

“No, Hermione. This will get us in trouble with Umbridge. She will put us in detention for this, and I’m done spending my evenings in her office!” 

“It’s not against the rules to form a study group!” Hermione tried to convince him. “And you’d be a great teacher. Please, Harry! You’re the only one with experience who can teach us!” 

“I wish I didn’t have that experience!” Harry pushed himself off the desk, standing in front of his best friend with his hands clenched at his sides. “I wish I didn’t have to know how to defend myself, but my wishes always get thrown to the side and stomped all over!” 

“Harry…” 

“I said no, Hermione. And if Umbridge finds out we want to form a study group for Defence and knows I’m in it, you can bet that she’ll make those illegal. Find someone else if you really want to.” 

“Oi, mate. Don’t talk to her like that,” Ron interjected, stepping forward.

Harry threw a half-hearted glare at his best friend, not saying anything. With that, he left the classroom, avoiding Hermione’s disappointed face. 

Harry felt guilty about the way he had turned down Hermione, but he couldn’t do what she was asking him. It’d be too dangerous, and Harry was tired of being hurt. He’d had enough. 

Hermione was wrong. He wouldn’t be a good teacher. He didn’t know how to teach students, and he’d received the same education as anyone else. The only slight advantage he might have was the studying he did for the Triwizard Tournament, but look how good that turned out to be. He hadn’t managed to save Cedric, and he had only gotten out of the graveyard because the spirits of his parents bought him time. 

If they hadn’t, Harry’s body would still be there, rotting. Once again, he had been saved by his mother. Was that what Hermione wanted him to teach? To hide behind their mothers and let them die for them? 

Harry survived on luck, and that couldn’t be taught. 

And who would even want to be taught by Harry? His friends, maybe, but everyone else? They believed him a liar, probably a murderer as well. Harr still heard Seamus’s words echoing in his head, sometimes, mixing with Uncle Vernon and Pucey’s voices. They were not always there, but enough to remind him what people really thought of him, what the truth was. 

Harry killed Cedric. He didn’t cast the Killing Curse on him, but he might as well have. If it weren’t for Harry, Cedric wouldn’t have been at the graveyard. He would have been safe with his parents. He’d be finishing his education now. But now he’d never graduate. He’d never get a job, and it was Harry’s fault, even if he hadn’t been the one to point a wand at him. 

So, no, nobody would want to be taught by him. He was a murderer and a Slytherin. Nobody would trust him. 

This still wasn’t a reason to treat Hermione like that, though. He should’ve been kinder while turning her down, let her down gently and help her find another solution. But the damage was done now. 

He’d probably apologise later. For now, he walked back towards the Slytherin dungeons, set on brooding in the quiet of his room. Malfoy was out doing something with Parkinson. He didn’t know what the others did on a Saturday morning, but Harry could close the curtains around his bed, set privacy charms and pretend he was alone. 

“Hey, there, Potter,” a familiar voice drawled from behind. His blood froze in his veins. It felt as if his heart had stopped in his chest, not getting enough blood, and that voice had stolen his breath. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard, scratching as they were dragged down the black surface, and a shiver ran down his spine. Dread started rising from his gut, and his stomach turned with nausea. He kept walking, hoping that the boy would get the hint and leave him alone. 

But he hadn’t then, so why would he now? 

His overgrown nails dug into his palms, causing a sharp pain that grounded Harry and reminded him of where he was. He wasn’t going to freeze. He was going to keep walking, putting as much distance between them as he could. 

There was nobody in the corridors. Fear gripped his lungs and cut off his air supply. He couldn’t breathe, but at the moment, he couldn’t care. He was alone with Pucey, but anyone could walk in the corridors. Would he do anything when there was a risk of being found out? 

His vision blurred, and the Hogwarts corridor faded. He saw the green lockers, the bench where he had left his clothes… He pressed harder on his palms and felt a drop of warm liquid trail down his hand. 

The image of the locker room disappeared. 

He wasn’t in there. He just needed to keep walking, to get himself somewhere crowded, where Pucey couldn’t do anything. He wasn’t locked in a room with him, and he’d never put himself in that position again. Harry hoped he wasn’t going to do anything in the middle of a corridor.

“Ignoring me is a bit rude, don’t you think, Potter?” Pucey continued. Harry couldn’t see him, but he could hear the smirk on his face. His footsteps were confident, even and loud, as if he wanted Harry to know he was behind him, that he was following him. 

Harry didn’t respond to that statement. There was nothing he would say to him. And Harry was sure that if he tried to speak, his voice would break, and Harry wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. He felt broken, but he wasn’t going to let him know. 

He probably knew anyway, from the way he flinched and froze whenever he saw him, but he wasn’t going to give him any other indication. 

Fortunately, when he turned the corner, he ran right into Snape. He never thought he’d ever think anything like that, but Harry was glad to see his Potions Professor. 

The first thing Snape did when he saw Harry was sneer at him, even if Harry had apologised, but he wasn’t expecting anything else.

“What are you doing, Potter? I hope you’re not engaging in any rule-breaking,” Snape drawled. 

“I’m just going back to my dorms.” 

“Of course,” the Potion Master curled his lip, looking down his hooked nose at Harry. “Our resident Boy-Who-Lived lazing about all day. I cannot say I’m surprised.” 

Harry didn’t say anything, knowing that whatever he said would be used against him. He just wanted to go back to his room, lock himself in the bathroom and take a scalding shower to clean himself. His skin was itching, as if thousands of little bugs were crawling all over his body, trailing on his neck, then his chest and then down deep under his pants, all over the places where Pucey had touched him. 

Snape glanced behind him so quickly that Harry thought he had imagined it before looking at him again. “Come with me, Potter.” 

Going with Snape was the last thing he wanted to do, but he’d do anything to escape from Pucey. It was either going with his most hated Professor or with his most hated student. Harry didn’t think that Snape would do anything to him, other than possibly yell at him. He’d had plenty of chances to do so, and he hadn’t; he had even saved him, so he trusted the Potion Master a hell of a lot more than Pucey. 

He silently followed behind the man, looking behind his shoulders to see if Pucey was still there, but the boy had disappeared. The panic receded slightly at that. His breaths came easier, and he didn’t feel as if his heart would explode out of his chest anymore. He kept his hands in a fist, however, wanting to remind himself that he wasn’t there anymore, that he was safe. The memories were still close to the surface, ready to play again in his weak mind and remind him of how dirty he was. 

Snape brought him to his office, and Harry flinched slightly as the door closed loudly behind them. 

“I have been busy these past two weeks, Potter,” Snape drawled. “And it seems you have taken advantage of it.” 

Snape’s glare burned on his skin, and Harry had to fight his instincts to look down at his feet. 

“You are a Slytherin now, Potter. As I told you already, and it does not surprise me that I have to repeat myself, your actions reflect on all of us, and I do not accept you dishonouring the House.”

“I am not—”

“Silence, Potter. Do not interrupt me!” Snape snarled. “Have you not spent the last two weeks in detention with Professor Umbridge?”

“Yes, sir, but—” 

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You must learn how to control your temper and act as a Slytherin! I know you must have it in you since the hat placed you here, so use it! You will not accomplish anything by losing control in her classroom!”

“I’ve only lost my temper once in her class, Professor, and I am sorry about it,” Harry said. “I wasn’t feeling well on Monday, so I skipped my classes, and that’s why she’s given me a second week of detention.”

“I see.” 

“I don’t want to get any more detentions with her, either, Professor. I will do my best.” 

“See that you do, Potter, or I will assign even more detention if I hear you’ve gotten in trouble with her again.” 

Harry nodded and turned on his heel to leave, but the Professor stopped him. 

“I haven’t dismissed you, Potter. Come back here, there’s another matter I wish to discuss.”

Harry went back to stand in front of the Professor, waiting for him to continue. 

“Are you settling in Slytherin well, Potter?” the man asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I thought I’d hear more complaints about your roommates, seeing your past hostility.”

“We’ve been getting along mostly.” 

“And you haven’t had any problems with the other Slytherins? I have heard that you turned down the Seeker position.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and he clenched his fists tighter. His eyes flickered to the side as he tried to send the memories away. 

“No, sir, everything’s fine.” 

He tried to keep his voice steady, to avoid raising suspicions, but Snape’s narrowed eyes told him he wasn’t convincing. 

“You were clearly trying to escape from Mr Pucey, Potter. Have you had any problems with him?” 

Harry swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, shaking his head slightly. “N-no, sir.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Potter,” Snape sneered. “What happened?” 

“Nothing happened, sir!” Harry glared at the Professor, voice rising slightly. His skin crawled with anxiety at the thought of Snape finding out the truth. Too many people knew already, and Snape was the last person he wanted to find out. He didn’t want him to know. He could hear him laughing about how weak he was, how pathetic he was. Harry wouldn’t be able to take it. 

“And why were you running from him, then, if nothing happened as you say?”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t running from him. I just wanted to go back to my room.” 

Snape didn’t say anything else. He stared down at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, before his eyes darted down to his hands. 

“Your hands, Potter,” Snape said, holding out his own hand. 

Harry frowned. “What?”

“You are more of a dunderhead than I thought. Your hand, Potter. It’s bleeding.”

“It’s fine, sir. It doesn’t hurt,” Harry hurried to say. He didn’t want the Potion Professor anywhere near his hands. He had a glamour covering Umbridge’s scar, but Snape would probably be able to recognise the glamour. 

“It was not a request, Potter. Give me your hands.”

Harry didn’t obey, instead turning around to leave, but the Professor advanced on him in three quick strides and went to grab his wrists. 

Harry flinched back, the quick movements reminding him of his uncle. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow, but it didn’t come. “I’m not going to hurt you, Potter. I just want to heal your palms.” 

Harry opened his eyes. Snape was observing him with a puzzled expression on his face. Harry thought he could see worry in his black eyes, but he shook that thought away. Professor Snape? Worried about him? It was the same as Petunia being worried about him. Impossible. 

Moving slowly, Snape grabbed his left wrist first, holding him gently. Harry, tired and wanting to go back to his dorm so he could forget about the past hour, let him do it. 

Snape murmured a spell, waving his wand above the bleeding nail marks. He could see him frowning when he grabbed his right hand to do the same, but Harry snatched his hand back before the Professor could say anything. 

“May I go now, Professor? I’ve got homework to do.”

Snape nodded his head, still looking confused, and Harry hurried out of Snape’s office before the man could change his mind.

Harry made it to his room without incident. He ignored Nott and Zabini, who were also ‘lazing about’—if Harry wanted to use Snape’s words—the room, sitting together on Zabini’s bed and playing a game of chess, and made his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

His skin had been itching since he had run into Pucey in the corridor. It was the first time he was completely alone with him. Harry had run into him throughout the week, but Pucey was always with his friends, or there was always someone else there. 

Today, until he had literally run into Snape, Harry had been alone with him, and he didn’t know what would’ve happened if Snape hadn’t been there. Would he have tried again? Or did he just want to taunt Harry? To remind him of how he’d broken him, and how Harry had let him?

Harry felt bile rise in his throat, and he fell on his knees in front of the toilet, throwing up the little he had managed to eat at breakfast. 

He stayed there until he was sure he was done, then he got up and stripped off his clothes. He turned the water to one of its highest temperatures it could get to, then jumped under the stream. He let the water cascade down his itching body and scrubbed his skin to remove the feeling of his touch. The water washed away the tears that escaped him, and he bit his lip to stop the sobs that were trying to leave his mouth. 

He wanted to be stronger than this, move past this and never think about this again, but it felt impossible. At every unwanted interaction with him—whether it was just eye-contact in a busy corridor, a slight brush of his hand on Harry’s back when he passed by him in the Great Hall, or coming up behind him when he was alone—and the nightmares he regularly had about that night made everything come back to him, as if it had happened that day and not a whole week ago. 

Harry wondered if he would ever stop feeling his phantom touches, the harsh strokes and teeth digging into his skin. If he would stop seeing the locker room, and Pucey hovering over his body while he couldn’t move, whispering threats and praises meant to ruin him, whenever he closed his eyes or was left to his thoughts for too long. 

Harry scrubbed harder, nails scratching at his skin. Not feeling clean enough, he grabbed his wand and pointed it at his chest, still littered with dark bruises. “Scourgify!’ 

The spell was harsh on his chest, irritating his already inflamed skin. The pain cleared his head slightly, making the memories and the feeling of uncleanliness that followed him around recede and give him more breathing room.

His skin felt raw and angry when he stepped out of the water ten minutes later. He grabbed a towel to dry himself and stood in front of the mirror. He had dismissed the glamour before getting in the shower, wanting to clean himself properly. 

He was thinner than he’d ever been, but he didn’t focus on that. He looked, instead, at the bruises that still covered his skin. Nott had forgotten to give him that bruise salve he had promised him, and Harry didn’t know how to ask him for it without reminding him why he needed it. They were slightly less dark than when they were freshly made, but they would take a bit more time to fade completely. 

His skin was red from his scrubbing, darker when he had scourgified himself. That spell wasn’t made to be used on skin, and Harry could see why now, but it helped, just like pushing harder on the parchment with Umbridge’s quill quieted his thoughts. Maybe he shouldn’t have cheered when his detentions ended. 

The bruises from Vernon had faded, leaving behind only a yellowed patch of skin. The wounds from his belt, however, were still there. They were almost completely healed now, only the worst ones were still at risk of opening, but they had formed scars that he wasn’t sure would go away without some sort of scar cream. But getting the scar cream would mean going to Madame Pomphrey and telling her why and how he had gotten those scars. Nobody was going to find out about the Dursleys if Harry could help it. 

Harry finished his examination and reapplied his glamour. He schooled his face into a blank expression, hoping that his two roommates wouldn’t notice he was upset, and walked out of the bathroom, going straight to his bed. 

He ignored Nott’s call and closed the curtains around him. With a silencing charm in place, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to think of anything but that day. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry spent the next few weeks avoiding Pucey at all costs, changing directions whenever he caught sight of the boy. 

The physical bruises he left on him had faded now, erasing all evidence of what he had done, but the memory was still fresh in his mind, as if Pucey had impressed it in the forefront of his mind with a branding iron. 

Harry worked hard to hide how much he was struggling. He went about his day, head held high, pretending that he didn’t scrub at his skin whenever he took a shower, that his heart didn’t pick up whenever he saw brown hair and hazel eyes, even if they didn’t belong to him, that he didn’t flinch when someone moved too fast or touched him unexpectedly. 

It worked for the most part. He had had practice with the Dursleys, and with time, he improved at pretending nothing was wrong, and the worry in his friends’ faces faded somewhat. The Weasley twins still gave him sideways glances whenever they hung out, and Nott, Malfoy and Zabini still made sure he ate whenever he showed up at meals, but they didn’t look like they thought he was going to break down or pass out any more. 

Harry had also found a rhythm with his roommates. They didn’t talk much out in the open, where the other Slytherins could see them, but occasionally Harry paired up with one of them, or even Parkinson, in class, when it was convenient, and the five of them sometimes studied together in the fifth-year common room, helping each other out. 

Harry found that when they weren’t using their snark against him, they were not too bad to be around. Malfoy still scowled and insulted him sometimes, but he could tell that he wasn’t doing it to hurt him but lightheartedly, like he did with his friends, and Harry started answering back in kind, matching word for word, but without any malice. 

They had settled in a tentative friendship, one that couldn’t be too obvious as Nott, Malfoy and Parkinson couldn’t act too friendly in front of the other kids with Death Eater parents, one that was fragile and could shatter at any time. 

There wasn’t any trust between them, yet. Not enough for Nott, Malfoy and Parkinson to openly state their allegiance to him, though Harry had a hunch that he knew already. All those hints, them wanting him alive, helping him when they didn’t have to. It didn’t seem like a ploy to get close to him. 

But they didn’t trust him with that, and Harry didn’t trust them with his secrets, the ones they hadn’t already discovered, even though neither Nott nor Malfoy had said a word to anyone about what they found out.

In these few weeks, Harry had also come to another conclusion. He’d spent every Defence Against the Dark Arts class keeping his head down like he had planned, not saying anything to the woman even though he wanted to. He listened to her spouting lies about Voldemort not being back, treating Cedric’s death as a terrible accident and insinuating either that Harry was just a poor, traumatised boy who had seen the death of his classmate and made up a story to cope with what he had seen, or that Harry had caused Cedric’s death and was lying to cover it up. Either way, Harry was a dirty liar. She never said anything plainly, but Harry could read between the lines. Harry was sure she was goading him, trying to get him to lose his temper in her class so she could assign detention and continue her torture, but Harry kept his own advice and stared down at the words in his book, seeing the words but not reading them. 

They were garbage anyway. Which brought him to the conclusion he had come to. 

Hermione was right. 

They’d fail their O.W.L.s if this kept going, and worse, an entire generation of wizards would be unable to fight when the war came—because he knew it would come, and sooner than they all thought—and more lives would be lost if the kids didn’t know how to protect themselves. Cedric would be the only casualty of war if Harry had any say in it. 

Which meant that they needed to study Defence by themselves, and they needed someone to teach them. 

And that someone would be him. Like in many other things in Harry’s life, he had no other choice.

Chapter Text

“I changed my mind.” 

Harry was studying with Hermione and Ron in their abandoned classroom during their break before dinner. It was quiet there. No whispers and glares from other students. Just him and his two best friends. Harry wasn’t that bothered with the gossiping and the glares thrown at him—he had grown used to it after years of being on the receiving end of that treatment—but Ron wasn’t as good at ignoring it, turning around to glare at every person who said a mean thing about Harry in his earshot. It was hard to study with Ron yelling at people to shut up and taking points, so Harry suggested they go to the classroom instead. The only downside was not having access to the library books, but that was circumvented by making a trip to the library on the way. 

Hermione looked up from her book, waiting for Harry to clarify. 

“About the study group, I mean,” he continued. “I’ll help you.”

Hermione’s smile grew wider, and her brown eyes lit up in delight. “Oh, Harry, thank you!” 

“Do you have any ideas?” Harry asked. 

“She’s spent the last few weeks organising this, mate. Of course she has ideas!”

“Oh, did you find another person to teach?”

Hermione looked sheepish at that, her eyes flickering to the side for a moment before she refocused on him. “I was counting on you changing your mind.” 

“Hermione!”

“What?! I was right! I do know you, Harry.”

Harry pouted, glaring at his best friend. Ron patted his shoulder lightly. “What’s your plan, then?” 

“I talked to a few people about the idea to see who would be interested,” Hermione told him. “I’ve also asked Ernie and Hannah to spread the word in Hufflepuff, and Parvati said she’d talk to Padma and the Ravenclaws.” 

“Are people going to want to be taught by me, though?” Harry asked. “Aren’t I a nutter or something?” 

“Oh, Harry, you’re not a nutter,” Hermione said, exasperatedly, as if she spent half her time saying that. 

“I know I’m not,” Harry said. “But half of Hogwarts thinks I went mad and am a liar. Why would they want to be taught by me?”

“People are interested in what you’ve got to say,” Hermione informed him. “They will come. Anyway, I was thinking we could all meet up this Saturday as it’s a Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Alright,” Harry said. “When and where are we holding the meetings?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “Ron and I have been looking for a classroom, but we haven’t had much luck.” 

“Well, let’s do this meeting in Hogsmead first, and then we’ll see.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione smiled at him. 

They left it there, returning to their individual studies. Harry was glad that he didn’t have any more detentions with Umbridge. He was tired of doing his homework at night, and the quality of said homework suffered from the late hours in which it was completed. Harry still spent nights wide awake, chasing nightmares away, on the nights when he couldn’t drink Dreamless Sleep, but at least he didn’t have to focus on stringing sentences together for his essays, though doing homework did help keep his mind off his nightmares. Harry took on drawing instead, an activity that he used to love when he was a kid—at school or whenever he could manage to steal paper and a pencil at the Dursleys—but that he had forgotten about in the wake of finding out he was a wizard. But drawing relaxed him, and he was pretty good at it.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry met up with Ron, Hermione and Neville at the gate on Saturday, and they walked to Hogsmead together. 

“Where are we going?”Harry asked. 

“I told everyone to meet up at the Hog’s Head in one hour,” Hermione answered. 

“Why the Hog’s Head and not the Three Broomsticks?” 

“Oh, the Three Broomsticks is always packed with students, you know, very noisy. The Hog’s Head is off the main road, it’s dodgy, and there’ll be way fewer students. It’s less likely we’ll be overheard.”

“But isn’t it more suspicious for a group of students to meet there? The noise in the Three Broomsticks would cover up our conversations better,” Harry commented. 

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Well, not much we can do about it now. We could cast a privacy charm around us, but that may also be suspicious.”

“No point in worrying about it now. I’ve got to buy some ink now, can we go to Scrivenshaft’s?” Harry asked. 

The four of them walked around the village, going from shop to shop, for about an hour, until it was time to meet the group of people Hermione had managed to gather. 

The Hog’s Head was indeed dodgy. It was completely different from the Three Broomsticks, and clearly not meant for students. The sign was old and battered, barely hanging off its hinges and swaying with the wind. While once you may have been able to see inside from the windows, now they were so dirty that Harry couldn’t even see his own reflection in them.

Harry led the way inside and wished that Hermione had chosen the Three Broomsticks as a meet-up point. The Hog’s Head was one small, very dirty room that smelled strongly of goats and alcohol. The room was lit by candles on the old and half-broken wooden tables. 

If the uncleanliness of the place wasn’t enough, the type of customers it attracted made the Hog’s Head the sketchiest place in Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered why Hagrid didn’t question the man’s unwillingness to show his face when he had won the dragon’s egg, but now he could see that it was a common thing here. There was a man with his face covered in bandages at the counter, and another witch with a black veil over her face. 

Harry eyed the witch warily. Could she be Umbridge in disguise? He voiced that thought to Hermione, but she shot it down and reminded him that they weren’t technically going against school rules. Harry thought that Umbridge would make a school rule against study groups if she found out Harry was forming one, but he kept that thought to himself. He’d already voiced his worries, and they did need this. 

Hermione ordered four Butterbeers for them, leading them to a table in the back, far from the bar. Harry took the seat facing the door, making sure he could see everyone who came into the pub. 

“So, who’s all coming?” Harry asked to fill the silence as he sipped his Butterbeer.

“A few people. They should be here soon,” Hermione said. She had barely finished talking when the door opened, letting in a stream of sunlight for a moment. The first to come in were Dean and Lavender, closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil. Then Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson came in with Lee Jordan and the Weasley Twins—Harry was glad to see friendly faces. Ginny and the blonde girl from the train—Luna Lovegood, if his memory served him right—were next with Colin and Dennis Creveey right behind them. A group of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws was next, led by Ernie McMillan, Justin Finch-Fletchey, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. Finally, Cho Chang and her group of friends brought up the rear. 

Harry felt a fist constrict his chest at the sight of the Ravenclaw Seeker. He had not thought about her much since Cedric’s death, but he knew she must be feeling horrible. She was Cedric’s girlfriend after all. He wondered if she saw him every night in her sleep. Did he come back to haunt her? Did she wake up every night screaming his name? Was she still grieving him like Harry did? A look at her face told him that the answer was yes. Even though she was laughing at something her friend said, the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She had dark bags under her eyes, though not as bad as Harry’s under his glamour. 

Harry felt like a fraud then. What right did he have to mourn Cedric when he didn’t even know the boy? He had barely talked to the older champion, after all. What right did he have to see him every night in his dreams? To feel like crying every time he heard his name? What right did he have to mourn when he was the reason Cedric was dead? When he was the reason Cho—and Cedric’s parents—were mourning at all?

Harry shook his head as if it could send those thoughts away and turned to look at Hermione. “A few people?!” he whispered-shouted. “This is what you call a few people?!”

“Well, I told you people want to hear what you’ve got to say,” Hermione said. “And everybody wants to pass their exams, which we will not do under Umbridge’s instruction.”

“Could’ve given me a heads up,” Harry grumbled. 

“Would you have said yes if I did?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking at him skeptically. He didn’t answer her, opting instead to simply glare at her to convey his message. “Thought so.” 

The group of students approached them. Fred and George pushed their way to the front, sitting in the still-empty seats at their tables. Chatter broke out as everyone pulled out a chair from nearby tables. Some looked excited—Colin and Dennis looked eager to be there, talking animatedly to each other while glancing at Harry. Others seemed more reluctant, as if they had been dragged there, like Cho’s friend. She was giving Harry mistrustful looks, her mouth set in a straight line. An Hufflepuff—Harry vaguely recognised him as a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team—was openly glaring at Harry, and he wondered what he was doing here if he hated Harry so much. 

Once everyone had settled down, bringing chairs around their table, Hermione cleared her throat to grab their attention, and everyone turned their head towards the bushy-haired Gryffindor.

“Er, hi,” Hermione said to the group, voice strung with nerves. “I guess you know why we’ve asked you to come today. We thought it’s time to take matters into our own hands and actually study Defence Against the Dark Arts—properly, not like Umbridge is doing, because that is not Defence Against the Dark Arts and you all know it!” Everyone cheered in approval at that, and Hermione relaxed slightly, some tension leaving her shoulders. 

“And by studying, I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, actually doing the spells.” She stopped, glancing at Harry briefly before taking a breath and continuing on. “And not just to pass our exams, but because… because Voldemort is back, and we need to know how to defend ourselves if we want a chance at surviving the upcoming war.”

Hermione’s words got an immediate reaction. Everyone gasped, Cho’s friend spilling Butterbeer on herself. Neville yelped but turned it into a cough. Everyone fixed their eyes on Harry. 

“That’s the idea, anyway. If you want to join us, we need to decide how—” 

“How do we know You-Know-Who’s back? Where’s the proof?” the Hufflepuff player asked in an aggressive tone and cutting off Hermione. 

“Harry’s seen—”

“Can we really trust Potter’s word, though? He’s the only witness. Who says he’s not lying?” the blond continued. 

“I’m not a liar, and what did I have to gain by lying and saying Voldemort’s back? Don’t you think I wish he were still dead? Do you think I wanted him to come back?”

“Again, you were the only one there. We only know that you appeared with Cedric’s dead body and a story to cover it up.” 

“What are you insinuating?” Ron piped up from beside Harry. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw his wand fall into his hand, pointing at the blond from under the table. Ron’s face was set in a glare. 

“I’ve heard what Seamus said. Maybe he had a point.” The Hufflepuff shrugged. “Maybe Potter killed him, and he’s making up a story to cover it up. We don’t know what happened.” 

“Harry is not a murderer!” Ron, Fred and Neville said at the same time. Harry closed his fist, nails digging in his palm as he took a deep breath to calm himself down. 

“Do we know that, though? He is a Slytherin, after all, and we all know what they are. Do we really want to be taught by him?”

Harry fixed his glare on the blond boy. He had thought along those lines once upon a time, that all Slytherins were evil, but now he was one. He’d spent time in the dorms, observing his new housemates. Yes, there were some bad people—Harry refused to think about him now—he had seen some hex students from other houses, especially younger ones, and even younger students from Slytherin, but he had also seen some kind and generous people in there. Could Nott, Malfoy and Zabini really be evil with all the time they spent trying to help him? Would evil people make sure he ate, help him when he passed out and try to help him in the little ways they could? 

Harry glared at the Quidditch player. “Leave Slytherin out of this. It’s just a house, and it doesn’t make people good or bad. There are bad Gryffindors or Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs just as much as there are bad Slytherins,” he said. “Look, I’m not here to fight with you. I didn’t kill Cedric. Pettigrew and Voldemort did, but I don’t have time to tell you everything that happened that night now—” Harry would never tell, if it were for him. He replayed that night enough times in his nightmares, and he wasn’t sure he could get through it without breaking down. “So if you’re here just to hear that story, or if you think that I killed Cedric or that I’m evil because I’m a Slytherin now, there’s the door. You don’t have to stay here.”  

Harry waited for people to leave, disappointed that they wouldn’t get his story, but everyone stayed put, even the rude Hufflepuff. Susan Bones shifted in her seat, leaning towards Harry. 

“Is it true that you can produce a corporeal Patronus?” she asked, breaking the tense silence. “My aunt was at your hearing. She told me about it.” 

“Yes, it’s true.” 

From there, they took turns asking about the rumours that circulated around Hogwarts all throughout Harry’s four years. His ears burned in embarrassment as his friends answered for him, confirming the rumours and adding other things he accomplished. He wished the earth would swallow him whole.

Harry looked down, playing with a loose thread of his sweater and hoped they would be done soon. He couldn’t wait to go back to his dorms and do nothing, away from all of this attention. He was starting to regret agreeing to teach the study group.

Hermione glanced at him before clearing her throat again. “Alright, moving on… are we all in agreement to take lessons from Harry?” 

Everyone hummed in assent, some more convinced than others. Hermione smiled at them all and continued on. “Then we need to figure out how often we want to meet. I was thinking once a week or there’s really no point.”

A discussion broke out on the meetings interfering with Quidditch before Hermione shut it down, assuring everyone that they would make sure they didn’t clash with Quidditch practice for any House. Then Luna said something about Heliopaths and set off Hermione. 

“Hem, hem,” Ginny said, in a perfect imitation of Umbridge’s high-pitched voice, which caused everyone to look around in alarm. “Weren’t we discussing when to meet?”

“Yes, Ginny, thank you,” Hermione smiled at the redhead and abandoned her discussion with Luna about the existence of Heliopaths. “We can meet once a week—yes, when there’s no Quidditch for anyone, Angelina—but we need to decide where to meet as well.”

“Library?” Katie Bell suggested. 

“Madame Pince will skin us alive without magic if we duel there,” Harry said. 

“Abandoned classroom?” 

“Might work if we find a big enough classroom for all of us. We need lots of room to move around.” 

“We’ll try to find somewhere and send word out to everyone once we do,” Hermione decided, then she opened her bag and looked through it, getting parchment and a quill out. She hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

“Right, I think we should all put our names down just to know who’s in the study group, and also… agree not to let too many people know what we’re doing. So if you sign, you’re agreeing not to tell Umbridge or anyone else who might get us in trouble about the group and meetings.”

Fred and George were the first to sign enthusiastically, but the rest were glancing at the parchment hesitantly. Nobody reached for the quill. Ernie MacMillan voiced his doubts, scared of what would happen if Umbridge found out about his participation in the group as a Prefect, but Hermione was quick to reassure him that she wouldn’t leave the list lying around. Ernie eventually signed, quickly followed by everyone else. 

Once everyone had signed, the group dispersed, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione alone in the pub. Even Neville had left, saying that he had some errands to run before they went back to the castle. 

“Well, that went well,” said Hermione. 

“That blond Hufflepuff is an asshole. Are we sure we want him in our group?” Ron commented.

“Zacharias Smith,” Hermione said. 

“What?”

“Zacharias Smith. That’s his name,” she explained. 

“Asshole name for an asshole.” 

“I don’t like him much either, but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah, and he seemed interested. But the more the merrier, I guess. Also, Michael Corner and his friends probably wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been going out with Ginny.”

Ron sputtered at that, spraying the Butterbeer he was drinking all over the table and earning a glare from the old man at the bar. 

“He’s doing WHAT?!”

Harry ignored Ron’s tantrum and thought about the meeting. He knew people were sceptical about him. He had been on the receiving end of glares and whispers all month, and Harry was surprised so many people had agreed to meet with him and his friends, but he guessed they were there to find out what had happened that night. Dumbledore hadn’t given out many details other than Voldemort’s return, and Harry didn’t blame them for being curious, though he wished they weren’t always so quick to blame him, no matter that he was the first one to blame himself.

“—Cho and you, Harry?”

Harry looked up at the sound of his name, halting his thoughts. “What?”

“I said, what about Cho and you?” Hermione repeated herself with an exasperated look on her face.

“What about us? What d’you mean?” 

“Well, she couldn’t keep her eyes off you, and you did have a crush on her last year… so are you going to do anything about it?” she said, smiling slightly at him. 

“Oh, er…” Harry scratched the back of his neck, looking down at the table. “Er, I don’t know. I don’t think—I don’t think I like her that way anymore, y’know, and I’m sure she’s not interested in me that way either… A lot has happened since then, and you know, Cedric… I’m sure she’s still mourning Cedric, and I think… I think I’d see Cedric every time—” 

Harry swallowed and started scratching off the label on the Butterbeer bottle. 

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes softened, the smile on her face faltering slightly as she reached forward and covered his hand with hers. “I understand, but maybe you should talk to her, you know. Maybe it’ll help both of you.”

“Mm… we’ll see.” 

The conversation tapered off after that, and the three of them left, returning to Hogwarts. Harry hoped he wouldn’t regret agreeing to this.

Chapter Text

Harry bit his tongue and tried to keep himself from saying ‘I told you so’. Hermione was standing on his right, with Ron on his left. Students were crowding around them, shoving at other students to get a better look at the new poster affixed to the wall. Harry glared at the writing, as if it would disappear or catch on fire if he stared at it enough, but it stubbornly stayed there, mocking Harry and his attempts at keeping his classmates alive. He read over the writing one more time, clenching his hands into a fist. 

BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS  

 All student organisations, societies, teams, groups and clubs are henceforth disbanded. 

 An organisation, society, team, group or club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students.   

Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge).   

No student organisation, society, team, group or club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.   

Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an organisation, society, team, group or club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled.   

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-four.   

Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

He didn’t know how Umbridge had found out about the study group—he hadn’t seen any professor at the Hog’s Head—but he knew that it was only a matter of time until she found out about their plans, and that she wouldn’t allow it. He had told Hermione when she first suggested the group, and now he was fighting back the urge to say ‘I told you so’. 

Now the question was whether people would want to do this even if it meant going against Umbridge’s orders. She hadn’t outright banned study groups, but they would need to get it approved, and never in a million years would she let Harry lead a defence group that threw her ‘no-wands’ policy out the window. If she wanted them to learn defence spells, she would teach them herself—the fact that she probably couldn’t even do those spells herself was a whole other matter that Harry was not going to consider. He was tired of Dumbledore’s incompetence in hiring good professors—so the study group would have to be illegal. 

Harry had no qualms about it, it was not the first illegal thing he’d done—smuggling a dragon out of Hogwarts, brewing Polyjuice potion in an abandoned bathroom and using a Time Turner to help his wrongly, but still convicted, godfather escape had lowered his moral bar. He’d do almost anything if it meant helping his friends—but would the others still be willing? He thought they would. After all, they had met in secret in the first place. They had treated the meeting as something that had to be hidden from the beginning, so Harry thought they knew what they were getting into by coming to the Hog’s Head. 

But maybe they didn’t know what the consequences of going against her would be. Did they know what her detentions were? He hadn’t seen anyone get detention with her, other than the Weasley twins. Almost everyone disliked her, and there was a collective effort to avoid detention with her so as not to spend extra time with her, but that meant nobody knew what her detentions entailed. Harry also didn’t know if that kind of detention was universal or if she only did it to him, and the Weasley Twins were an exception because they had had detention at the same time as him. Would they still do it if they knew about Umbridge’s torture quill?

Furthermore, Harry was worried about Umbridge’s reaction if she found out they went ahead with the group behind her back. Would she really expel all of them like the sign said? Or would she give all of them detention? Would she make them carve words into the back of their hands like she did to him and the Weasley Twins? Harry hoped not, but he had time to make a plan if it came to that. He could probably take the fall if she ever found out, make a deal with her so nobody but him would get hurt. He’d never forgive himself if other people got hurt when he could help it. It was bad enough that the twins had had detention with her; Harry didn’t want Ron and Hermione, or Neville, to have to go through hours of torture. He didn’t know if he’d be able to convince Umbridge to let the others off the hook, though.

Harry didn’t want anyone to know that he had spent two weeks carving the back of his hand, but maybe… but maybe he should give everyone a heads up. Let them know what could happen if they agreed to the study group, even though it was against Umbridge’s direct orders and let them decide for themselves if they wanted to take the risk. He could let this one secret go. It wasn’t even that big of a secret. People could easily find out by getting detention with her, and everybody knew that Harry had had detention with her for two weeks. It wouldn’t take long for people to put the pieces together and know that she had made him use the quill. 

Harry would warn them. It was the right thing to do. Everyone deserved a choice and to make their decision knowing what the consequences could be. 

“How can she know?” Ron asked, bringing Harry out of his thoughts. “Do you reckon someone told her? They could have run off and told them after the meeting… I bet it’s—”

“They can’t have,” Hermione said in a low voice.

“Don’t be so naive,” said Ron. “They’re not all honourable and trustworthy. I bet it’s that Zacharias Smith… or Michael Corner.”

“I put a jinx on the piece of parchment we all signed. If anyone’s told Umbridge, we will know.”

“Hermione,” Ron turned to Hermione, eyes wide in adoration. “Have I ever told you you’re brilliant?”

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

The message on the notice board sent Hogwarts into a spiral. It was all the Hogwarts student body could talk about at breakfast. The Quidditch players were going crazy with the news that their team might not be allowed to re-form. Harry had seen Angelina Johnson on the verge of tears at the Gryffindor table, and Graham Montague didn’t look any happier, though his eyes were dry and the tears were replaced by a mutinous expression. Harry had pointedly avoided looking at the boy sitting next to him when he glanced at the Quidditch captain. 

Malfoy, Nott, Zabini and Parkinson discussed the matter amongst themselves, heads close to each other so that only they could hear what they were saying. Once in a while, they would glance at him, but he couldn’t tell if they were talking about him or if they were making sure he wasn’t listening to them. 

Another group of people that the Educational Decree N°24 had sent into a panic was those who had come to the meeting at the Hog’s Head. Harry could see from his place at the Slytherin table students coming up to Hermione before she sent them away. 

Harry scowled. It seemed like nobody knew subtlety in the castle. It was no wonder they’d been found out if people didn’t understand that going up in groups to talk to someone, with worried faces, so soon after Umbridge had made the decree, would make them look suspicious. Umbridge might be incompetent, but she wasn’t that dumb. 

Hermione had told him, when they ran into each other in the corridors while going to class, that she was working on a way to communicate discreetly and that it wouldn’t be long until she was done. The only thing left to do was to find a place to meet. It was also the hardest part. 

But Harry’s attention wasn’t focused on that anymore, but on the snowy owl that was standing on the narrow window ledge.

“Potter,” Malfoy whispered from beside him. They had started partnering together in class, and surprisingly, they made a good duo in class, working efficiently together. “Isn’t that your owl?” 

Harry didn’t take his eyes off Hedwig as he nodded. 

He frowned.

What was Hedwig doing there? They had just had breakfast, and that was when the post came. Why hadn’t she delivered her letter then?

Hedwig hooted loudly, catching the attention of the rest of the class, and even Professor McGonagall turned to look at the bird at the window. The woman turned back to the class and fixed her eyes on him. 

“You may get your letter, Potter, but be quick about it,” McGonagall told him sternly, and Harry thanked her before getting up to open the window. The moment the window was open, Hedwig hopped inside. Harry went to take the letter, but noticed with a frown that her feathers were ruffled, some bent in the wrong direction and her wing was at an odd angle. 

“She’s hurt!” Harry exclaimed, taking a closer look at her wing. He made to touch it, but Hedwig jumped away, giving him a reproachful look. McGonagall stepped beside him. She put a hand on his shoulder, but Harry flinched back slightly, not having expected the touch, and dislodged the Professor’s hand. 

“It looks like she’s been attacked, Potter. Do you know how far she’s travelled?” the Professor asked. 

“Er—from London, I think?” 

McGonagall gave him a sharp look, and Harry knew that she understood that by London, he meant Sirius’ place. Harry didn’t know exactly where the Headquarters were, but Ron and Hermione had told him they were somewhere in London and that it was the Black’s ancestral home. 

“You should bring her to Professor Grubblyplank. She’ll be able to heal her.” 

Harry did as McGonagall suggested, and soon Hedwig was in Professor Grubblyplank’s care, who had promised that Hedwig would be as good as new in no time. 

The rest of the day flew by. Umbridge had been there at Potions, and Harry had never rooted for Snape, but then and there, he was his biggest fan. Divination was a disaster, with Trelawney crying about being on probation, but Harry didn’t have high expectations for that class. He was glad that Trelawney had forgotten to predict his death, though that might have saved her and put her in the high inquisitor's good graces if she had done so in front of Umbridge. He was sure the toad would only be happy about Harry’s death and would appreciate the Divination Professor’s predictions. 

The Slytherin team had quickly gotten approval for their team to re-form, while the desperation on Angelina’s face told him that the Gryffindor team hadn’t been so lucky yet. Harry was surprised that Malfoy hadn’t gloated about it, but maybe the fact that Harry was no longer on the team didn’t make it as fun. 

The day had been eventful, and Harry wished he could go to bed, but alas, he found himself crouching in front of the fire in the Slytherin fifth-year common room at one a.m. again, a privacy charm around him so that he wouldn’t be overheard.

The letter Hedwig brought was from Sirius, who had asked to meet him again that night. 

So here he was. Harry wasn’t sure about talking to Sirius, worried that his letter had been intercepted and they would get in trouble, but there wasn’t time to turn down Sirius, and there was the risk of his letter telling him no being intercepted as well. 

Harry could only hope that nothing would go wrong, as Sirius’ face appeared in the fire. 

“Hi, Sirius!” Harry greeted the man, smiling down at him. 

“Hello, Harry. How are you doing?” Sirius returned the smile. 

“Not that good,” Harry admitted. “There’s a new decree, banning all student groups, like Quidditch—”

“Or super secret Defence Against the Dark Arts groups?” Sirius snickered. 

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “How’d you know about that?” 

“You’ve got to choose better meeting spots,” said Sirius. “The Hog’s Head?”

“Hermione chose it,” Harry grumbled. “I would have chosen the Three Broomsticks, but she had already told everyone to meet there before she told me, so it was too late. Who overheard us?”

“Mundungus Fletcher, of course.” Sirius paused for a moment. “He was the witch under the veil.”

Sirius told him about the Order sending Mundungus to follow him before telling Harry that Mrs Weasley had a message for Ron. 

“She’s told me to tell Ron that he’s not to take part in an illegal secret Defence Against the Dark Arts group, and she advises you and Hermione not to go on with it either, but that she can’t really do anything about it. She says you’re too young and that there’s time to learn how to defend yourself.”

“I’ll pass on her message,” Harry said, scoffing. They were young, yes, but Voldemort clearly wouldn’t discriminate between adults and children. And neither did people like Pucey. Voldemort wasn’t the only monster they needed to defend themselves from. “Do you agree with her?”

“I think there’s someone trying to kill you, and learning how to defend yourself properly is a good idea,” Sirius said. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

Harry smiled at his godfather, relieved that he seemed to approve. He was going to do it even without his approval, but it felt nice to have him on his side. 

They discussed a good meeting place, Harry taking advantage of Sirius’s extensive knowledge of the castle from years of exploring it with the other three Marauders before Sirius froze. 

His head vanished from the fire, and instead, a stubby hand appeared in its place, reaching blindly as if it could catch Sirius. Harry jumped away, landing harshly on his arse and scooting back from the fireplace. 

He stumbled to his feet and ran back to his room, careful not to make any noise once in the room. He didn’t want to wake up his roommates. He had bothered them in the middle of the night enough times, and Harry was scared they’d kick him out if it happened another time. 

Harry went to bed with his heart still beating furiously in his chest, his breathing erratic from the panic of Umbridge almost catching him talking to Sirius. It was obvious Umbridge had read his post. The question was, did she know that the message had come from Sirius? Or was she just trying to catch him in the act of breaking the rules, but didn’t know exactly who he was talking to?

Harry didn’t care if he got in trouble; he was used to her particular method of torture, and there wasn’t much more she could do to him, but she could do a lot of damage if she got her hands on Sirius. There was still the kiss on sight order on him, and Harry knew she would be eager to be the one bringing Sirius to ‘justice’. 

Harry couldn’t allow that. They’d need to be more careful and find a better method of communicating. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry had told Hermione and Ron about Sirius’ Floo Call as soon as he’d seen them the next them, starting a discussion on whether Umbridge was reading his mail or not. After reassuring Hermione that they were doing the right thing by forming a secret Defence Against the Dark Arts Group and eating dinner—Harry’s appetite was slowly improving, though he still didn’t eat much—he followed his roommates to the library. Malfoy had promised to help him with his Potion essay in exchange for help in Defence.

He sat with the three boys and Parkinson at a table near the back of the library, mostly hidden from view, and they started working on their homework. 

It was half an hour later of working and helping each other quietly when Harry was rudely interrupted mid-explanation. 

He hissed in pain, eyes scrunching closed and forehead creasing as he brought a hand to his forehead, pressing hard against his pulsing scar as if it would ease the pain. It didn’t do anything to help. Instead, the pain soared. Harry felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly in the head, and he bit his lip to stop himself from moaning in pain. 

A feeling of anxiety rushed through him. His head hadn’t hurt this much since that night at the graveyard, when Voldemort had touched him. What did it mean? Voldemort couldn’t possibly be here, or Dumbledore would know. 

No, Harry didn’t think that Voldemort was here. Harry felt a rush of anger with the pain, but it felt distant. He didn’t think the emotion belonged to him. He spent a lot of time angry, but he wasn’t at the moment. No, it wasn’t he who was angry. It was Voldemort, and somehow Harry could feel it, the same way he had felt his joy a few weeks earlier. 

“Potter?” Malfoy’s annoyed voice filtered through once the pain subsided. “Potter, what’s going on?”

Harry thought he heard concern in his rival’s (was he still his rival? Harry wasn’t sure) voice, and it surprised him to hear it, even after weeks of Malfoy and his friends showing their worry. 

Harry swallowed down the nausea that had come up with the pain and opened his eyes to see Malfoy staring at him with poorly hidden concern. “I’m fine, Malfoy, just a headache.” 

Harry might have suspicions about their alliances, but it didn’t seem prudent to go around telling people so close to the Dark Lord that his scar was hurting. 

Malfoy didn’t seem convinced but let the matter drop when he saw that Harry wasn’t going to offer any more information. 

Once their homework was completed, the four boys said goodbye to Parkinson and headed back to their room. 

“Potter,” Malfoy called out to him once they were in their room and before he could disappear into the bathroom. “I’ve heard you’re forming a secret Defence club.”

Harry froze, looking up sharply at the blond boy. “What? I’m not.”

“Please, Potter. Don’t insult us. You Gryffindors don’t have subtlety in your dictionary. We’ve heard of your meeting at the Hog’s Head, and from Umbridge’s new decree, she knows too. You should tell your friends to stop talking about it so loudly in the corridors.”

“I will,” Harry scowled, giving up the pretence. “Why are you asking about it?”

“We want in,” Zabini said. “Umbridge is not teaching us anything, and if so many people think you can teach them, we want you to teach us as well.”

Harry stared at them, eyes wide. “What? You want to join the meetings?”

“We don’t want to be behind in Defence class, and we want to learn how to defend ourselves.”

“I don’t think the others will like you joining us,” Harry said. “They barely accepted me, and I was a Gryffindor until a month ago.”

It wasn’t fair, but Harry truly didn’t think it would go over well if he brought the three Slytherins to the meetings. Up until this year, Harry would’ve agreed with them, but now that he got to know them, even if it hadn’t been that long, he knew that they weren’t bad people and that they deserved to learn as well. 

Malfoy sneered at him. “I’d have thought you were done with your prejudices after everything.”

“If it were for me, I’d let you in the group, Malfoy. But the others don’t know you. They won’t want you there.”

Nott opened his mouth to say something, but Harry interrupted him. 

“And don’t you have an image to keep? What will people say if they see you mingle with the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ and his friends?”

“Well, we were hoping our presence would be kept secret since it is a secret Defence group.”

“Yeah, the group was so secret that we’ve been found out in less than twenty-four hours. It won’t take long before someone finds out that you’re in on it. My friends wouldn’t say anything if I asked them not to, but there are people that I don’t know and don’t trust there.”

Malfoy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Sorry I asked, Potter. I just thought you’d help us.”

“I said that you can’t join our Defence group, not that I wouldn’t help you,” Harry said. Malfoy’s eyes snapped to him. 

“I’ll give you private lessons. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I helped everyone but not you, and it will be safer and more comfortable for everyone.”

The three boys gave him genuine smiles at that, and Harry couldn’t help but smile back. His smile faltered when he glanced down at his hand. Harry was going to tell the others about Umbridge’s detentions, to warn them of the possible consequences if they were caught. 

It wouldn’t be fair to let them possibly get in trouble without knowing everything. Harry looked up to his three roommates again. He couldn’t believe he was going to reveal another secret to the three Slytherins.

“If you want to do this, there is something you should know,” Harry started. “About what could happen if Umbridge catches us.”

The three boys frowned, looking at him expectantly. 

He took a deep breath, grabbing his wand in his left hand and raising his right hand in front of him. He waved his wand over the back of his hand, dispelling the glamour he had placed on his hand. The smooth surface of his hand disappeared, and he heard a gasp as the scar appeared on his skin. 

Malfoy was the first to move, taking a few steps closer to him and grabbing his hand. Malfoy’s hand was cold as he held his hand gently, examining the deep scars. 

“Merlin, Potter, what’s this? Are those words? What does it say? I can’t really tell.”

“I must not tell lies,” Harry said. “It’s Umbridge’s punishment. She has this quill, I don’t know what it is, but I think it uses my bloo—”

“A Blood Quill? Umbridge made you use a Blood Quill?!”

“Ye—Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes, Potter, it’s called a Blood Quill. Has she made you write with it every detention?”

Nott stepped closer, taking his hand from Malfoy’s grip to examine the wound himself. 

Harry nodded. 

“Merlin, Potter. You’ve spent hours in detention, for two weeks straight,” Malfoy said. Nott’s face looked like it had lost colour as he looked at the wound. “Have you put anything on it? Does anyone know? Oh, why am I even asking? Of course, you haven’t told anyone.” 

Malfoy went to his bed, opening his trunk and rummaging through it. “Here’s some Murtlap Essence. It should help some.”

Harry took it gratefully, opening it and putting some on the wound. It burned at first, but then the burn turned into a cool sensation that soothed his still-aching skin. 

“Fred and George know,” Harry admitted. “And I’ve asked them to spread the word to avoid getting detention with Umbridge. And this is why I’m telling you now. I don’t know what she’ll do if we’re caught, but I don’t want anyone to go in blind without knowing that she might do this as a punishment.”

“Thanks for the warning, Potter,” Zabini said. “But why haven’t you told a teacher?”

“What can they do about it? She’s the High Inquisitor, whatever the hell that means. She’s backed by the Ministry.”

“We’ll find a way to stop her,” Malfoy said. “For now, do you have any ideas where and when you’ll hold the meetings?”

“I haven’t found a place yet. It needs to be big enough to accommodate all of us and have enough space to move around.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud crack. Harry flinched as a small creature appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the room, startling him. 

“Dobby?” Malfoy frowned at the house elf. “What are you doing here?”

Dobby stepped back from the blond, walking closer to Harry. A white owl was perched on his head, and Harry stood up, recognising the bird as Hedwig. 

“Dobby has Harry Potter’s owl, sir,” Dobby said, his long ears low against his round head. 

Hedwig flew the short distance, landing on his shoulder. 

“Dobby has volunteered to bring Harry Potter his owl,” the elf squeaked. “Dobby wishes to help the great Harry Potter, for Harry Potter set Dobby free, and Dobby is much, much happier now.”

Harry flushed, looking nervously at Malfoy. He didn’t want to remind him that he had cost his family their elf, even though he didn’t regret it. He had heard of how they treated him, though Harry wasn’t sure Malfoy Jr had a part in it.

“Thanks, Dobby.”

“If there is something Dobby can do, Harry Potter only needs to ask,” Dobby said. The elf raised his hand to snap and disappear, but a thought crossed his mind. 

“Wait, Dobby! There is something you can do!” 

Dobby looked up at him with a large smile. “Anything, sir. What can Dobby do for the great Harry Potter?”

Harry heard two of the Slytherins try to hide a snicker, and he glared in their direction. “I need a place where twenty-eight people can practice Defence Against the Dark Arts without any of the professors knowing, especially Umbridge. Do you know any place like that?”

Harry didn’t have high hopes, but he hoped the little elf knew of a place. It would save him a lot of time. 

“Dobby knows of the perfect place, sir,” Dobby said, waggling his ears in excitement. “Dobby heard of it from the other house-elves when he came to Hogwarts, sir. It is known by us as the Come and Go Room, sir, or the Room of Requirement! It is a room that a person can only enter when they have a real need for it. Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not, but when it appears, it is always equipped for the seeker’s needs.” 

Harry couldn’t help but smile when Dobby told him very few people knew about the room and where to find it. 

He went to bed that night with a weight off his shoulders. He had a place for the meetings now, somewhere where Umbdridge wouldn’t catch them. The others had promised to keep this a secret, and Hedwig was healed and asleep, perched on his bed. 

For the first time in weeks, Harry fell and stayed asleep without the help of the Dreamless Sleep potion. Harry could only hope that the worst was over. Things could only look up from now on.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know how Hermione managed to get everyone to come on such short notice, but the next day found Harry, Ron and Hermione waiting for everyone in the Room of Requirement. 

So far, only the Gryffindor fifth-years—with the exception of Seamus—the twins, and Ginny had come, but Hermione had reassured him that the rest were simply late. Harry privately thought that he didn’t really care if other people showed up or not, as long as nobody snitched on them. He wasn’t really a people person, and being in a crowd with twenty-eight people wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed. There were too many people he didn’t know, people he didn’t trust, and Harry knew firsthand how dangerous even the most unassuming people could be. After all, nobody had expected little Peter Pettigrew to be a Death Eater and capable of betraying his parents and framing Sirius for his death and the murder of twelve Muggles.

He didn’t know how Hermione expected him to teach twenty-eight people, but Harry wasn’t one to back down from a promise. He had promised her he would do it, and do it he would, even if he’d rather be anywhere else.

More people trickled inside, looking around in wonder. Harry felt uneasy with so many people in the same room. He gripped his wand tightly, hand hidden inside his pocket, and greeted the newcomers with a tight smile. After a while, Harry saw Hermione nod her head, signalling that everyone was there and that they could start.

“Hello, everyone,” Harry said, once everyone was standing in a circle in front of him. Hermione and Ron were standing beside him, one on each side. Having them so close felt a bit suffocating, but he was glad that they were there. He didn’t know if he could stand like this in front of twenty-five people if he didn’t have his two best friends right there at his side. 

“I hope you haven’t had any trouble finding this room. I ask that you don’t spread the news of this room around. It’s better if only we know of it, or we might get caught.” 

A murmur of assent followed that, and Harry took a deep breath before continuing. “Speaking of getting caught…” he started. “We’re going to try our best to make sure that Umbridge doesn’t find out about this group, but there is a possibility that she will catch us.

“I thought it was important that you know what the consequences might be, so you are fully aware and can make an informed decision on whether you want to keep going or not. If you don’t want to risk it and want to quit the group, that’s fine. We just ask that you don’t snitch on us if you do decide to leave the group.”

Harry saw Hermione and Ron frown beside him. He hadn’t told them anything in advance, not wanting to have to repeat himself a million times. He had already gone over it once with Malfoy, Nott and Zabini. He didn’t want to say the same things three times, so he had opted to let them find out with the rest. 

Harry’s eyes swept over the group, stopping on the twins. They must have known where he was going with this, so they were giving him reassuring smiles. He smiled back and kept his focus on them, imagining that he was only talking to them. They were two of the few people he really trusted, and if Harry had to reveal his secrets to anybody other than Ron and Hermione, it would be them. And the fact that they already knew about this one helped as well. He could just pretend they were just talking about it, rather than Harry revealing one of the secrets to a room full of people, though he didn’t know if other people knew what Umbridge’s punishments were. 

He took a deep breath before speaking again. “I don’t know if any of you have had detentions with Umbridge yet,” Harry said. Everybody but the twins shook their heads, and Harry felt relieved at that. He hoped that they would be careful not to anger the woman once they knew what they entailed, that they knew to keep their heads down and her focus off of them. 

“Didn’t you say she made you write lines?” Neville asked.

“I did, but she made me use a weird quill. I think it’s called a Blood Quill?”

“What?!” 

The exclamation came from various corners of the room.

“So, yeah, I won’t blame you if you don’t want to risk it, but please don’t sell us out.”

Harry shook his head when Hermione went to talk, signalling that they would talk in private and not there in front of everyone. Harry, then, waited, knowing that at least somebody would opt out, but to his surprise, nobody left the room. One girl looked like she wanted to, but Cho had her hand wrapped around her wrist, keeping her standing beside her. 

Harry gave it another minute before he launched into the lesson. He talked them through the Disarming Charm, shutting down complaints from Zacharias Smith on the inutility of teaching them a charm they already knew. Harry had fun using him as an example and disarming him in five seconds. 

Harry went around the room, then, correcting people on their posture and giving them tips on how to improve. 

By the time everyone mastered the spell, an hour and a half had passed, and Harry was ready to send them all off. 

“Good work, everyone. I’ll see you next week at the same time,” he said. “We’re leaving in small groups.”

It took another ten minutes for everyone to leave, and soon it was only he, Ron and Hermione in the room. 

“Harry,” Hermione said. Harry turned to his friends, knowing that this conversation was coming. “Why haven’t you told us about Umbridge’s detentions?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. It was not a big deal.”

Ron scoffed. “Not a big deal?! She’s made you carve words into your hands! For two weeks! And why have you suddenly decided to say anything now, if it isn’t a big deal?”

“It was fine if it was only me, Ron, but I don’t want any of you to go into this blind. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“It’s not fine, Harry. Even if it was just you, it’s not fine. She tortured you,” Ron said. 

“Can I see, Harry? I might have something for it,” Hermione said before Harry could shout back. 

“It’s fine. Malfoy’s already taken care of it,” he waved her off. 

“Malfoy? You told Malfoy before you told us?!” Ron yelled. 

“He saw my hand,” Harry lied. He didn’t want to tell them about the private lessons yet. “It’s harder to hide stuff when you’re living with observant Slytherins.” 

“But anyway, I’m fine. We’ll just need to be extra careful. No whispering about this group in the corridors where everyone can hear us.”

Both Ron and Hermione nodded. 

“You should go. I’m going to clean this up, and then leave myself,” Harry lied. 

“We can help you, Harry,” Hermione offered, but Harry shook his head. 

“It’s fine, guys. I want to be alone for a bit before going back to the dorms.”

Hermione looked unsure, but Ron dragged her away, waving goodbye to Harry. 

Soon, he was alone, but it didn’t last long. Ten minutes later, when he’d just finished reorganising the room, the door opened, and four figures slipped inside. 

Harry nodded to the four Slytherins as they stood in front of him. 

“This place is cool. Does nobody really know about this?” Parkinson commented, looking around. “How does it work?”

“You just think about what you want, pace three times in front of the door, and the room provides it, I think,” Harry answered. “Though it has limits. It didn’t conjure food when Malfoy and I tried it this morning.” 

Harry had gone with Malfoy to see the room during lunch break. Harry thought it would be awkward being alone with the blond Slytherin, but it was surprisingly nice. The boy was funny, and he’d toned down the sneers and the insults. The only times he insulted Harry, he could clearly tell the boy had been joking. 

“So what are we going to do?” Zabini asked. 

“We practised the Disarming Charm today. We can start with that and then switch to something else,” Harry started. “I know you probably already know it, but practice doesn’t hurt and unless they know wandless magic or resort to Muggle fights, a duel is over without a wand.” 

The four agreed, and the lesson started. They were split in two, Zabini duelling with Parkinson, while Malfoy and Nott worked together. For the next twenty minutes, Harry alternated between them to give them tips, but did not physically correct them. Soon, when they’d all managed to disarm each other multiple times, Harry moved on to the Shield Charm.

Harry watched them for a few minutes from afar before he went to help them again. He started with Pansy and finished with Malfoy, who was now working on his Shield Charm. 

He stood next to him, giving him advice, but when it seemed like it wasn’t working, he stepped closer, hands hovering. He wasn’t sure what to do, but then he shook off his doubts and grabbed Malfoy’s wand hand gently. He was close enough that their shoulders were brushing, and Harry felt the boy tense up under his touch. Harry went to let him go, apologising, but Malfoy stopped him. 

“It’s fine, Potter,” he said. “What should I do to fix this?” 

Harry guided Malfoy’s hand, demonstrating how his wrist should move, and then instructed him to say the incantation. A glimmering shield appeared before them, but it flickered for a second before disappearing. 

“Again, but remember that the spell is also intent. You have to want it to protect you,” Harry said. 

Malfoy nodded, and they did it again. This time, the shield lasted longer. “That’s better, but there’s room for improvement. Again.” 

Harry stayed by Malfoy’s side until he could more or less control the shield and how long it lasted. 

“Thank you, Potter. You’re not half bad at this teaching thing,” Malfoy gave him a rare unguarded smile, and Harry felt something flutter in his stomach. He felt his cheeks warm with the boy’s praise, and he frowned. Why was he blushing at Malfoy’s smile and compliment? It wasn’t even that good of a compliment. Harry then realised he was still holding Malfoy’s hand, and he dropped it like it was a hot coal, stepping back and going to the table in the corner, where he had asked Dobby to put a few goblets of water. 

He drank water while giving his back to them, trying to hide his warming cheeks, and when he was sure the embarrassment was gone, Harry returned to the four Slytherins. 

“All right, let’s practice this a few more times,” Harry said. 

The four exchanged spells, and Harry smiled when all of them managed to hit their target or conjure a shield strong enough to block their opponent's spell at least a few times each. 

“Do you want to move on to the Stunning Spell or call it a night?” Harry asked them half an hour later. He hoped they would choose to stop. It was now close to midnight, and he was tired, almost swaying on his feet. He’d been up early working on his homework, he’d taught two groups of people, staying on his feet for almost three hours, and when he went back, he’d have to finish his Transfiguration essay before he could attempt to sleep. He didn’t think he could stay up much longer, but he’d do it if they wanted to go on. 

“Let’s finish here for tonight, Potter,” Nott said. “You look dead on your feet. Are you all right?” 

“Just tired,” Harry said. “Let’s go, then.”

They hadn’t made much of a mess, so it only took a wave of a wand to fix the damage done by their stray Expelliarmus . 

Soon, the five Slytherins were walking down the dark corridors, trying to stay in the shadows so that they wouldn’t be seen by any patrolling students or professors. Harry would normally use his invisibility cloak, which he did have with him, but while he trusted the Slytherins somewhat, it was not enough to tell them about his father’s cloak. 

They’d managed to make it to the dorms unseen, and the four boys said goodbye to Parkinson before going up the stairs to the fifth-year boys' dormitory. Harry almost lost his balance once, the exhaustion making his legs feel like jelly, but cold hands grabbed his hips, holding him steady. He tensed at the unexpected touch, digging his nails into his palms to stop himself from thinking about him. They were not his hands on him, holding him down so he couldn’t escape. It was just Malfoy, who just grabbed him so he wouldn’t fall and bring him down with him, and Malfoy’s “All right there, Potter?” reminded him of where he was. 

Once he was ready for bed, he grabbed his Transfiguration essay that he had to finish and went to bed. 

“Potter, what are you doing? Go to sleep,” Nott said when he saw him with his homework. 

“I’ve got to finish this before I can sleep,” Harry said. “I’m almost done.” 

He closed the curtains before they said anything else and went to work. He did have a break tomorrow after Defence, but he had promised Ron and Hermione to spend some time with them before they went to Potions, and he didn’t want to rush it during lunch. 

It took another half hour before the essay was finally completed, and by the time he was done, Harry’s eyes were closing of their own accord. He only managed to close his inkwell before Harry passed out. 

In his exhaustion, though, he had forgotten to set his usual privacy charms. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Draco didn’t think that rooming with Potter would have him getting up in the middle of the night so many times, but when he woke up to whimpers coming from the bed in front of him, he resigned himself to this fate. He turned around, trying to drown out the noises, but it was getting increasingly difficult as they turned into muffled screams. 

A light shone from the bed next to his, followed by the curtains opening, and Draco sighed, getting up as well. 

“Wha’ time‘s it?” Draco asked sleepily. 

“Around four, I think,” Theo answered. 

“Didn’t you say he uses privacy charms?” Blaise asked from his bed, staring at Potter’s closed curtains. 

“He must’ve forgotten,” Theo said. “Should we wake him up?”

Draco went to answer, but a loud cry startled them all. “Stop, please! Stop!” 

Draco closed the distance between his bed and Potter’s and threw the other boy’s curtains open. 

Potter was sprawled out on his bed, his legs tangled in the bedsheets. His t-shirt was wet and sticking to Potter’s body, accentuating how thin he still was. His skin looked pale as a ghost under the light of Draco’s wand, which he’d turned on after getting up. 

He was thrashing violently, legs kicking at an invisible attacker. His face was contorted into a frown, fear evident in his face even in his unconscious state. His curls were sticking to his forehead, but they didn’t cover his angry-looking scar. 

Potter’s arms were covered in scratches, looking like he had been scratching at it in his sleep, and when his t-shirt lifted slightly when he thrashed about, he could see the same marks on his lower stomach. 

“Potter,” he said quietly, approaching the panicking boy. “Wake up, it’s just a nightmare.” 

“Stop, stop , please,” Potter cried. 

Draco was at a loss. He didn’t know how to calm a panicking person, especially one who wasn’t even awake. He looked to his friends, who were watching the scene with worried eyes, but neither of them offered advice on what to do. 

He focused his attention on the sleeping boy again, taking a step closer so his legs were brushing against the bed. Draco sat on an empty spot in Potter’s bed and touched the boy’s shoulder, hoping to wake him up. 

He wasn’t expecting the full-body flinch, but maybe he should have. Potter jumped back from his touch as if it had burned him, but even that didn’t wake him. If anything, his whimpers grew louder. 

“Pucey, please,” he cried pathetically. Draco's eyes widened, and his stomach churned at the hint of what Potter's nightmare was about. “ Please, I don’t want—Stop!” 

“Pucey? Why is he dreaming about Pucey? What did he do?” He heard Blaise ask, but Draco ignored him, returning to his attempt to rouse the boy.

“Potter, hey. It’s just a dream, you need to wake up,” Draco said, his voice gentler than he was used to. He tried really hard to ignore the fact that it was not just a dream, that Potter was reliving a memory that happened only a month ago. “Pucey’s not here. He can’t hurt you. We won’t let him hurt you again.” 

Draco tried to shake the boy’s shoulder again, this time moving more slowly and being gentler with his touch. Potter still flinched, but it wasn’t as bad as the first time. 

“Please, Uncle Vernon. I’ll be good. Please.” Draco’s eyebrows raised at the unfamiliar name. Why had the dream suddenly switched? Who was Uncle Vernon? Why was Potter dreaming about this guy? 

Draco had a lot of questions, but he had no doubts that they would remain unanswered. He didn’t see a reality in which Potter told him what he wanted to know. This sounded too personal, and Draco knew that the bespectacled boy didn’t trust them, at least not yet. And knowing how Draco had treated him in the previous four years, he didn’t exactly blame him. It would take a while before the boy would be comfortable enough to confide in him, if ever. Especially if Draco’s hunch was right, and Potter hadn’t even told his best friends. 

But now it wasn’t time for those questions. Draco shook the boy’s shoulders, hoping that this time it would work and wake the boy. Draco’s prayers were answered when Potter woke up with a start. The ex-Gryffindor, in his still half-asleep state, noticed the hand on his shoulder and sat up abruptly, scrambling back. His back hit the bedframe, and he curled up on himself, hugging his legs to his chest, and making himself look smaller, as if that would protect him better. 

Draco from a year ago would’ve laughed at the boy, would’ve found this display pathetic and used it to humiliate him in front of everyone. This Draco, however, had seen what pathetic looked like, and it was not a hurt fifteen-year-old boy, who had gone through something that haunted Draco’s nightmares just from hearing about it, and from the sounds of it, was not the only thing that had happened to him. This Draco only felt concern over the way the boy was trembling, asking him to stop, even though he was awake. It was like he was still stuck in a nightmare, even though he’d woken up from it. 

Draco saw Potter’s glasses on his pillow. Potter had probably fallen asleep with them on, and they’d fallen off his face. He grabbed them, and moving slowly, as if approaching a wild cat, he placed them on Potter’s face. Potter whimpered lightly when his hands got too close to his face, eyes closing as if he was expecting a blow, but he managed to hook the glasses on his ears. 

Potter opened his eyes when he felt the cool metal of his glasses on his face, and he blinked, confusion written plainly in his face as everything became clearer. His green eyes locked on Draco’s silver ones, and the fear in his expression receded, being replaced by something akin to surprise as he took in his surroundings and who was in the room with him. 

“M-Malfoy?” he called, voice quiet and shaky. “What—What are you doing on my bed? What happened?”

“You had a nightmare, Potter,” Draco informed the boy, trying to keep his tone of voice neutral. He was worried, but it wouldn’t do to let the boy know. 

“Oh,” he said. His eyes travelled to the other boys standing close by, and their worried, but tired expressions. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yes, Potter. It’s kind of hard to sleep when you’re screaming your head off.”

Potter’s expression darkened, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He dunked his head, hands fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

“It’s fine, Potter,” Theo said before Draco could say anything else. 

“Bet you’re glad you’re getting so much ammunition on the Golden Boy,” Potter said, his voice bitter. “Can you get off my bed, now, Malfoy? I think you’ve seen enough.” 

“We’re not using this as ammunition, Potter. I thought we made this clear already,” Draco answered back, not getting up.

“Yeah, sure. Am I really meant to believe that?” Potter’s eyes looked tired as they settled on Draco. “You’ve enjoyed your show, now get off.” 

“We’ve been nothing but civil these past few weeks. What more do you want?” 

“I just want to go back to Gryffindor! None of this would’ve happened if I were still there!” Potter shouted, eyes blazing with anger. His eyes were shining with tears that he was trying to stop from falling. 

“I know, Potter. I know it sucks,” Draco said quietly, not raising to the bait. “I’m sorry Pucey ruined Slytherin for you. That he hurt you so much.” 

Potter lost his battle with the tears then, but he furiously tried to wipe them off. Draco was sure he didn’t want them to see him so vulnerable, but after they’d seen him the day after the fact, the image of Potter crying that day was always going to be incised in his mind. 

“I don’t know how it must feel, seeing him in the hallways, after what he did to you, but we promise we won’t let him hurt you again.” 

Draco scooted closer, slow enough that Potter could stop him if he wanted to. 

“He’s everywhere. Everywhere ,” Harry whispered. “I didn’t use to see him so often before… before that day, but now I find him every day.”

Potter was starting to shake again, shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs. 

“He cornered me, a few weeks ago,” he admitted, and Draco’s blood ran cold. “I was alone in the corridor, and he tried to talk to me—” 

“Did he—” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room, the only sound being Potter’s laboured breathing, Potter heard him anyway and violently shook his head. 

“No, he didn’t—he didn’t do anything. I ran into Snape before he could even attempt , but I don’t—I don’t know if he would’ve t-tried again and…” A sob escaped his lips, and Draco moved so that he was sitting right beside the boy. He didn’t know what he was doing, but the other boy didn’t yell at him to get away, so he rested his back against the bedframe, mimicking the other’s position. 

From there, he could see Theo and Blaise observing them. Theo’s face was set in a frown, sympathy written all over his face. Blaise looked disturbed. He had probably connected the dots and concluded what Pucey had done to Potter. 

Draco's eyes flickered back to Potter, who was curling up on himself even more, as if he could disappear that way.

“I’m scared he’ll try again,” Potter said. “And that I won’t be able to stop him again. I’ll be weak again, and—”

Draco didn’t know what came over him, but he put an arm around Potter’s shoulder and pulled him to his chest. Harry flinched, his trembling increasing slightly, and Draco was ready to take his arm off, to retreat and crawl into a hole and curse himself for his impulsive action, but Potter relaxed somewhat, leaning his weight on Draco slightly. His body was still tense, clearly not that comfortable with Draco’s touch, but he didn’t pull away even though Draco’s hold was not strong enough that he wouldn’t be able to leave. 

Theo and Blaise silently went back to bed then, leaving him to deal with his traumatised ex-rival on his own. 

They stayed like that, Potter’s trembling ceasing after a while. Draco was going to go back to his bed once the other boy had fallen asleep, but his eyes betrayed him, and he fell asleep as well, not long after, with only one question lingering in his mind. 

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

Harry spent the next day trying to avoid Malfoy. 

He’d woken up only two hours after his nightmare to Draco’s face only a few inches away from his, scaring the life out of him. He vaguely remembered the blond hugging him until he fell asleep, but he hadn’t been expecting to see him still in his bed. Harry would've thought the boy would run back to his bed the moment he was asleep. That’s what Harry would’ve done. Probably. 

But in any case, just the thought of being in Malfoy’s arms as the boy tried to comfort him caused him to flush in embarrassment. He was used to having to calm himself down after nightmares, to having to talk himself down from the panic that squeezed his lungs and made him feel like he’d never breathe again. He’d never had anyone to remind him that he wasn’t there anymore, that his nightmares were in the past, like Malfoy had done. Sure, Ron did wake him up whenever he had a nightmare back in Gryffindor, but they weren’t as bad then. They didn’t leave him still reeling after he woke up from then. 

But even if Harry hadn’t been expecting it from him, Malfoy had done that for him that night. He’d brought him back from his overwhelming panic, and Harry remembered, even if the memory was hazy as it always was after a nightmare, him promising that he wouldn’t let him hurt him again. He remembered crying, the way he’d let Malfoy pull him into a hug even though his skin was burning with Pucey’s phantom touch, and how Malfoy’s arms around him had felt surprisingly warm and reassuring, even though his hands were cold. 

And maybe that was it. Pucey’s hands had been warm and rough when he—that day, and the difference was so startling that the impression of rough, warm hands faded as it was replaced with cold, gentle hands that didn’t touch him against his will. Harry could tell that Malfoy’s slow movements had been purposeful, that he was giving him time to refuse his touch. 

And Harry appreciated it, though he would’ve never expected this gentleness, this comfort to come from the boy who’d spent the previous four years taunting him. And that was the crux of the problem. Malfoy had been his tormentor for the first four years at Hogwarts—though he gave as good as he got—and Harry still couldn’t reconcile that boy with this boy who seemed to care about him and have forgotten about their four-year-long animosity. 

No matter how many times they told him they weren’t going to use this against him, Harry couldn’t help but fear the moment when they’d show their true colours, show that all of their reassurances were only lies made to get him to trust them. He was waiting for the moment when all the pretences would drop and they would laugh about what they’d find out, about all the times they’d seen him vulnerable, crying—and there were too many moments for Harry’s liking—with the whole school. 

Harry had spent four years suppressing tears so that nobody would know how weak he was in reality. They’d all hailed him as some hero who defeated a Dark Lord when he was only one year old, and all of his end-of-year adventures didn’t help dissuade them from that image. Harry knew that they expected the Boy-Who-Lived to be strong, to be someone who couldn’t be brought down easily, and Harry tried to give them what they wanted, to meet their expectation of who the Boy-Who-Lived was, even though he hated it. To give them hope of a saviour who would be good enough to do their job, even if lately, most thought him crazy. 

He knew, though, that as soon as they got indisputable proof that he wasn’t lying, that Voldemort really was back—Harry was sure that they would believe him eventually, Voldemort wouldn’t be able to lay low forever—they would put him back on a pedestal, would ask him to save them all again as if they hadn’t spent months belittling him and calling him crazy. And Harry would oblige, because as much as he hated those people, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt if he could help it. 

So, he tried to keep up the mask of their good, strong saviour, but it was like, after everything that had happened since the start of the summer—his uncle’s increased summer, the isolation from his friends, and Pucey—something in him had broken, and everything that he had tried to keep hidden slipped through the cracks, spilling out at the most inconvenient times. And unfortunately, in front of the last people he'd wanted to witness his breakdowns.

So Harry stuck to his Gryffindor friends the next day, avoiding any hint of white-blond hair and green like the plague. He went as far as skipping lunch so that he wouldn’t have to sit next to him, but unfortunately, there was nothing he could do when it was time for Transfiguration. The only other option were sitting near Crabbe, Goyle and Pike—and while Harry had nothing against Slytherins anymore, that bunch didn’t seem like they would make for pleasant company, especially since they all glared at him every time they crossed paths—or with the Hufflepuffs, but being so close to them brought memories of dead, blue eyes. It was hard enough having to teach them during the Dumbledore’s Army’s—as Ginny had decided to call it—meetings. 

Harry reluctantly took a seat next to Nott. He knew the boy had been there as well last night, that he had seen him panicking, but at least he hadn’t fallen asleep while cuddled up with him, so while he still felt embarrassed, it wasn’t as bad as it could be if he had sat next to Malfoy. 

The hour dragged on slowly, and Harry did his best to listen to McGonagall even though his focus was being pulled elsewhere. His eyes couldn’t stop turning to the back of Malfoy’s head, still thinking about the boy’s actions that night. 

He could’ve just woken him up and told him that he’d forgotten his silencing charms, or he could’ve put silencing charms around his own bed. Why had he chosen to wake him up and comfort him instead? Why had he promised to protect him from Pucey? Why had he stayed there even when Harry had started yelling at him? He had been unfair last night; he knew it. Malfoy didn’t deserve being yelled at like that, especially when he’d been only trying to help, but he was feeling vulnerable, worried that they would use this to humiliate him, and he still had Pucey and his uncle’s voice in his head, whispering poisoned words in his mind.

Harry barely noticed the class coming to an end. He only got the hint when everyone started gathering their things to leave. Harry packed his blank parchment and writing supplies back in his bag and followed the Slytherins outside the classroom. He wanted to rush ahead, to walk past them so he wouldn’t have to talk to them, but Malfoy’s voice stopped him. 

“Potter,” he called out, and against his better judgment, Harry turned. 

“What do you need, Malfoy?” The question came out harsher than he’d meant, but he didn’t apologise, instead raising an eyebrow to urge the boy to talk. He really wanted to get away. The longer he stayed there, the harder it was for him to forget the way the boy had helped him last night. And it seemed the boy wasn’t done with his attempt at helping. 

Harry didn’t know what was going on with Malfoy, why he was so keen on offering him unsolicited help when he’d done nothing for him but cause him trouble, waking him up at all hours of the night, and snapping at him every time he tried to help. 

Harry looked at the boy’s outstretched hand with a frown, eyeing the thing he was holding out to him. It looked to be a sandwich wrapped in a napkin from the Great Hall. He lifted his eyes to meet the boy’s silver ones, questioning his actions silently. 

“You skipped lunch,” Malfoy said. “You must be hungry.” 

Harry’s confusion only increased at that, but he took the sandwich without saying anything. Harry knew they were right, that he needed to eat if he didn’t want to seriously compromise his health, and he’d meant to go to the kitchen to get food, but in his self-induced distress about the Malfoy situation, he’d forgotten. 

“Thank you,” he said. He put the sandwich in his bag and went to leave. Just because Malfoy had been nice, it didn’t mean Harry was going to ignore his plan to avoid it. Malfoy’s unexpected kindness (yet again) was just a hiccup in his plan, one that could be easily rectified. 

“Wait, Potter, can we talk?” the boy interrupted his escape attempt once again, and Harry sighed. He didn’t want to be rude right after Malfoy had gone out of his way to help him, so he gave up and nodded. He hadn’t been a Gryffindor for nothing. 

Malfoy nodded back, and the two separated from the other three Slytherins. He followed Malfoy to the Room of Requirements, asking for a room where they’d be able to talk in private, and they sat in the comfortable armchairs the room provided. 

Harry played with the hem of his robe as he waited for Malfoy to speak up, but the boy was looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

Harry started to feel anxiety spike in his chest. Why had the boy brought him here? What did he want to talk about?

“Malfoy?” he called, hesitantly, and hearing his name brought the Slytherin out of his thoughts. 

“I just wanted to talk about last night,” Malfoy said, sounding more unsure than he’d ever heard him be. “If that’s ok.”

“What is there to talk about?” Harry said defensively. He did not want to talk about last night. He made a mistake in giving in to his request. Looking back, it was obvious what he wanted to talk about; he should’ve known better. Malfoy probably wanted a favour and to use this as blackmail. 

“Are you ok?” he asked. 

Harry scoffed. Was that really his first question? He’d just been woken up by him having a nightmare and comforted him afterwards, did he really need to ask?

“Yes, I’m ok. Thank you,” Harry said. “Is that all?”

“Do you always have nightmares like this?” Malfoy ignored him, going on with his interrogation. 

“Madame Pomphrey has given me Dreamless Sleep, though I just ran out,” Harry answered. 

“Are you taking it every night?” Malfoy looked alarmed. “You shouldn’t, if you are. It’s addicting.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re only taking it three times a week. Do you have nightmares on the other four nights?”

Harry glared at him, not getting what he wanted from this conversation. Why did he care if he had nightmares or not? He only woke him up last night because he’d forgotten his privacy charms.

“If you’re worried about me waking you up, don’t worry, I won’t forget my silencing charms again.” 

“That’s not why I’m asking, Potter,” Malfoy said. “You’ve been looking exhausted for weeks, and it’s showing even with your glamours.”

“So what?” 

“So, it can’t be healthy, Potter. I don’t know how long it’s been going on, but you need to sleep. I bet you try to stay awake to avoid the nightmares, and can you actually sleep after you wake up from one?”

Harry scowled and looked away, aware that that was enough of an answer. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t take more Dreamless Sleep; the nightmares won’t go away. I’ve been having nightmares since the summer. I don’t really know what else to do.”

“Have you told Madame Pomphrey just how bad they are?” Malfoy asked, before shaking his head with a scoff. “Who am I talking to? Of course, you’ve probably downplayed it.” 

Harry glared weakly at the blond, but he knew he was right. He hadn’t admitted just how bad it was to the nurse. 

“What could she do anyway? She said the maximum dose is three vials a week, and I’m already taking it.” 

“She would probably suggest a Mind Healer,” Malfoy said slowly, as if just the mention of it was going to set him off. Harry frowned. What was it exactly? 

“A Mind Healer is someone who deals with mental illnesses. I think Muggles call them psy—psychologist? I heard a Muggleborn talking about it a while ago.”

“I’m not crazy!” Harry shouted, now getting why Malfoy looked hesitant to mention it to him. 

“Didn’t say you were, Potter,” Malfoy said before his anger could escalate. “I just think it would help you.”

“I don’t want to go to any Mind Healer, Malfoy. I bet they’d be eager to sell the story of how the Boy-Who-Lived can’t even fucking sleep and was too—too weak to stop someone from raping him!” 

Malfoy flinched at his outburst, and Harry wished he could take it back. He had never said that word out loud, but it was done now. 

“Mind Healers have to take a Wizard’s Oath not to reveal anything you tell them. They wouldn’t be able to sell you out even if they wanted to,” Malfoy told him. 

“I don’t care. I still don’t want to talk to any Mind Healer. I’m fine.”

“Last night tells me you’re not, Potter. Remember? I was there,” he said. “When was the last time you had a good night of sleep without the Potion?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“And before that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are all of your nightmares that bad?” the blond asked then. 

Harry took a few moments to think about it, but then shook his head. They were bad, but last night had been one of the worst ones he’d had so far. It didn’t usually take that long for his panic to subside.

“No, I usually calm down quickly afterwards. Last night—last night was bad.”

“Was I any help?” Malfoy said. 

“Yes,” Harry admitted reluctantly after a while. He looked down at his hands, watching as his fingers traced random shapes on his thigh. “You did help.” 

“I know we’re not close, Potter,” Malfoy started slowly. “But if you get another nightmare this bad, you can wake me up.” 

Harry’s eyes widened at the offer, but then he narrowed them in suspicion. 

“Why would you do that?” Harry said. “Why would you sacrifice your precious beauty sleep for me, Princess? What’s in it for you? Did your Lord ask you to get close to me?”

Malfoy sneered at that, but then his expression shifted to a pensive one. He bit his lip, and Harry could see the wheels turning in his head. 

“No, the Dark Lord hasn’t told me to do anything,” he said. “Because he’s not my Lord.” 

Harry’s eyes widened at that. What did he mean?

“If you hadn’t already guessed, I don’t want to be a Death Eater,” Malfoy confessed in a low voice, as if scared that somebody would overhear him. “I don’t want him as my Lord.”

Harry had suspected it, and was mostly joking when he’d asked him if he was using him for Voldemort, but he wasn’t expecting Malfoy to confirm it. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “I thought—”

“That since my father is a Death Eater, I would be one too? No, I don’t want to.”

“Can I ask why?” 

“I know the Dark Lord is ruthless,” Malfoy started. His voice, which was usually so confident and booming so that everyone would hear it, was quiet, unsure. It was like he was expecting someone to appear from the shadows and kill him for his revelation. “He doesn’t care how old you are and if you’re guilty or not, or he wouldn’t have killed Diggory.” 

Harry chose not to say anything, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, not when Malfoy was confiding something so dangerous to him. Harry knew that going against Voldemort was dangerous. Especially for someone like him, who was born into a family of devoted Death Eaters that probably expected Malfoy to become one as well. He knew the danger of the wrong people hearing about this. Harry wondered why Malfoy was trusting him with his secret.

“And I’ve seen my father come back from their meetings this summer,” he said. “The Dark Lord uses Crucio on his followers. He always comes back shaking, and… and he tells me what they do, torturing innocent people… I don’t think I could do that. I’m not that strong.”

“I don’t think not being able to torture people makes you weak, Malfoy,” Harry said, his voice soft. He didn’t dare speak louder, afraid that it would shatter the fragility of the moment. “If anything, it’s the opposite. It must be hard going against your family.”

Malfoy gave him a tentative smile. “I’ve been trying to relearn everything he—they taught me growing up, trying to see what’s a lie and what’s true. I know Mud—Muggleborn and Muggles can’t be that bad. You grew up with Muggles, didn’t you? You didn’t come out so bad.”

Harry’s expression darkened at that. “I don’t think my Muggles are a good example,” he said. “But Hermione and her parents are great, yes.”

Malfoy looked like he wanted to question his words, and Harry regretted ever mentioning the Dursleys, but thankfully, the boy let it go. 

“I can help you with that stuff, if you want. Since I did grow up in the Muggle world.”

“Would you? Really?” Malfoy smiled at him. “We’ve all grown up hearing our parents spout the Dark Lord’s word, so I think the others will appreciate that as well.”

Harry nodded and wondered how they had gotten to this topic. The conversation had taken a turn so fast that it left Harry’s head spinning. 

“But anyway, Potter. I know we’re not close friends yet, but I don’t hate you, and if you’re going to save us all, you need to be in top form,” Malfoy said. A twitch in his lips told him he was half joking, though Harry thought he was right. “So if you do need to talk, someone to listen, and who already knows about—about what happened, you can come to me. Even at night, if you have a nightmare this bad.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Harry told him, though he wasn’t sure that he’d actually do it. “Anything else?”

“No, Potter. You are dismissed,” Malfoy drawled in a perfect imitation of Snape. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Harry got up, grabbed his bag and made his way to the door. Before he could leave, though, he turned towards the boy, hesitating for a second. 

“Thank you, Malfoy,” he said. “I still don’t know why you’re doing this, but thank you.”

“No problem, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Though if you call me Princess again, I will tell everyone you sleep with a teddy bear.”

“I do not!” Harry yelled indignantly. 

“Well, who will they believe? Me, or the resident liar?” 

Harry froze at that, hand itching with the reminder of what everyone thought of him, and Malfoy looked worried that he’d crossed a line for a second, but then Harry grabbed a book from a shelf that the room had provided and threw it at Malfoy, who’d managed to dodge it just in time. Damn Seeker reflexes.

“Git,” Harry told him, turning around to leave. “Bye, Princess!” he then said, closing the door before Malfoy could retaliate. He could hear his shout of indignation, and he stifled a laugh as he turned into a corner.

Harry made sure nobody was there and donned his invisibility cloak, not wanting to run into anyone on his way back to his dorms. 

He walked to the dorms with his mind still reeling about his conversation with Malfoy. How the hell had the boy changed so much?

Chapter Text

After Harry’s heart-to-heart with Malfoy, something shifted in their relationship. 

It was like Malfoy’s confession had opened a bridge between them, releasing some of the tension that had accumulated between them over the years. Harry knew that Malfoy could be lying, that he could be just lulling him into a false sense of calm, waiting for the right moment to betray him to the Dark Lord, but something in him told him that he could trust him. He still didn’t understand his motifs, why he had got into his bed after his nightmare and held him until he fell asleep. 

If someone had told Harry two months ago that Malfoy—the boy who’d spent so much of his time deriding Harry, who had made the Potter Stinks badges to humiliate him—would be the one to comfort Harry after a nightmare, whispering soft words and promises that he wouldn’t let him get hurt again, he would’ve laughed at their faces and made sure they were committed to St Mungo’s. But that was two months ago. 

Now Harry was faced with a version of Malfoy he didn’t think he’d ever see. He’d never thought Malfoy as kind, but now that he’d seen it, now that he’d seen the way he worried for him even when they were still on bad terms, when Harry had almost stolen his spot on the Quidditch team, he couldn’t deny the kindness that the boy possessed.

And Harry didn’t know what to do with that kindness. He didn’t know what to do with the Malfoy who brought him lunch because he had skipped it, who nudged him and shoved salads towards him when he wasn’t eating, who explained Potions to him with that exasperated tone that was so similar to Hermione’s whenever Ron and Harry didn’t understand something after the third time of explaining, a tone of someone who didn’t want to be doing something but did it anyway. He didn’t know what to do with the Malfoy who’d looked at him, seen him trembling in his bed, crying in his sleep, and comforted him instead of turning the other way and going back to sleep. 

But there was one thing he could do. 

“This is a Muggle pencil,” Harry said, pushing it towards the blond. The pencil rolled until it bumped against Malfoy’s hand. The boy grabbed it, holding it up between two fingers as if it would bite him. 

“A Muggle pencil,” the boy repeated. He turned the utensil this way and that. “I suppose this is what Muggles use to write?” 

Malfoy grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled something on it. “What does this pink part do?” 

“It’s a rubber,” Harry said, pulling the parchment close and taking the pencil from Malfoy. “You can erase what you wrote if you made a mistake. Like this.” 

Harry glared briefly at the boy, scrubbing his name off the parchment. He wrote Malfoy’s name instead, so that the message read Malfoy sucks, instead of his name. 

“That’s… convenient,” Malfoy hummed. “So Muggles use this to write instead of quills?” 

“Kind of,” Harry said. “Pencils are mostly used to draw, and they have coloured pencils as well. They use pens to write, usually.” 

“Pens?” 

“Yes, they’re like quills. Actually, Muggles used to use quills until pens were invented, but instead of having to be dipped to get ink, they have a small tube inside where the ink is stored,” Harry said.

“Interesting. And does the ink ever run out?” Malfoy asked, receiving a nod from Harry. “And how do Muggles replace the ink?”

“They buy a new pen. I’ll see if Hermione has some Muggle pens to show you. I only managed to steal the pencil from my cousin, but he didn’t leave any pens lying around.”

Malfoy frowned, looking at him quizzically. “Why’d you have to steal it? Couldn’t you have asked your uncle or aunt to buy you pencils and pens?” 

“That would mean spending money on me. They’d die before giving me what I want,” Harry snorted, not really thinking about what he was admitting. He started drawing on the parchment, letting his hand trace lines on the page without caring what he was drawing. His eyes were focused on the paper, where he was doodling the petals of a lily, lost in his memories. 

His Aunt’s voice rang in his head, her high-pitched tone echoing in his mind. It didn’t matter if he was asking for food, or for simple things like pencils he could draw with. His Aunt would always look at him, eyes cold and narrowed, mouth set in a thin line as she watched him in disgust, as if he was a cockroach, and then she’d say those words, “You don’t deserve nice things, freak!” and he would feel like a cockroach crushed underneath her Aunt’s foot. Disgusting. Dirty. Undeserving of even existing. He’d heard that sentence so many times that he had learned to never ask for anything, eventually, but once upon a time, he was young and naive and didn’t understand that they’d never give him anything even remotely nice. They liked to deny him his wishes and give Dudley whatever it was that he asked for right in front of him, watching with glee as Harry observed the scene with longing in his eyes. 

Harry missed the strange look Malfoy gave him as he continued his drawing, adding leaves to the lily. 

“Did anyone teach you how to draw?” Malfoy asked. He jolted, forgetting that the boy was there and looked up to meet his blue eyes. From this close, Harry could see that his eyes weren’t exactly blue, but they looked almost silver, with tiny specks of blue around the pupil. 

“Why are you staring at me, Potter? Do I have something on my face?” Malfoy raised a thin brow, the side of his mouth lifting in a small smirk. 

“What? No, you don’t. Sorry.” Harry shook his head slightly, asking himself why he’d been staring at him, before he thought back to the boy’s question, trying to remember what it was. 

“Uh, no. Nobody really taught me,” he answered. “I did have art class in primary school—that’s a school that Muggle children go to until they’re eleven—but they don’t teach how to properly draw. I’ve just kind of taught myself, I guess.”

Harry paused, looking at his drawing. “And it’s not like this is that hard. I bet you could draw it as well.”

“Is that a challenge, Potter?” 

“It is, Malfoy.”

Malfoy pulled the parchment and the pencil towards him. Then he started copying Harry’s lily. 

Harry took this time to observe Malfoy. His eyes were flitting between Harry’s sketch and his own, lines forming between his eyes, and the tip of his tongue was sticking out in concentration. His head was slightly bent to the side, and a few loose strands of platinum hair fell forward, obscuring his right eye. He pushed it away with his hand, but it returned to its position immediately. 

“What are you two doing?” A voice startled them a few minutes later. 

Harry turned his head to the newcomer, blushing slightly at having been caught staring a second time, but Zabini didn’t say anything if he noticed. 

“We’re having a drawing competition,” Malfoy said. “Which drawing is the superior one, Blaise? Choose carefully, our friendship depends on this.”

Zabini took the parchment from his friend, paper creasing under his fingers. His expression was serious as he examined the drawings as if they were in a real competition, eyes like stone, not betraying anything as they scanned the two drawings. 

Finally, after a few seconds of careful examination, the dark-skinned boy turned the parchment around, pointing a long finger at the drawing on the left. “This one,” he announced. 

“Yes!” 

“What?! What is this hogwash? My father will hear about this!”

Harry laughed at the outraged expression on Malfoy’s face as the boy snatched the parchment and crumpled it up. 

“Hey! My lily!” Harry protested, grabbing the balled-up paper and trying to undo the damage, but no matter how many times he ran his hands over the drawing, the crinkles didn’t smooth out. 

“Do you have other drawings, Potter?” Malfoy asked once Harry stopped glaring at him. Harry nodded in assent, getting up from the fifth-year common room table to get them. He didn’t know why he was showing the two his drawings, but he went back to them with papers in hand.

He set them on the table, and the two immediately snatched them. There were a fair few, and they were mostly drawings of his parents and his friends that Harry had made by using pictures he’d taken with his friends over the years and pictures from his parents’ photo album that Hagrid had given him. 

“When did you make these? I haven’t seen you draw,” Zabini asked, flipping through the sketches.

“At night usually,” Harry admitted, rolling the pencil back and forth on the table. “Whenever I couldn’t sleep and was too tired to do homework.”

“Potter,” Zabini said slowly. He held up his half of the sketches and pointedly looked at the pile that Malfoy was looking at. “These are a lot of drawings. When do you sleep?” 

Harry looked down, ignoring the question. He’d had enough of the questioning from Malfoy, and he thought one person knowing about the true extent of his sleeping problem was enough. Zabini’s brows furrowed at the lack of response, but he didn’t push the matter, setting the drawings on the table and taking out his homework instead. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry spent the next few weeks alternating between hanging out with his friends and teaching Malfoy about Muggles. He spent hours flying with Ron, helping him train for the upcoming Gryffindor vs Slytherin Quidditch game—even though Angelina was already pushing him hard during practice—and doing homework with Hermione. Then, whenever neither of them was busy with their respective friends, with the DA or private DADA lessons, he would retreat to the Slytherin dorms with Malfoy, sometimes joined by the other three Slytherins he was on friendly terms with. 

Hanging out with Malfoy, as he’d got to find out in these first months as a Slytherin, was not as bad as he’d imagined. 

Behind closed doors, Malfoy wasn’t the pompous, superficial and cruel prat he’d gotten to know over his first four years at Hogwarts, but he was a whole different person when it was just the two of them, especially now that they’d gotten slightly more comfortable with each other. The boy was still clearly spoiled and didn’t stop making fun of Harry, but his insults softened, turning into a joke and friendly bickering more than words meant to hurt.

Now Harry spent more time suppressing laughter at his funny quips than yelling at the boy, and Harry didn’t know exactly how the snarls turned into smiles, but he knew that finding out about…about Pucey had somewhat softened the boy and made something change in their relationship. Did Harry like that Malfoy’s behaviour had shifted because of his incident? No, but Harry couldn’t help but be appreciative that he didn’t have to worry about constantly fighting with Malfoy. That it seemed like the boy was on his side. In a world where he had to worry about a Dark Lord going after him, relatives who liked to beat him, and people like Pucey, he’d take any allies he could get, no matter how unconventional they were.

And Malfoy’s presence was a good distraction from his darkest thoughts that threatened to consume him when he was least expecting it. It was easier to push flashbacks about the two worst nights of his life—and the thoughts that told him he should’ve died instead of Cedric—away from his mind with Malfoy, who brought him out of his spiralling mind whenever he saw him getting lost in his memories. 

Now Harry was walking beside Hermione, trying to find a seat in the Gryffindor section of the stands. 

It was the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor vs Slytherin, and he’d spent hours pondering his decision to see the game or not, scared of the memories that it would ultimately bring. Scared that seeing Pucey up there, in the same attire as when he had attacked him, would bring him back to that night while he was surrounded by the last people he wanted to witness his breakdown. 

Once upon a time, those people had been Malfoy, Nott and Blaise, but now that they’d already seen him at some of his lowest points, he’d prefer having them there while he broke down rather than his friends. They didn’t know how weak he was, how dirty he’d become. Too much had happened in the past few months that they didn’t know, and Harry would fight to keep it like that. His friends were better off not knowing how much he was really struggling, even though he knew they were somewhat aware that he wasn’t ok. The knowledge of how the Dursleys had worsened over the summer and of what had happened at tryouts was a burden that Harry didn’t want to inflict on them. They already suffered enough because of him, and Harry would give anything so that they wouldn’t anymore. 

Malfoy and his friends, however, were a whole different story. He hadn’t let them witness his struggles on purpose, and he would’ve rather that they didn’t know about them, but now that they did, it felt easier to let them in. Their opinions of him couldn’t sink any lower in any case.

Hermione made her way through the Gryffindors, Harry following close behind and doing his best to ignore the sneers he was receiving from every side. Hermione was decked out in Gryffindor colours, while Harry had opted for more neutral clothes, simply donning one of the sweaters Mrs Weasley had made for him. Hermione walked until they reached Neville, which unfortunately meant that Seamus was there as well, as Neville was sitting with Dean and where Dean went, Seamus followed, most of the time.

Seamus didn’t waste time making his opinion on Harry’s presence known. His smile turned into a sneer immediately as he caught sight of Harry, letting his displeasure show even without uttering a word. But he didn’t stay silent for long. 

“Go away, Snake. We don’t want you here,” he snarled. His eyes were narrowed in a poor attempt at looking threatening, but Harry had four years of experience in being glared at, and fifteen-year-old Seamus had nothing on Snape. Hell, even Malfoy looked more intimidating than he did.

“Don’t listen to him, Harry. You can stay here,” Neville spoke up, throwing his own glare at the Irish boy. Harry smiled gratefully at his friend and took his seat between him and Hermione, thankful that Seamus was now two seats away. He might not be intimidated by him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be close to him. 

“These are the Gryffindor stands, he can’t stay here,” Seamus continued. 

“Oh, I didn’t know I was a Gryffindor,” a voice piped up from her spot at Hermione’s right. She was wearing Ravenclaw robes, but had a Gryffindor scarf tied around her neck. Harry tried to place her, knowing that he’d seen her before. A memory of the same airy voice saying ‘you’re just as sane as I am’ popped up in his mind. Luna Lovegood, he remembered. The girl he’d met on the first day back and who’d told him about Thestrals. He’d forgotten about her with all that had happened, and he wondered what she was doing here in the Gryffindor stands. Who was she rooting for?

“Ginny,” she said, looking down at the Gryffindor players who were making their way onto the pitch with a dreamy look on her face. 

“Ginny?” Harry repeated, furrowing his brow. “What about her?”

“I’m rooting for Ginny,” she said. Harry was even more confused than before, and he turned to Hermione, hoping that she would have the answer as always. 

“Ginny is the new Gryffindor Seeker. I thought Ron told you?” 

“Oh,” Harry said. Sure enough, when he looked down at the pitch, he could see Ginny, number seven displayed on her back, standing next to Ron, who looked like he was about to keel over or throw up. Or both.

“We aren’t done, Potter. Leave! You can’t stay here.”

“I do believe he can, Seamus. There’s nothing in the rules against it,” Hermione said, her know-it-all tone in full force as she glared at Seamus. “Now, I do believe the game is about to start, and I would like to watch it, so if you’d please, kindly shut up.”

If Harry had been drinking, his drink would’ve probably gone all over the poor Gryffindor standing in front of him. He turned to Hermione, giving her an appreciative look and a smile, before turning his attention to the pitch, where the captains were shaking hands. 

Harry’s eyes couldn’t help but flicker to the Slytherin team, immediately finding blond hair in the sea of green. Malfoy was standing near Crabbe and Goyle. He had his hair gelled back so that it wouldn’t fall into his eyes while playing, and Harry was reminded of the first two years, when that was his usual go-to hairstyle. 

He looks better with his hair loose, Harry thought, but he shook it away. Why was he thinking that? 

Any thoughts about Malfoy’s appearance halted when he saw him approaching the blond. Pucey stood on Malfoy’s right, leaning close to whisper something in his ear. He could see Malfoy become tense, shoulders straightening like he had a rod in his back, and his grip tightened around his broom, knuckles becoming white. He kept his eyes forward, not looking at him as he gave a sharp nod to whatever the older Slytherin had said. 

Harry felt bile rise up in his throat, his face losing colour as he watched the scene and the closeness between the two boys. He put his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking, trying to divert his eyes from Malfoy, but they didn’t obey. He continued staring at the two, keeping his eyes trained on the older boy’s hands to make sure they didn’t travel to unwanted places on Malfoy. Harry knew firsthand how uncomfortable his touch was. He didn’t want him to feel it as well. 

“You all right, Harry?” Hermione shoved his shoulder lightly, startling him out of his thoughts. He flinched back, the memories too close to the surface to appreciate even his best friend’s touch, but thankfully, his reaction hadn’t gained Hermione’s attention. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry said. 

“Why are you staring at Malfoy?” Hermione asked, an eyebrow raised in question. 

“Uh? Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Harry waved her off, turning to look as Ron flew to the goal posts now that Pucey had left Malfoy alone. 

“How’s Ron feeling?” Harry changed the subject. 

Hermione sighed, shoulder slumping slightly. “He was a right mess, honestly.”

“Oh?”

“He’s a nervous wreck, he thinks he made a mistake trying out for the team, and the Slytherins have been no help with their sneers and insults,” Hermione said, glaring in the general direction of the Slytherin stands. “I’ve also tried to keep him from seeing the badges, but I don’t know if I was successful.” 

Someone had taken Malfoy’s idea and made new badges, this time for Ron. They were in the shape of a crown, with Weasley is our king written underneath. The message looked positive enough, but Harry was sure they were not meant to be a compliment. 

Harry did see Malfoy and Nott wearing them, but he knew that it was just so that nobody would doubt their real allegiance, though he did hope that neither of them was behind their creation. It was one thing to wear them to keep up a front, another thing entirely to start it. 

“Malfoy has been pretty quiet, though. I’d have expected him to be louder in his insults, but he’s only made a few weak comments like his heart was not in it. Do you know anything about it, Harry?” 

“No, Mione. I’m sure he was just too stupid to come up with clever insults.” 

Hermione gave him a look like she wasn’t fully convinced, but she dropped the conversation. 

They didn’t talk more after that, too focused on the game being played in front of them. Harry grimaced when Ron missed a save, and the song coming from the Slytherin stands grew louder. Harry entertained the thought that Ron maybe wouldn’t be able to hear it, but the shade of green his face had turned to didn’t give him high hopes. Harry hoped Ginny would catch the snitch soon to end Ron’s misery. While he was now a Slytherin and friends with Malfoy, he had been a Gryffindor for longer, and most of his friends were on the Gryffindor team. He would always root for them.

The game continued on, Harry wincing every time the Quaffle passed through the Gryffindor hoops, not because he was scared that Slytherin would win—catching the snitch was still enough to win the game at this point—but because he knew that with every missed save, Ron’s confidence took a hit. Harry had been trying to work on it with his friend, but it hadn’t been enough. 

 It was thirty to zero for Slytherin when the Gryffindor stands erupted in a roar. Harry’s eyes immediately scanned the sky, looking for fiery red hair, and when he found Ginny, she was in a deep dive, arm outstretched in front of her, while a flicker of gold zipped through the air. Malfoy was hot on her tail, gaining ground fast until they were side to side, the Slytherin’s hand only a few inches behind. 

But it was enough for Ginny. Her hand closed around the golden snitch, and she pulled out of the dive in time to avoid collision with the ground. She raised her arm in the air, lifting the snitch for all to see with a triumphant smile on her freckled face. 

Malfoy looked dejected as he landed and threw his broom to the ground, features distorted in a frown. 

Both teams landed on the ground, the Gryffindor team immediately rushing towards Ginny. 

Hermione’s hand closed around Harry’s, and he let himself be pulled towards the pitch, where Ron was trying to make his quiet escape, a disappointed look on his face, even though his team had won. 

“Ron, you won!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping into the Keeper’s arms. Harry raised a brow at the display of affection, but it seemed Ron was just as confused as he was by his wide eyes. 

“It was certainly not thanks to me,” he muttered, looking down. 

“It was only your first game, mate. You’ll get better,” Harry tried to reassure him.

“Let’s go see Ginny!” 

Harry and Ron followed Hermione as she ran to where the Gryffindor team was congregated around the Seeker. 

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed once the three of them stopped in front of them. 

“Hey, Ginny, you were amazing,” Harry said, smiling at the girl. 

“I bet we would’ve won if you’d accepted your spot on our team,” a voice cut in. Harry’s feet were glued to the spot, his body unable to move at the familiar voice. His hands turned clammy, cold sweat building up on them as he balled them into a fist. He slowly turned his eyes to face him, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Why did you turn down the Seeker spot, Harry? You did so well at tryouts. We could’ve had fun together.”

The nausea that he had felt earlier returned with a vengeance, and he swallowed down the bile that rose to his mouth. He kept his eyes trained on Pucey, not wanting to give him any satisfaction that his words were affecting him. He only diverted his eyes for a few seconds to glance at Malfoy, who had come closer just in time to hear Pucey’s comment. The boy had turned even paler, his skin taking on a sickly tinge as he heard the implications that only someone who knew what had happened could understand. 

His ears were buzzing, drowning out the shocked sounds Pucey’s words had caused. He had forgotten that only Ron and Hermione knew about Montague’s offer, and that the rest of the Gryffindor team was only finding out now. 

“The Girl Weasel wouldn’t have been able to save her brother’s arse if you played with us, Golden Boy. I’ve never seen a worse Keeper, but then he was born in a bin, wasn’t he? Did you like the lyrics I came up with my friends, Harry?” 

His name from his mouth made shivers run down his spine, his soft voice echoing that night. Harry dug his nails into his palm and willed his mind to stay on track. He wouldn’t think about it. Not here, not in front of everyone. And especially not in front of him. 

He glared at the Slytherin with everything he had, eyes burning. The boy only smirked, unfazed. 

Harry knew that they were surrounded by people, but it felt like they were in that changing room again, alone. Harry felt weak. Powerless, as his body refused to move, locked in its place as if the boy had cast Petrificus Totalus on him again. He told his legs to move, to walk away, but they didn’t obey, keeping him rooted to the spot under the older boy’s hungry gaze. 

“We had a couple of verses we wanted to add, you know?” Pucey continued on. “About his parents, you see, how she’s fat and ugly and his father’s a useless loser, but they didn’t fit with—” 

Harry didn’t know what happened then, but something in him snapped. The glue that was keeping him stuck to the floor loosened at the slight against two of the best people Harry had ever known, and Harry rushed forward. It almost felt like he had apparated. One moment he was standing beside Hermione and Ron, the next his arm was swinging back, gaining momentum and then hitting Pucey square in the face. 

Pain flared in his right hand as his knuckles split open from the contact, but the pain didn’t register. He was seeing red, ears buzzing with all the anger he’d been holding in since that Sunday. He went to punch him again, chest heaving from adrenaline, but arms held him back from both sides, pulling him back until he was a few feet away fr. Harry didn’t have to look to know it was the Weasley twins, but he turned towards them anyway, not wanting to look at him anyway. 

Fred was on his right, and he was looking down at him with clear concern on his face. 

“Are you all right, Harry? You’re shaking,” Fred said. Neither twin let him go yet, and Harry realised they were the only thing keeping him up. The adrenaline had run out then, his body feeling weak with all the emotions he’d gone through in a short period. His eyes were burning with unshed tears, tears that he wouldn’t dare let out then, when he was surrounded by sharks who only wanted to see him bleed. He’d shown them enough. He showed more anger than he’d wanted. Harry longed for his bed, where he could close the curtains and let it all go.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, voice curt. 

“Harry—” George tried, but Harry cut him off.

“I’m fine .” Harry twisted himself free of their grasp with a violent tug, not looking back at the worry in their faces as he stormed away from the pitch. 

He only made it to the door that would bring him out of the pitch and to the path back to the castle when the saccharine voice of one of Harry’s most hated people called his name. 

“Mr Potter, follow me, please.”

Still rattled from his confrontation with Pucey, Harry—not for the first time—Harry found himself wishing that he’d let Voldemort kill him when he’d had the chance. Why did he let himself suffer so much?

Chapter Text

Harry shifted on his feet, his back aching as Umbridge droned on and on about his misbehaviour. He’d been standing for so long that the heels of his feet were burning, the pain spread all up his calves and his lower back. 

He stared straight ahead, directly into the High Inquisitor’s eyes, watching her lips move but not listening to the words coming out of them. He’d heard it all in the first ten minutes of her lecture. By now, Umbridge had run out of arguments and was just paraphrasing the same spiel over and over again. The words all just mixed together in a blend of high-pitched tones that were too high for Harry to hear. 

Or at least, Harry hoped that was the case. But alas, it wasn’t. He only needed to focus to hear the thinly veiled insults in that overly sweet voice of the woman. 

Snape, standing at the edge of Umbridge’s desk with his usual scowl in place, made even worse by the fury in his eyes that he did nothing to hide, seemed to be faring the same way. His glare was focused on Harry, but he had stopped adding to the woman’s insults long ago, and for him to give up the chance to throw scathing words at Harry meant that he had grown tired of the woman’s never-ending tirade as well.

“Never in my life have I seen such deplorable behaviour, Mr Potter,” Umbridge continued. “To attack a student unprovoked! A fellow Slytherin at that! One has to wonder if someone who is capable of that should be allowed to stay at a school like Hogwarts.” 

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger as he balled his fist and took a step forward before he could think about it, words ready on his tongue. Unprovoked? Unprovoked?! Did she really think that Harry would attack someone on a whim? Just because he could? Harry had spent two months wishing he could get back at Pucey for what he’d done to him. He’d spent two months cowering at the mere sight of brown hair, hazel eyes and green robes and wishing he could react, make him pay for the pain he’d put him through, for what he’d stolen from him. That punch had been a long time coming, and Harry’s only regret was that he hadn’t done more. That Fred and George had stopped him before he could. 

So no, it was not unprovoked, and Pucey deserved more than the weak punch Harry had managed. After all, he had punched him that night as well, and it hadn’t been enough to stop him, so Harry doubted that he’d done any real harm to the boy with his weak punch. He’d probably hurt himself more than he’d hurt him. 

A glint of joy passed through Umbridge’s eyes as she saw him react to her words, and Harry halted. To respond to her would be giving her what she wanted. She wanted him to shout, to defend himself with harsh words that she could punish him for. She was waiting for him to misstep, to give her a reason to have him in detention, since he’d stopped yelling about Voldemort. Harry wouldn’t give it to her. He was stronger and smarter than that. He’d done enough already, even though to him, it was justified. Not that he could tell anybody the reason why he thought his actions were warranted. 

Harry took a deep breath, trying to force his breath to slow down. The sting on his palms from his nails grounded him, and once he was sure he wouldn’t snap and say things he would regret later, he took another slow breath and spoke. 

“It was not unprovoked,” Harry started with the calmest voice he could muster, continuing before she could cut him off, “he insulted my best friend’s family.”

“Insulted your best friend’s family? Now, Mr Potter, I don’t believe Mr Pucey would do anything like that. He has been a stellar student so far and has given me no reason to believe he would do such a thing. But the same cannot be said for you, I believe, with your propensity for… lies.” 

His stomach twisted painfully, the nausea he’d begun to feel ever since he’d seen Pucey talking to Malfoy returning with the knowledge and proof that nobody ever believed him. If they didn’t believe him over this, when multiple people had witnessed it, why would they believe something that had happened when they were alone? 

Harry didn’t say anything else, both because he was scared that he would lose his fight with his stomach and throw up the moment he opened his mouth, and also because he knew it was a lost cause. Nothing he could say would help him then, and get him out of whatever punishment Umbridge had in mind. Snape couldn’t even help him, with the new Educational Decree the Minister had made just that morning, which said that the High Inquisitor could deal with punishments and overrule other teachers’ decisions. Not that he would help him, really. He’d only been waiting to expel him since his very first Potions lesson. If it were for him, Harry probably would have never set foot in Hogwarts in the first place. 

“Your behaviour today was completely unacceptable,” Umbridge smiled sweetly. “Attacking another student is not tolerated. I believe the appropriate punishment would be expulsion, Mr Potter.” 

The bile in his throat tasted bitter and only made his nausea stronger. He swallowed, almost choking, and tried to keep his expression neutral. He stared blankly at the woman, his ears ringing after the worst sentence she could’ve said escaped her mouth. 

No. no. He couldn’t be expelled. He had already escaped it once in August; he couldn’t be expelled. 

Being expelled would mean going back to the Dursleys, and returning to them in the middle of the term, unexpected and unwanted—not that they ever wanted him—would mean sealing his death. And while at times that felt like the better option, in moments when he felt so low that he didn’t care about anything but putting a stop to his suffering, he didn’t want to die at their hands. The Dursleys, and especially Vernon, wouldn’t take kindly to their peace being interrupted by his presence. He’d be locked in the cupboard forever, only taken out so they could beat him up, with no food to sustain him. He’d barely last a month if they sent him back now.

She didn’t know what she would be sentencing him to if she went with that route. But Harry was sure that she wouldn’t care anyway. She’d probably be overjoyed if she ever got the news that Harry Potter had been murdered by his Muggle relatives. The article announcing his death would probably end up framed on her bedside table. Hers, and on Snape’s.

No, he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t give them that satisfaction.

“I believe the decision to expel Mr Potter lies solely with the Headmaster, Dolores,” Snape drawled, interrupting the conversation. “Your authority only allows you to overrule our detentions, not to expel Mr Potter, although it is quite unfortunate.” 

Umbridge glared at the Potion Master, who looked at her with no discernible change in his expression. 

“You will come here every night at seven for the next three weeks for detention, then, Mr Potter, starting tomorrow,” Umbridge declared. “And I expect you to apologise to Mr Pucey. I will know if you don’t.”

Harry froze, his face becoming ashen with the prospect of having to talk to Pucey again. He’d take two months of detention if it meant he didn’t have to talk to Pucey, let alone apologise to him. His breath hitched, and Harry hoped his fear wasn’t so obvious, but the single arched brow on Snape’s face told him that the man had noticed it. 

Harry’s head made a jerky movement that was supposed to be a nod, and he let out a trembling breath.

“I need a spoken acknowledgement, Mr Potter. I see your manners leave much to be desired. Has nobody taught you proper etiquette?”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said. “May I go now, ma’am?” 

“You may,” Umbridge nodded.

Harry didn’t wait to be told twice. He muttered a ‘thank you’, knowing the woman would require it of him if he didn’t, and stormed out of her office, walking as fast as his legs would allow. 

As soon as he set foot outside, the urge to throw up became unbearable. He didn’t know how long he could hold it, and he wanted to get to his dorms before he lost his lunch in the corridor. 

“Potter,” Snape’s slow drawl called after him before he could turn the corner. Harry felt like crying once again, the room becoming blurry as tears pooled in his eyes. Harry felt magic wash over them like a protective blanket, a feeling he recognised as a privacy charm being cast around them.

“What?” he snapped, keeping his mouth as closed as possible. 

“Have you forgotten what I told you at the beginning of the year, Potter?” Snape asked. 

Harry could barely focus; all his energy was being used to keep himself from throwing up all over Snape’s shoes, and too many thoughts swirled in his head to be able to recall their conversation. 

Snape snarled. “Of course, your head does not have the capacity to remember a simple request. I have told you not to fight with your fellow Slytherins in front of the other Houses, Mr Potter, and to keep your head down. This is the opposite of that!”

Harry gritted his teeth, wishing he could yell back at Snape. Wishing he could tell him that Pucey had attacked him first, that he was only defending himself. Belatedly, sure, but the boy had still deserved it. 

He didn’t say anything, though, knowing that he couldn’t defend himself properly without revealing his secret. And Snape was the last person he wanted to know. He didn’t want him to know how pathetic he was. He didn’t want to hear how his father would be disappointed in him, something that the man would for sure find pleasure in reminding him.

“I do not believe that Dolores is right, however, Potter,” Snape continued, voice losing some of its fury. “What has Mr Pucey done to incite your ire? I also do not believe it was just because of his unsavoury comments about your friend and his family.”  

“Nothing, he’s done nothing,” Harry said, averting his eyes from the man’s black ones. He didn’t want to see how the man’s eyes scanned over him, black irises trying to find any sign of a lie.

“I don’t believe you, Potter. I don’t think you would have attacked anyone without a reason, whatever that may be, and it is not the first time I have asked you this. What is your problem with Mr Pucey?”

“I have no problems with him! It’s fine! I’m fine!” Harry shouted then, once he was sure he wouldn’t throw up immediately, clamping his mouth shut right after. 

“Mr Potter—”

“No. I’ve told you! Nothing happened between me and Pucey, and even if it did, it is none of your business! I don’t want to talk about it with you!” 

“Talking about it requires something to talk about, Potter. You are contradicting yourself as you speak.” 

Harry wanted to scream. The nearby lamps flickered, the fire dying out for a few seconds before igniting once again, and he felt his magic travelling down his arms, eager to escape and lash out against the subject of his ire. He barely reeled it in, after a few seconds of convincing himself that he shouldn’t lash out at a teacher, that it wouldn’t end well for him. He kept his magic locked tight in his chest, a burning feeling that squeezed his lungs and made it hard to breathe, just as he was holding his tears at bay. His eyes burned with the effort. He’d been stifling his tears for almost an hour now, and the only thing he wanted to do was hide under his covers and disappear forever. 

Harry glared at Snape one last time, eyes dark with hatred, before he turned on his heels, not giving the man a chance to say anything else, and made his way back to the dungeons. Harry could only hope that he wouldn’t run into Pucey again. 

By the time he made it to his room, he couldn’t hold it anymore. He ignored the three boys who were hanging out in their room, heading straight for the bathroom. 

His knees hit the floor with a loud thud, only drowned by the sound of his retching. Harry stayed bent over the toilet until he had nothing left. Once he felt like he wouldn’t throw up anymore, he stood up on trembling legs, feeling like a newborn fawn who was still learning how to walk. 

He gripped the porcelain sink, his hands almost slipping on the smooth surface, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories that rushed through him now that he was alone. 

It felt like a parasite was crawling all over his skin, every place that Pucey had touched itching with the ghost of his touch. Harry wished he could carve his skin off and replace it with something that he hadn’t ruined, something that would repel him so he couldn’t hurt him anymore. 

He wished he could forget everything. Forget the whole day had even happened, why he was in this situation in the first place, but the stinging pain in his knuckles reminded him of their fight, of the slimy smile that Pucey had given him as he threw hints and hidden threats. 

Traitorous tears fell to the sink, mixing with droplets of water, and he let them. He cried silently, not a sound escaping his mouth, but even in the quiet of the room, Harry did not hear footsteps approach until Malfoy called his name. 

His voice was low, almost a whisper and uncertain, as if he was afraid that talking to him would send him into another spiral of panic. When Harry didn’t move, Malfoy took a step closer, stopping only an arm’s reach away from him. 

“Potter?” he asked, voice soft as if he were talking to a feral cat. 

“I’m ok, go away.” 

“We’ve gone through this already,” Malfoy sighed. “Please don’t lie to us.” 

“I’m not lying! Stop—stop telling me I’m a liar. I’m not. I’m not.” Harry swivelled around, eyes blazing with green fire.

“Potter, I didn’t mean—”

“She told me I’m a liar. She always thinks I’m lying. Potter is crazy! Potter shouldn’t be allowed near others. Voldemort isn’t back, Mr Potter, he hasn’t tied you down to a grave and Crucioed you until you screamed because he’s. not. back! These are just delusions of a perturbed young boy, Mr Potter!” he yelled, voice shaking and lights flickering. “Mr Pucey is a stellar student, Mr Potter. He would never insult your best friend’s family. No, you must be lying, because God forbid someone is a two-faced, disgusting, fucking rapist!”

Harry’s shoulders were trembling, even though the air was stiflingly hot. He was panting, his quickened breathing making him feel lightheaded. Harry wished he would pass out so he wouldn’t have to deal with anything else. 

“What? She thinks you’re lying? Have you told her about—about that night?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry shook his head fast, tears spilling from his eyes. “No, she didn’t believe that he insulted Ron’s family, she’d never ever believe he ra—assaulted me.” 

“She’s a bitch,” Malfoy growled. 

“She wanted to expel me,” Harry admitted quietly. “She would’ve if Snape hadn’t reminded her that only the Headmaster could do it. I have three weeks of detention instead, and I have to apologise to him for punching him.” 

“Fuck.” 

Malfoy opened his arms as he took the final step that separated them, moving slowly to give Harry enough time to retreat. He didn’t know what came over him, his brain too tired to refuse, but he inched forward slightly, giving Malfoy the indication he needed to wrap his arms around him and pull him close. 

Harry hesitantly circled the boy’s waist with his thin arms, hiding his face in the taller boy’s neck. The boy was cold, but the lower temperature soothed Harry, who felt like his skin was boiling, like he’d been stuck in an oven for hours. He took in the boy’s scent, hints of lavender and apple mixing together, and he felt like he could breathe a little better, even though his heart was still racing in his chest. The lights stopped flickering, settling to give an even yellow glow to the bathroom. 

“I’m tired, Draco,” Harry said, voice muffled by the soft fabric of the boy’s sweater. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” Malfoy whispered back. “We won’t let him hurt you again.”

“What if he tries again?” Harry asked, swallowing down a lump that had formed at the thought. “What if he’s mad that I punched him and he—”

“He won’t.” A voice said from the doorway. Harry’s energy was too depleted to raise his head towards the sound. He hadn’t noticed that the two of them weren’t alone, but he was too tired to care. 

“Theo’s right,” Malfoy agreed. Harry felt his head move in assent. “He won’t have the chance to get you alone. We’ll walk with you everywhere, whenever you’re not with your friends, and you will get your friends to walk you back to Slytherin.” 

“What will people think if they see you with me everywhere? It’s not safe.” 

“We will deal with that when the time comes, but for now, this is our priority,” the blond said. 

“We can tell people we’re spying on you,” Nott suggested. “They won’t question us if we twist this into a plot for the Dark Lord.” 

“That’s a solid plan,” Zabini said. “It’ll get us through until we’re all ready to defect.”

“I don’t want you hurt because of me,” Harry said.

“If we get hurt, it will not be because of you, Potter,” Nott said. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for the Dark Lord and his followers.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, Harry,” Mal—Draco answered.

“Thank—Thank you.” 

Draco’s arms tightened around him once before he slowly stepped back from the embrace. He didn’t let him go completely, though, still keeping his hands on his upper arms. 

“You said Snape convinced Umbitch not to expel you?” Draco asked. If it had been any other day, he would’ve laughed at hearing him call Umbridge that, but he couldn’t muster the energy for even a smile. 

Harry nodded in answer. 

“So he believed you about Pucey,” he continued on his interrogation. He nodded again. 

“He’s suspicious,” Harry admitted after a moment. “He thinks there’s something more going on between me and him.” 

“You should tell him, Harry,” Draco said gently, rubbing his shoulder. “He can help you.” 

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I’ll die before I tell him anything. He won’t believe that, and if he does, he’ll just use it to humiliate me.” 

“He wouldn’t, Harry. I know he wouldn’t. I’ve known him for far longer than you, and I know he doesn’t tolerate any kind of abuse,” Draco said. 

“I know him enough to know that he would do nothing to help me. He hates me. He just wants to put his long nose where it doesn’t belong to have ammunition to humiliate me!” 

“Harry, that’s not true.”

“No, I’m done talking about this. I’m tired,” Harry said. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to sleep.” 

Malfoy exhaled, closing his eyes momentarily before stepping aside and letting Harry walk past. 

Harry didn’t bother changing his clothes or even undressing. He grabbed his Dreamless Sleep and threw it back, knowing that after the day he’d had, there was no chance that he wouldn’t get a nightmare. 

In a second, he was fast asleep. The last thought he had was that he hoped he would stay like that forever.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t feel any better when he woke up the next morning. He’d taken the Dreamless Sleep last night, but his eyes still burned as if he hadn’t slept a wink. 

His legs were like lead as he dragged himself to the bathroom. It was early, and the three boys were still sleeping in their beds, Zabini’s snores breaking the silence. Harry didn’t know why he was the only one to use silencing charms. They were so useful. 

He almost jumped back when he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked awful, worse than he’d had in a long time. His undereyes were darker than ever, purple circles accentuating his dull green eyes, still slightly red from all the crying he did last night. His hair was sticking up every which way, curly locks tangled and resembling more than ever the rat’s nest everyone always made fun of him for. His skin hadn’t regained its colour, still as pale as it had been ever since the confrontation with Pucey. 

Harry closed his eyes, sighing. He knew he had to do something about this, or he would never hear the end of his friends’ concern if they ever saw how bad he looked. His usual glamours had been failing for a while now, but now he was sure they wouldn’t do much to cover his sickly appearance. He’d have to research stronger ones in the library. Maybe he’d find something in the Restricted Section. 

In the meantime, Harry left the bathroom and rummaged through his trunk in search of what he needed to fix this. Tube in hand, Harry returned to the bathroom. He squeezed a little bit of product on the back of his hand, then picked up a smaller amount to spread over the dark circles under his eyes, carefully dabbing his skin so there weren’t any harsh lines. It wasn’t a perfect job, but it was good enough for now. He’d learned about concealer when his aunt had thrown an almost finished tube of it at him, the first time Uncle Vernon had forgotten that his face was off-limits. Aunt Petunia didn’t want his teachers questioning the bruise on his cheek, so she’d given him her old concealer, snapping at him to fix his face. He’d done a poor job of it the first time, and it hadn’t been enough to deter suspicion, but he’d learned since then. Concealer had been, and still was, the only thing his aunt ever bought for him. She had given him a new one just this summer, right before Harry had left for Hogwarts, unaware that wizards had magic able to cover the bruises, and for the first and only time in his life, he felt grateful for his aunt. Then the feeling disappeared when he thought about why he had needed it.

The bottle had stayed unopened at the bottom of Harry’s trunk, and he’d honestly forgotten about it until now, but he was glad he had something else he could use until he had time to do some research. 

Once he was satisfied that his dark circles wouldn’t be seen under the makeup—the shade wasn’t the right match, but he was confident he’d be able to fix that with magic—he pointed his wand at his face, murmuring the incantation. He relaxed slightly when the familiar tingle washed over his face, his features taking on a healthier look. Like he’d thought, the glamour hid the fact that he was wearing the wrong shade of concealer, and now, he looked better than he had in months. Harry wished he’d thought about using concealer sooner, but it was too late now.

Dressed in his warmest Weasley sweater, Harry grabbed his bag, intent on going to the library to grab a few books to do his homework. The boys had decided that he was not to walk alone, but they didn’t know he had an Invisibility Cloak, or at least Zabini and Nott didn’t. Malfoy had seen his floating head in Hogsmeade back in third year, but he didn’t know if he’d actually come to the conclusion that Harry had one. 

Harry pulled the cloak over himself, making sure he was fully covered before he left his room. He walked silently in the corridors until he ran into two familiar faces, who were walking fast in the direction of the Slytherin dorms.

Harry felt joy at the sight of them, a genuine smile brightening his face, and, making sure there was no one around, he uncovered himself. Hermione stopped in her tracks, and Ron bumped into her when they saw Harry appear out of nowhere. 

“Harry!” Hermione whisper-yelled. “We were looking for you! Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You disappeared last night! We were so worried! Where did you go?” Hermione asked. 

“Umbridge’s office. Got detention with her,” Harry said, clenching his fist at the reminder of last evening’s events.

“Oh, Harry! You shouldn’t have punched that guy,” Hermione said, a disapproving expression on her face, just as Ron said, “I’m sorry, mate. You didn’t have to defend me.”

Harry gritted his teeth, fist clenching around the invisibility cloak, as he looked away from his friend. He didn’t want to see the disappointed face Hermione made whenever he did something stupid. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he was sure she’d have done the same if she were in his position. Wasn’t she the one who punched Malfoy in third year? She just hadn’t gotten caught. 

“I know, Hermione. Have you come here to reprimand me for my deplorable behaviour, as well? As if I haven’t listened to Umbridge go on and on about how dangerous I am for an hour, and she’s going to be carving my hand for three weeks. I don’t need it from you, too, Hermione. I know I’ve made a mistake.” 

Harry was being harsh, he knew that, but the anger he felt for Pucey was still lingering so close to his chest, clawing at his ribcage and begging to be let out. He could feel his magic trying to escape, to destroy something just as Pucey had destroyed him. 

He didn’t feel any better when Hermione’s eyes softened, pity replacing the disappointment. He didn’t know if pity was better or worse than her previous look of disapproval, but he knew that he wanted both of them gone from her expression. 

Unfortunately, Hermione wasn’t a mind reader, and she was clearly too tired to read the expression on his face, so nothing stopped her voice from becoming soft, as if she were talking to a wounded animal. “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” she paused for a moment, glancing at Ron briefly. “We didn’t come here to talk about that, I promise. You disappeared yesterday after the Quidditch game. Understandably, of course, you must have been upset. But we have good news!” 

Harry’s mood lifted slightly at those words, his irritation at Hermione fading quickly. Good news? Those were words he hadn’t heard in a long time, and Harry desperately needed to hear something good. Harry looked at Hermione intently, hoping she would go on with what she had come here to tell him, and not beat around the bush like she tended to do sometimes. 

“Hagrid’s back!” Hermione said, a little louder than was sensible. “We went to visit him last night. We would’ve waited for you, but we couldn’t find you, you know, but anyway. He’s a bit beaten up, he wouldn’t tell us what happened, but we have our suspicions. We thought he’d be more talkative with you around, so we told him we’d be back today with you. Are you coming?” 

Harry nodded, folding his cloak and putting it into his bag. He had homework to do, especially since his evenings were now taken by Umbridge’s detentions, but he hadn’t seen Hagrid in months, and he wanted to make sure he was all right, since Hermione had said he’d been beaten up. 

Harry followed them to Hagrid’s hut, none of them talking. The hallways were empty, but it didn’t surprise him. It was a Sunday, and it was barely seven thirty a.m. Harry was surprised Hermione had managed to get Ron out of bed this early, and he had to wonder if Hermione had bribed him with something. 

Soon, they were standing in front of Hagrid’s door. Harry rubbed his hands over his arms, the chilly November air causing goosebumps on his arms even through the thick wool of his sweater. He wished he had thought to bring a heavy coat with him, but his original plan had been to go to the library, not venture out outside in the cold.

Fang barked, alerting Hagrid to their presence even before Hermione knocked. When Hagrid opened the door, and Harry saw what his friend meant by a bit beaten up, Harry thought a dictionary would be a good Christmas gift for her. If this was being beaten up a bit, Harry didn’t want to know what her definition of being beaten up a lot was. There was not an inch of the half-giant’s face not covered in bruises, and it didn’t look like the rest of his body was faring any better. There was blood crusted on his long beard, as if it’d been left there to dry for so many days that it was now a permanent part of his beard, which Harry didn’t think was too far off the truth. 

Even the huge smile Hagrid gave him when he noticed him looked like it hurt, but the large man didn’t seem to care. He stepped back, inviting them in with a wave of his head, one arm busy with holding back Fang and the other with keeping the door open. 

Once they were all sitting down with mugs of hot tea, Hermione didn’t waste time launching into her interrogation, asking Hagrid about his mission with the giants. Hagrid looked like he wanted to deny it, and he tried to, but Hermione didn’t allow him to play dumb, and after a last attempt at diverting their enquiries, he gave in, telling them about his unsuccessful mission in the mountains. Harry didn’t know much about giants, but he now knew that it was good that he had no interest in mountaineering like some Muggles apparently did. He didn’t want to risk a run-in with giants who only wanted to eat him. It didn’t seem like a good way to die.

“So, I ‘eard Gryffindor won las’ night, eh, Harry? Caught that snitch, didn’t ye?” Hagrid said, once he was done with his story. 

“Er,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. He forgot Hagrid hadn’t been there, and therefore didn’t know about his re-sorting. He looked to his best friends for help, not knowing how to break the news to the first man who’d warned him against Slytherins that he’d become one, but neither of them looked like they had any idea of how to break it to the half-giant gently.

“I’m not on the Gryffindor Quidditch team anymore, Hagrid,” he settled on. 

“What?!” Hagrid shouted. “But yer mighty good, Harry. Why did yeh quit the team?”

“I didn’t exactly quit,” Harry said. He decided then to rip off the band-aid, knowing that beating around the bush was not helping anyone. “I can’t be on the Gryffindor team because I’m not a Gryffindor anymore. I was re-sorted into Slytherin at the beginning of the term.”

“What? Yer a Slytherin now? What happ’n’d?”

“Well, I was briefly expelled over the summer after the Dementor attack and—”

“Dementor attack? Whadda yeh mean Dementor attack?”

“Didn’t you know?” Harry asked, and then went on to tell him about it when he said he hadn’t heard anything about anyone since he’d left for his mission, derailing the previous topic.

“And here I am, living among the snakes. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What yer sorry for?” Hagrid winced as he frowned, the movement pulling on his bruised skin. 

“I’m a Slytherin now, which I know you don’t like. You said that there was not a wizard who went bad who wasn’t a Slytherin.”

“Yeh have a good memory, don’t yeh, Harry?” Hagrid chuckled. He held back a groan, large hand going to his chest. Did he have broken ribs? But Hagrid continued before Harry could question it. “I reckon I was wron’. There’s not a nicer wizard than yeh that I know, Harry. Don’ think fer a secon’ tha’ I like yeh any less because yer a Slytherin now.”

“Thanks, Hagrid.” Harry smiled at their friend, relieved that all the people he cared about hadn’t left him because of his new House. 

They chatted with Hagrid for a bit longer, clutching their warm mugs in their frozen hands and telling him all he’d missed while he was away. Hagrid told them about Umbridge’s visit to his hut last night, after they got to the disaster that were Defence Against the Dark Arts classes, and they warned him against doing anything that would keep him on her radar, such as teaching them about dangerous creatures, though Hagrid did not want to hear it. 

They left Hagrid’s hut with a last attempt to knock it into his thick skull how dangerous the woman was, but Hagrid’s skull was very thick, and none of them thought that they’d been successful. Harry could only hope Umbridge wouldn’t eat him alive like she’d done to Trelawney. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

November took a turn for the worse after their visit to Hagrid. November dragged on slowly, minutes feeling like hours as he sat every night in detention, carving his hand.  

Even though he hadn’t had detention for the whole month of October, as soon as the tip of the quill finished writing the first letter, the wound opened back up as if a whole month hadn’t passed and it hadn’t had any chance to heal. Blood immediately welled up, running down his hand and pooling under his hand. His only consolation was that his blood stained not only his clothes, but also Umbridge’s fancy tablecloth. It was not his fault that Umbridge was stupid enough to put a fancy tablecloth on a table when she knew Harry would be bleeding all over it, but he felt a tiny bit of satisfaction knowing that he’d ruined something that belonged to Umbitch. Now that the panic had receded, he could appreciate the nickname Draco had given her. He’d started referring to her as that now, whenever he wasn’t in earshot of any of the teachers. He didn’t want to take credit where it wasn’t due, but Draco was doing the same.

Every night, he stumbled back to his dorm at ungodly hours of the night, so dizzy that he had to hold on to the wall for balance and hope that he wasn’t leaving trails of blood everywhere.  

And every night, he found Murtlap Essence and a clean cloth waiting for him on his bedside table. In the first week, Malfoy had waited up for him, but Harry had insisted that he stay in bed, not wanting to ruin his sleep schedule. He felt bad that the blond was losing so much sleep because of him, especially when he didn’t know why the boy was even doing it. 

Seeing the bowl of Murtlap Essence and the cloth that Malfoy laid out for him, however, still ignited a warm feeling that spread through his chest and to his cheeks just as strongly as it did when he came back to Malfoy waiting for him. He didn’t know exactly what that feeling was, but he thought it was something like what he’d felt last year every time he caught sight of Cho Chang. 

Harry wasn’t ready to think about what that meant, though, after everything that had happened. It didn’t know if he ever could.

Harry thought he’d been tired before, but nothing could compare to what he felt now. The bad weather had taken hold, covering the Hogwarts grounds in a blanket of pure, white snow. The cold settled on his skin, bones feeling heavy and weary as he trudged through his days. He had taken to piling on his warmest clothes, layering sweater over sweater in an attempt to keep warm. He didn’t know if his magic could sustain a warming charm over a glamour, but at least, his multiple layers hid his still too thin body, which meant that he could use his glamour only on his face. The new glamour he’d found in the library—after a trip in the Restricted Section—was stronger, now hiding his dark circles and his paleness better, but it also took more energy, adding to his bone-deep exhaustion.

The DA and the private lessons with the Slytherins didn’t help. Harry was being pulled from all angles, between his homework, detentions and people relying on him to teach them Defence, and he felt stretched thin. 

His friends had offered to take over the lessons while he had detention, but Harry had refused, not one to back down from his duty. He said he’d teach them, and he would, even though it meant coming back to the dorm half-dead. Now that Harry had detentions in the evening, they’d taken to meet twice a week for an hour instead of once for longer, doing it in the hour between dinner and Harry’s detention. Harry’s lessons with the Slytherins were whenever all five of them found time, either between breaks or before breakfast, if they were all awake on time. 

The pile of homework that seemed to grow bigger every day they got closer to the O.W.L.s gave Harry a panic attack every time he saw it, and he didn’t want to think about how it would be next semester, with the exams only a few weeks away. 

Harry had never felt pressure like this before, with everyone expecting something from him, with the threat of Pucey retaliating hanging over his head and sending panic through him whenever he saw a brown-haired Slytherin—it didn’t help that Nott’s hair was the same colour, he’d flinched too many times already before he saw his face—and Umbridge’s sadistic detentions that took over all of his free times. 

Harry didn’t know how Hermione had come out alive from her little adventure with the time turner, but maybe she was stronger than he was. He’d proved time and time again that he wasn’t as strong as people thought, and he was bound to break soon. Harry only hoped that he wouldn’t take anyone down with him when he did.

Harry wished he could just put a stop to it all. He was tired of not having time to himself. He hadn’t drawn in so long, and for the first time, he felt himself missing doing something for himself. Drawing helped him calm down, to let his thoughts go for a moment and stop thinking about the hell his life had become. 

But now he couldn’t even do that. Even at night, once he was back from detention, he was so tired that he barely had time to clean his wound before he fell asleep, not that it lasted long. Even his exhaustion couldn’t stop the nightmares that had worsened considerably since the Quidditch game. Now, most of them were of Pucey. He replayed the worst night of his life over and over again, the images and the impression of his touch lingering even after he woke up screaming. And strangely, dreams of that dark corridor with the familiar dorm crept into his nightmares. He didn’t know where those dreams came from, but he had so many things going on that he didn’t have the time—nor the energy—to give much thought to it. He was glad that they, at least, gave him a bit of a reprieve. 

Harry was now running on those short hours of sleep he got before his nightmares woke him up, and on the Pepper-Up potions Nott and Malfoy had provided for him after they accidentally saw him again without his glamour and found out that his nightmares had gotten worse. 

Throughout those weeks, Harry had come to rely on the three Slytherin boys, who still made sure he wouldn’t drop dead by pushing food towards him, bringing him some whenever he skipped meals to do homework, or did things like giving him potions that would help. After they did stuff like this, Harry felt glad he’d ended up in Slytherin. He would have never gotten to know them if he’d stayed in Gryffindor. He was glad he could now call them friends, even though it had only been three months, and wished there was something he could do to repay them. Giving them Muggle lessons didn’t feel like it was enough, after everything they’d done for him, and all the times he’d woken them up in the night because he forgot his silencing charms, which happened more often now that he was too tired to think straight.

Harry was grateful for them, and he seriously hoped things would calm down soon, even just so he wouldn’t be so tired as to forget to put his silencing charms.

Chapter Text

December arrived and brought with it a small reprieve. Harry could breathe a little better now that his evenings weren’t taken up by the toad, giving him more time for homework and to think about something that wasn’t Hogwarts-related. 

However, it also brought the annual panic of what to get his friends for Christmas. The first week of December had already gone by, and Harry still had nothing. His desperation increased with each day that passed, so even with all his homework, Harry trailed behind Malfoy, Nott and Zabini on the first Hogsmeade Day in December. Ron and Hermione had invited him to go with them, but he couldn’t exactly buy their Christmas presents if they went together. 

The first stop they made was at Scrivenshaft’s to pick up more parchment and ink for everyone. They were all running low with all the homework they had, and they wanted to get it out of the way first, so they’d have all the time to look for presents. The trip to Scrivenshaft’s proved fruitful: Harry found a set of fancy quills that he knew Hermione would love, though he also wanted to get her a book. 

The bookshop, coincidentally, was where the other boys wanted to go as well. Once in the shop, they split up, each going to a different section. The bookshop here had an older catalogue than Flourish and Blotts, but Harry thought it was perfect for Hermione. It had a section with used books, and Harry picked out a book about House Elves that was in great condition. With everything that had gone on these past three months, he felt like he had neglected his two best friends a bit. He didn’t know what Hermione was doing about it, but he hoped the book would be useful for her SPEW campaign. He also got her a romance book written by a witch, hoping she would like that as well. 

He’d also grabbed a book on Quidditch Keepers for Ron, which promised to have lots of tips on how to Keep.

“Into romance, now, Potter?” Malfoy drawled, sliding behind him in the queue. 

“It’s for Hermione,” Harry blushed, pushing the books towards the wizard at the till. He put a few galleons on the counter, then grabbed his change and placed the books in his bag before stepping aside so Malfoy could pay for his things. 

“Oh, I didn’t think that she would like romance books,” he said. “I’d taken her for more of an academic book lover.”

“She likes anything as long as it is a book,” Harry shrugged. “She wants to learn about everything. I’m sure she’ll appreciate learning about the difference between Muggle and Wizarding novels.”

“I’ve always wondered how she is not a Ravenclaw,” Malfoy followed him outside the bookshop, where Nott and Zabini were waiting for them. 

“You and the rest of the world,” Harry laughed. “Though she is pretty brave. She could be a Slytherin as well, I think.” 

“Miss I know all the rules, and I will recite them to you? A Slytherin?” Malfoy raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Harry wondered how he managed to lift only one. He always looked stupid when he tried. 

“She knows all the rules, so she knows what rules she’s breaking, or so she can get around them without getting into too much trouble,” Harry defended her. 

“What’s the most Slytherin thing she’s done?” 

“I won’t reveal her secrets,” Harry said, earning Malfoy’s scowl. 

“Prat.” 

Next was Gladrags Wizardwear. Harry walked around the store, hoping that something would jump out of the racks and scream, ‘I’m the perfect gift, pick me!’, but he didn’t think magic went that far. 

Finally, he saw a few cardigans that he thought Remus would like in the Muggle-style section of the store. He’d seen him mostly wearing those, and he thought a few more couldn’t hurt. Next to the cardigan, there was a black leather jacket, and he snatched it up. There was a photo in his photo album where Sirius was wearing one, though it looked worn out. It was a picture that he hadn’t really thought about until after he’d found out about Sirius being his godfather. When he still believed him to be a traitor, he had almost cut him out of the picture. The only thing that had stopped him at the time was that Sirius had been standing between his mum and dad, and cutting him out would mean ruining the whole picture. Now he was glad he hadn’t. It was the only picture of Sirius he had, but he was determined to get more when he had the chance. He’d also found a picture of Remus and his dad on the last page of his album, but at the time, Harry had not recognised him. He looked much younger and less tired from grief and all his transformations. 

He went to the Quidditch section, where he found a nice pair of Keeper’s gloves for Ron and Beater gloves for the twins. He knew they were wearing old ones, and he thought they deserved something new. 

When Harry was done, Malfoy was still perusing the shelves. Not knowing how long he would take, he did another tour of the shop, going to the women’s section to see if he could find something for Mrs Weasley. She’d invited him over for Christmas, and he didn’t want to go empty-handed, especially since he knew she’d give him a new sweater as per tradition. He had the perfect gift for Mr Weasley: an old camera that once belonged to Dudley but had ended up in Harry’s room. He’d put it in his trunk before the trial, when he thought they’d be taking him away from Privet Drive, with the intent of giving it to the man, but he hadn’t had the chance. It was a little broken—the reason why he’d taken it, he was sure the Dursleys wouldn’t notice its absence—but Harry thought Mr Weasley would have fun trying to fix it. 

He found what he was looking for in the jewellery section. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a silver necklace with a small, green pendant, but he thought Mrs Weasley would like it. 

Harry paid for the necklace, thanking the witch and going outside, where Malfoy and the other two boys were waiting for him. Malfoy had no packages, but he guessed that he had shrunk them to fit in his pockets. 

“I’ve got to go to the apothecary, and then I’m done,” Harry announced, receiving a weird look from Malfoy. 

“You, voluntarily going into a Potion shop? What has happened, Potter? Is someone Polyjuicing as you?” 

“Very funny, Malfoy. No, I need to get something else for the twins.” 

  “I thought you already got something for the older Weasels,” Malfoy said. Harry glared at him at the name, and the blond raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry. The older Weasleys .”

“I did, but I want to get them a voucher. They’re working on opening a joke shop,” Harry explained. 

Five minutes later, Harry left the apothecary with two vouchers in hand and a weight off his shoulders now that he had everything he needed. The only thing left to do was to find something for the three Slytherins, but that would have to wait until later, when he wasn’t with them. 

A cold breeze ruffled his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. He hugged himself, hoping to warm himself up, but the multiple layers he was wearing did nothing to stop the frigid December air from sinking deep in his bones and freezing him. His teeth had been chattering for a while now, not even the warm air in the shops helping since they didn’t stay long enough for him to warm up. 

“You’re a wizard, Potter,” Malfoy drawled as warmth washed over his body, his trembling stopping with the warming charm. “Act like it.”

“Why should I when you’re here to do it for me?” Harry smirked, but thanked him right after, grateful for the reprieve from the cold.

The four of them walked to the Three Broomsticks, then, where they met up with Parkinson and her friends, with whom she had spent the whole morning. Harry didn’t know Greengrass and Davis well; he hadn’t had the chance to spend a lot of time with them, but the fact that they looked to be on friendly terms with the boys soothed some of his worries. 

“So, Potter, I hear you’ve been helping Pansy with Defence,” Greengrass started, once Madame Rosmerta had placed their butterbeers on the table and left. They were in a corner, isolated from the rest, so that they could talk with less risk of being overheard. 

The blonde girl didn’t let him talk. “Is there room for Tracey and me? Pansy has told us how helpful you’ve been.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to Malfoy, who gave him an imperceptible nod. 

“She has been passing on what she’s learned so far, but it does take up a lot of our time, so she suggested to learn directly from the source.” 

“If she trusts you to keep it secret, I don’t see why not, Greengrass,” Harry said slowly. He examined her face, but her features didn’t shift. 

“Thank you, Potter. We will be there at the next lesson.”

They chatted for the rest of the lunch, Harry content to simply listen and only join the conversation when they asked him a question. He had gotten comfortable with the other Slytherins—Malfoy, Nott and Zabini more so than Parkinsn—but Greengrass and Davis were two unknowns, even if the others seemed to trust them. Harry wondered if they would extend the same trust to Crabbe, Goyle and Pike. It looked like they had distanced themselves from the three, even though they seemed to be a tight group until last year. 

Back in the dorms, Harry sat on his bed, wrapping paper all around him as he wrestled the paper into submission. He was failing badly at it, and the worst part was that he had an audience, since he hadn’t bothered to close his curtains.

“Your wrapping skills are pitiful, Potter,” Malfoy drawled from his bed, where he was writing a letter. Harry glowered, even though he knew he was right. 

“Well, it’s what’s inside that matters,” he grumbled, attaching a bit of spellotape to stick the paper together. 

“You are aware you can use a Sticking Charm, yes?” 

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy watched Harry work for another minute before he set his letter aside and jumped off his bed, walking towards him. 

He sat on Harry’s bed, snatching the present Harry was wrapping. He undid his work, getting an indignant ‘hey’ from Harry, and smoothed out the paper. He spent the next twenty minutes how to wrap presents, and by the time they were done, all of the gifts were neatly wrapped at the end of his bed, the ones Malfoy had wrapped to show him more so than Harry’s, but he wasn’t going to admit that he was still bad at it. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Soon, the last meeting of the DA arrived, and Harry found himself wishing he hadn’t asked Dobby for help finding the Room of Requirement. If he hadn’t, the elf wouldn’t have decorated the room with Christmas baubles with Harry’s face that said: HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS! 

Harry rushed to get rid of them before the rest arrived. He didn’t want anyone to see them, and most of all, he didn’t want any of the Slytherins or the Weasley twins catching sight of them. He would never hear the end of it. He could already imagine the smirk on Malfoy’s face, or the jokes that Fred and George would make.

The rest started to arrive just as Harry vanished the last one. He left the other decorations, not wanting all the effort Dobby had gone through to go to waste. 

The door sealed behind the last person, and Harry waited a few more seconds for everyone to settle down before he cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. 

He got a few complaints when he announced they would be going over everything they’d done so far, but the promise of learning how to cast a Patronus when they came back made up for any disappointment they felt. Only Zacharias Smith continued to voice his objections loudly, but George shut him up quickly. 

Harry partnered with Neville as they revised the Impediment Jinx. The Gryffindor had improved significantly since the first lesson, and Harry could tell that it helped boost the timid boy’s confidence. Neville stood straighter now, and his hand didn’t shake anymore as he cast the jinx towards Harry. Harry found himself wishing he’d spent more time with the boy. He missed his quiet presence, the way Neville had always supported him, even if he did it quietly, and resolved to try to spend more time with him, from now on. He was sure he could find a way. 

Harry spent a bit more time helping Neville before he moved on to watch the others. Everyone had improved vastly since the first lesson, and Harry was glad that the time spent teaching them hadn’t gone completely to waste. 

After practising Stunning spells, which took most of the time set for the meeting since they had to take turns, Harry wished them all a ‘Happy Christmas’ before sending them away in groups of two or three. 

He waved to Ron and Hermione, the last to leave as usual, and turned to clear out the room. But that didn’t seem to be the case, however. Harry thought everyone had left, but footsteps approaching him warned him of the presence of someone else in the room with him. 

Harry felt his heartbeat quicken for a second, scared of who that someone could be. His thoughts went to Pucey for a second, his mind trying to come up with how he had found him, how he’d got into the room without him noticing, but when he turned, he only found Cho standing behind him. At the sight of her face, he relaxed, but his anxiety didn’t ease completely. The Slytherins would be here any minute now, and he had no way to warn them that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know if he could trust Cho with the knowledge that he was giving private lessons to the Slytherins. 

“Hi.” The girl’s quiet voice broke him out of his thoughts, reminding him that she probably wanted something, since she hadn’t left with the others. Right, he should make this quick, so she’d leave sooner. He felt bad thinking it, but he didn’t want to risk the safety of the others. When he looked at her face better, he noticed she was crying silently. 

“Hi, er—can I help you?” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you all right?” 

He wrinkled his nose at himself, knowing how he sounded, but he couldn’t do much to take the words back.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled, voice shaky. “It’s just—this stuff makes me wonder whether—if he’d learned it… If he’d known all this stuff… he’d still be alive.”

Harry froze, breath catching in his throat at the question. Green light flashed in his eyes, a cold laugh echoing in the silent room, and Harry closed his eyes, shaking his head to send away those images. 

“No,” he said. Cho flinched at his bluntness, but Harry didn’t have it in him to care. He clenched his fists, focusing on a point in the room that was not Cho’s tear-stained face. He didn’t want to talk about Cedric. He’d spent enough time thinking about him in his dreams. He didn’t want him to haunt his days as well, no matter how bad that sounded. It’d been almost six months already, and he wanted to move on. 

“No, it wouldn’t have mattered,” he continued. “Not with Voldemort. Ced—Cedric knew all this, or he wouldn’t have gotten where he did, but Voldemort didn’t give him time to use what he’d learned.”

A sob escaped from Cho’s lips, and Harry wanted to offer some comfort. He wanted to regret the harshness of his words, but it was the truth, and he wasn’t a liar. If this had happened any time last year, Harry would have been so happy that the girl was talking to him, even if it was with tears in her eyes and about her dead ex-boyfriend, and he would jump at the chance to comfort her and be her knight in shining armor, but a part of thatHarry had died at the graveyard while the other had been taken by Pucey. 

Right now, he could only wish he could call her friend to come help her and Apparate out of there. 

But only elves could Apparate in Hogwarts, so his plan would never work out. 

“You survived, though,” Cho said. 

Harry flinched back, swallowing down the bile. Yeah, well, I didn’t want to. I’d have given my life for Cedric if I’d had the chance. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know how much time I’ve spent wishing that? he wanted to tell her, but the words were stuck in his throat. 

“It was just luck, really,” Harry said instead. He glanced at the door, glad that the Slytherins seemed to be running late. “I don’t want to sound insensitive, Cho, and I am really sorry about Cedric. I’d go back in time to save him in a heartbeat if I could, but it’s been a long day, and I’m really tired. Do you need anything else?”

“I’m really sorry about all this,” she said. “I know you must want to move on, to forget about Cedric, and here I am, reminding you of it when you were the one to see him die…” 

Harry didn’t say anything, not wanting to admit that it was true. 

“But it’s not all I wanted to talk about,” she continued, taking a few steps towards him. Then, she looked up at the ceiling, a small smile on her face as she pointed at something above their heads. “Mistletoe.”

Harry looked up, and his heart stopped as he realised she was right: there was a bundle of mistletoe above their heads. He turned back to Cho, taking a small step back and hoping that the girl understood that he was not in the mood for any of that. 

“Cho, I’m not—”

“I really like you, Harry,” she said, taking the final steps towards him and leaning close. Her eyes were closed as she leaned in, so she didn’t see his wide eyes. Her lips were almost on his when he turned his face, so she kissed him on the cheek instead. 

Cho deflated immediately as she understood what had happened. Her shoulders slumped forward slightly, eyes shining with fresh tears as she looked at him. 

His cheeks were burning as he tried to look anywhere but at her, to avoid looking at the clear disappointment on her face.

“Sorry, I thought you liked me—You seemed to like me last year,” she said quietly. 

“I’m sorry, Cho. You’re great, but… things have changed, now. I’m not the same.”

“I—I understand. I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.”

“It’s ok. Happy Christmas, Cho.”

“Happy Christmas.”

Cho turned on her heels, walking to the door in quick strides as if someone was chasing her but she couldn’t quite run. 

Harry took a deep breath, walking to the wall and sliding down to the floor. He hid his flushed face between his knees, hands clenched tightly around his legs. 

He sat like that for a while, fighting a losing battle with the tears that had been threatening to escape since the beginning of their conversation. He hadn’t thought about Cedric in a few weeks. He hadn’t seen Cedric’s dead body in his dreams in a while, his dreams taken over by Pucey and the weird door, with the occasional appearance of his uncle whenever he didn’t take the Dreamless Sleep. Hearing Cedric’s name after a few weeks of not having nightmares about him made the wound open anew, and the mixed feelings that the almost-kiss with Cho had evoked only made the ache stronger. 

He didn’t know how to feel about Cho. Yes, he had had a crush on her last year, but he felt nothing towards her now, and he felt resentment towards her. She’d ignored him, cutting off what he was trying to say and kissed him without letting him talk. She’d been understanding afterwards, and he didn’t think she meant anything malicious by it, but it had reminded him a little too much of him to feel comfortable.

That was how the four Sytherins found him a few minutes later, when they finally stepped inside the room. He didn’t notice them walking in until a hand touched his shoulder, making him jump. 

He raised his head and met Parkinson’s blue eyes, who were looking at him with concern. Draco was standing close by, his expression matching Parkinson’s, while Theo and Blaise stayed behind with Davis and Greengrass. 

“Are you ok, Darling? What’s wrong?” Pansy asked, rubbing his shoulder, her touch soft. He nodded, untangling himself and getting up from the floor. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. We can start.” 

Draco scoffed from where he was standing, and Harry glared at him, but it didn’t have the same effect with his tear-stained face. 

“Just an unwanted talk about Cedric with his ex-girlfriend, and an unwanted attempt to kiss me under the mistletoe. I’m fine. Just overwhelmed.”

Draco’s eyes flashed with worry, and Harry shook his head in his direction, trying to convey that he really was fine, that it wasn’t that big of a deal. The blond looked hesitant, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Didn’t you have a crush on her last year? We’ve all seen you pine after her,” Davis commented as the rest walked closer. Both Draco and Theo shot her a dirty look, which Harry pretended not to have seen. 

“I’ve grown up. I’m not that into her anymore,” he said. “Are we gossiping about my love life or are we practising?” 

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it today? We can skip today’s lesson, we’re doing pretty well,” Pansy said. 

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine. Pair up.” 

He hoped he would be able to sleep tonight. He’d run out of Dreamless Sleep.

Chapter Text

Draco sighed as he threw his duvet off his body with one hand and wiped the sleep off his eyes with the other. They all had stayed up late, as it was usual after every private lesson, and he could feel the pull of sleep trying to get him to lie back down. His eyes ached, his vision almost blurry as he adjusted to the darkness of the room. A wave of his wand told him it was only two thirty a.m., meaning that he’d only been asleep for an hour and a half. 

He suppressed a groan. It was not Harry’s fault that he had woken him up again. He couldn’t imagine having nightmares every night, and he must’ve been so exhausted that he’d forgotten his privacy charms. 

He pushed away the curtains and muttered a Lumos, pointing the wand away from Theo’s direction so that he wouldn’t wake him up. Theo was a heavier sleeper than him, and while the boy woke up the first time Potter had forgotten his charms, this time he wasn’t being as loud. Draco could only hear him whimpering and thrashing about. 

He tiptoed to the ex-Gryffindor’s bed, pushing back his curtains and ready to wake him up, but what he saw halted him in his tracks.

As he had assumed, Potter was having a nightmare. He was thrashing violently in his bed, his bedsheets tangling around his twitching legs. But taking a better look, he didn’t look to be just thrashing about because of his nightmare. His whole body was shaking as if he were having a fit. Anxiety clawed at his chest, especially when he pointed his wand at his face and saw blood all over the boy’s face. His scar was an angry red, and it was freely bleeding, the trail going down his eyebrow and down his eyelid. 

This was not a normal nightmare, and Draco surged forward, hands going to the boy’s shoulders in an attempt to wake him up. He tried to be gentle, but the panic made his movements too harsh. He didn’t care at the moment, though. He just needed the boy to wake up and assure him that he was fine. 

“Harry!” he called out to him loudly, not caring about potentially waking up his two other friends. “Harry, wake up!” 

The boy didn’t rouse. The shaking continued, whimpers coming out of the boy's mouth. He was about to conjure some water to throw at his face when the whimpering turned into hisses. Draco startled. He hadn’t heard that sound since the Lockhart’s Duelling Club when he had conjured the snake, and Potter had revealed himself a Parselmouth. He’d honestly forgotten the boy could talk to snakes, and he was wondering why he was hissing in his sleep now. He ignored the admiration he felt at the reminder of his gift and shook the boy more violently, hoping to get him out of whatever nightmare or fit he was in, but with no success. 

“Theo!” He shouted in desperation. “Theo, help me, please!”

The room was bathed in light a few seconds later, and the sound of two curtains opening and bare feet running to him eased his panic slightly. 

“What’s wrong, Draco?” Theo asked, standing beside him. 

“He’s having a fit, or something. I can’t wake him up.”

“You need to call Snape,” Theo said. 

“But Potter doesn’t—”

“It does not matter what Potter wants right now, Draco. He does not look good, his scar is bleeding and it is time someone competent helps him. Go to Snape. We’ll take care of Harry.”

Draco nodded, backing up from Potter’s bed and running out of the room. He sprinted down the stairs, almost breaking his neck a few times from running barefoot on the sleek stone, and then ran out of the common room and to Snape’s office. 

He knocked on the door, not caring how loud he was being, and hoped the wards the professor had around the office would warn him of his presence. 

The door was thrown open a minute later, Draco almost hitting the man in the face as he was mid-knock when he answered the door. 

“Draco, what is the meaning of this? It is two a.m.!” 

“It’s Harry,” Draco answered, chest heaving. 

“What has the Potter boy done now? What trouble has he gotten in?” 

“He’s having a fit, or something. Probably a nightmare as well. We can’t wake him up.”

His godfather stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him, before he walked at a fast pace towards the dorms. Draco stayed frozen for a few seconds before he woke himself up from his trance and ran to keep up with his godfather. Draco wanted to tell him to hurry up so he could fix whatever the hell was wrong with Potter, but he didn’t think snapping at him would go over well, especially since he'd woken the man up in the middle of the night. 

Soon, they were back in their room. Theo and Blaise were still standing beside Potter’s bed, but Theo was much closer now. He was holding up Potter while the boy threw up over the side of the bed. Draco wrinkled his nose at the sound of retching, but didn’t say anything to complain about the smell. 

Theo raised his head when he heard them come in, features slumping in relief at the arrival of the Potion Master. 

“He woke up,” he said. “But he’s mumbling nonsense about the Weasleys’ father. I think his scar hurts.” 

Severus stepped closer to the bed, going around it so Potter would be facing him. Theo helped him lean back on the headboard once he stopped throwing up, and the professor waved his wand, vanishing the mess before observing the boy. 

Potter looked bad. His green eyes were rimmed with red, and the dark circles under his eyes looked like dark bruises. His cheeks looked a little less skeleton-like, now that they managed to get him to eat more, but he still had a way to go to gain a healthy weight, and Draco could see the frown on Severus’ face as he examined the thin body that his pyjamas couldn’t hide. He was glad that someone, an adult, was seeing Potter without his glamours. Maybe he’d be able to get him help now. Potter was still pale and trembling all over, though he didn’t know if it was because of the nightmare or because of the cold. He pointed his wand at the boy, mumbling a warming charm in his direction, but the shaking didn’t subside. The only thing he gained was a puzzled look from his godfather. 

“Snape,” Potter’s weak voice mumbled. He tried getting up, movements becoming more desperate as Theo tried to keep him on the bed. “You’ve got to warn Dumbledore… Mr Weasley’s been attacked. I saw it, please.”

Draco didn’t know what the boy was talking about, how he knew about it, but he could tell Snape had an idea of what was happening.

“Potter, can you get up by yourself?” The professor asked him, and Potter nodded, sliding his legs off the bed and pushing himself off. Theo hovered close, ready to catch him if he fell, and righted him up when the boy stumbled. Severus grabbed hold of Potter’s arm, helping him towards the door. 

“Where are you taking him?” Draco questioned. 

“It’s not your business, Draco. You’ve done your job, now go back to sleep,” his godfather ordered. The harshness in his voice told him he wasn’t taking no for an answer. The man looked at all three of them, eyes scanning them slowly with a warning look. “This doesn’t leave this room, boys. Do you understand?” 

The three agreed, and Severus nodded in acknowledgement, half-dragging Potter out of the room. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Draco tossed and turned all night after his godfather had taken Potter away to Merlin-Knows-Where, unable to sleep, not knowing how the boy was doing. He didn’t know why, but he’d come to care for the ex-Gryffindor in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. The boy had grown on him like fungi on a tree, but he was surprisingly ok with it. 

The boy wasn’t as insufferable as he’d first thought, and knowing how much he was suffering made his chest constrict in an unfamiliar pain. He hoped now that Severus had seen how bad the boy looked under the glamours, he would help him and do more than what three fifteen-year-olds could do. They were trying, but they were out of their depth. Potter was struggling with things that were beyond their powers to fix, and Draco was scared that eventually they would drag Potter to the deep end, to a point where he couldn’t return. He needed an adult to see that he needed help, to give him that help and make sure that he wouldn’t drown. 

He’d spent years resenting Potter because he had refused his friendship, wishing he could be his friend. Theo and Blaise made fun of him for it, for his supposed obsession with him, calling it a crush—Draco did not have a crush on Potter, they were delusional—but his wish had been fulfilled. Potter was his friend—though they still called each other by their last name, not counting those slip-ups in moments of distress—and he didn’t want to lose him to himself when he’d just got him. He would even admit that maybe he did have a crush on him—a small one, mind you, he was still not obsessed with him—if it meant not losing his friend.

That’s why, after Potter didn’t arrive at breakfast or class, and after noticing the weird absence of red hair in the sea of Gryffindors, Draco stayed behind after their Potions class was over. 

“What is it, Draco?” his godfather asked after waving his wand to surround them in a privacy charm. It was different from the one Harry used, and he had never seen it, but he left his curiosity for another time. He hadn’t come to ask about spells. 

“How’s Potter?” 

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, leaning back on his desk. “You seem awfully concerned about the well-being of a boy you’ve complained about to me for years. Has your obsession turned the other way, now, Draco?”

“I am not obsessed with him in any way! We’re just friends now.” Draco glared at his godfather, crossing his arms. 

“You have been hanging around him a lot recently. Do I need to remind you to be careful? You know there are spies everywhere, Draco.” 

“We’re being careful, Severus. We have a plan in case we’re questioned,” Draco said. “We promised we would protect him, and he can’t always be with his Gryffindor friends.” 

“Protect him from what, Draco?” 

“From—” Draco halted, remembering the promise he’d made Potter. He sighed, damning the boy for not accepting help. However much he wanted to tell Severus, he wouldn’t break Potter’s trust. “Nobody in particular, you’ve said yourself not to travel alone,” Draco said instead. 

“You might be a good liar, Draco, but you cannot fool me. Who does Potter need to be protected from? Pucey?” 

Draco’s eyes widened slightly at the name, not having expected the man to guess it immediately. He cursed himself for his reaction, knowing that it was as good as a yes for the trained spy. 

“I have had my suspicions that something was amiss between Potter and Pucey, but the boy won’t talk. Is there something I should know, Draco?”

Draco didn’t say anything for a while. He wanted to tell him. He knew he should. He knew that the man would do something to help Potter, even though he seemed to despise him, but Potter made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want him to know. 

“He’s asked us not to tell you, Severus,” Draco settled on. “You’re going to need to get it out of him. He trusts us now, somewhat, and he’s already reluctant to let us help. He won’t let us in anymore if I betray my promise.” 

“Who’s us?” 

“Theo knows,” Draco said. “Blaise knows part of it, and has probably guessed it by now, after the Quidditch game, but we haven’t confirmed it.” 

“If it is something serious, I must know, Draco. I will make sure he won’t find out that you've told me.” 

“He will know it was one of us, Severus! We’re the only ones who know!”

“He hasn’t talked to any of his fun club? But he has told you?” 

Draco shook his head. “No, and he didn’t willingly tell us. Theo and I found out by accident. But this isn’t what I came here to talk about.” 

“Potter is fine. He and the Weasley children were sent home yesterday, but that is all I can tell you. You may not wish to join the Dark Lord, Draco, but there are things I cannot trust you with.”

Draco nodded his thanks and turned on his heels to leave the room. 

“One last thing, Draco.” 

Draco turned around, waiting for the man to speak. 

“How long has Potter been wearing a glamour?” 

“I think from the beginning of the term, Severus,” Draco said. “He has gained a little weight recently, but he doesn’t look that much better.” 

“He looks exhausted. Why? Can you tell me at least that?” 

“He has nightmares every night, when he doesn’t take the Dreamless Sleep, and stays up a lot doing homework to avoid them. And Umbit—Umbridge’s detentions haven’t helped his sleep schedule any. She kept him up until past midnight both in September and last month.” 

Severus frowned but didn’t say anything. He dismissed him, and Draco left, closing the door behind. 

He joined his Theo and Blaise, trying not to stare at the seat that Potter would’ve taken too much. 

“Is Potter all right?” Theo asked in a low voice. 

“What? How would I know?”

“Please, you cannot tell me you didn’t stay behind to ask about him. You’re not that subtle.” 

Draco’s eyes widened slightly, but Theo shook his head, smirking. “Calm down, nobody else knows. Just your best friends. So, how is he? We also would like to know about your crush.” 

Draco glared but didn’t rise to the bait. “He says he’s fine, but couldn’t tell me anything else.” 

He tried not to worry throughout the day, especially when he came back to the dorms to find Potter’s belongings gone. Thankfully, Theo and Blaise forced him into a game of Exploding Snap, effectively distracting him from glancing at Potter’s empty bed too many times. 

He missed the days when he didn’t have to worry about the messy-haired trouble magnet.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry threw up again as soon as his feet hit the ground. 

“Harry! Are you all right?” a familiar voice asked. 

“Of course, he’s not all right! He’s throwing up!” Ron protested, stepping closer to him. Harry straightened up, stomach aching from getting sick twice, and looked up at his godfather, who was staring at him in concern. 

“I’m all right, Sirius. Just hate portkeys.” 

Sirius’ eyes swept over him, concern not receding at Harry’s reassurances, and that was when he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a glamour. Everyone could see how bad he looked, and now he knew why his friends had looked even more scared after seeing him in Dumbledore’s office. 

His godfather stepped closer, grabbing Harry’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug before he had the time to flinch back. He was still trembling slightly, though not as much as when he’d first woken up after his nightmare that turned out to be true. 

Sirius kept an arm around Harry, as if scared that he would drop if left to his own devices and led him to another room without saying a word, with the Weasleys following behind. 

As soon as they were sitting around the kitchen table, with warm mugs of tea in their hands, Sirius questioned him about what had happened. 

Harry looked down at his mug, stirring the tea with the spoon long after the sugar cube had melted. He took a sip to delay his story, but the worry on his friends’ faces put a stop to his procrastination. They deserved to know. He would tell them, then ask where his room was and lock himself inside. 

So Harry told the story, altering it slightly. He didn’t want them to know that he was the snake in his vision. He didn’t want to see the distrust. He didn’t want to find out if they'd blame him, which he was sure they would. He'd rather live in doubt. 

Remus arrived just as he was finishing the story, and his expression matched Sirius’ worried one as soon as he set eyes on Harry. He smiled weakly at the werewolf, hoping that he wouldn’t comment on his appearance, and thankfully, he didn’t, even though he looked like he wanted to. 

After he was done telling his story, Fred, George and Ginny demanded to go to the hospital, and a fight broke out between them and Sirius, who was trying to make them understand why they couldn’t go. 

Harry tuned out the loud voices, which stabbed his already aching head like knives, and tried to imagine he was anywhere but there. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could invent a way to turn back time without a time turner, to go back to before he’d had the vision and warn Mr Weasley before he was attacked. 

Harry didn’t know what he would do if Mr Weasley died. If someone else died because of him. He didn’t know what the man was doing at the Ministry at this time of night, but he was sure it had something to do with him. After all, the war’s efforts were to stop a madman who wanted to kill him, among other things. Maybe he should give himself up, die before Voldemort had a chance to take anyone else from him. Because if Mr Weasley died, Harry knew he would lose the rest of the Weasleys as well. How would he be able to face them? How would he be able to look at his best friends’ faces after he’d gotten their father killed? 

Harry stared at his tea—the steam had long disappeared, leaving the drink barely tepid—and tried to ignore the twins, who were still trying to convince Sirius to let them go. 

“We don’t care about the damn Order!” Fred shouted. 

“It’s our dad dying we’re talking about!” George continued, just as loudly. 

“Your father knows what he was getting himself into. He’s doing this to protect the Order—to protect Harry! And he wouldn’t want you messing things up for the Order!” Sirius yelled. Harry was no longer able to ignore it, and he looked up, flinching at the rage on his godfather’s face. “This is why you’re not in the Order—you don’t understand. There are some things worth dying for!”

Harry flinched, paling slightly at those words, and he shook his head, fingers gripping the mug. “No,” he said, eyes trained on Sirius. “Mr Weasley’s life is not worth this. He shouldn’t die to protect—to protect me. I’m not worth his life.” 

“Harry—” Fred started, his anger fading into another look of concern. He wished they all would stop looking at him like that, but that's what he got for removing his glamours. He’d need to start using them overnight if this is how things would go. 

“No, no—I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me, least of all your father. I’m sorry.” Harry pushed his chair back, getting up on still trembling legs. 

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault. That’s not what we meant,” George tried to tell him, but he shook his head, backing away until he was out of the kitchen and up the stairs before they could stop him. 

He heard voices calling after him, but he ignored them, taking the stairs two at a time even though his legs felt like they would give out on him.  

He didn’t know where he was going, but he opened the doors until he recognised a sweater that Ron must have forgotten here, and assumed this was where Ron was staying in August. There were two beds, and he chose one at random, not caring that he was potentially stealing Ron’s bed. 

He lay on his side facing the wall, hugging the pillow close to his chest and letting himself go. Harry wondered if Malfoy would hold him as he’d done the first night he’d caught him having a nightmare or after he broke down the day of the Quidditch game, if he were here.

He remembered how he had told him that it was not his fault when he’d found out about Pucey, and he wondered if he would say the same now. 

He wished Malfoy were there to hold him.

Chapter Text

Harry refused to talk to anyone after he stormed out of the room. He lay there on his bed, back to the door and ignored everyone who tried to get him up or simply talk to him. 

The first one who tried was Ron, once he went to sleep. The boy had taken a few hesitant steps towards his bed, stopping a foot away. Then he'd stood there in silence, and Harry could imagine his mouth opening and closing as he tried to gather the right words. 

“Hey, mate,” Ron had settled on, voice quiet. His voice sounded shaky, as if he had been crying and had just managed to stop. It made sense. Harry would cry too if he heard that his father had recently been attacked, with no news of his survival, and he did cry for Mr Weasley. He was still crying when Ron had approached him, in fact, not that he’d let Ron know. Knowing that Ron, who avoided it like the plague, had been crying, felt like a knife to the heart, sending him into a new spiral of guilt. 

“Mum came back at five. Dad will be all right,” Ron had told him. It didn’t do anything to ease his guilt, but he closed his eyes in relief.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” his best friend had told him then, as if reading his thoughts. “He wouldn’t have made it if it wasn’t for you, so thanks, mate.”

Ron had stood there waiting for him to say anything, but Harry had stayed quiet until he retreated to his bed. 

The following day—or later that morning—more people tried to talk to him, beginning with Remus. The werewolf knocked on the door long after Ron had gone—not without trying to talk to Harry again—and then opened the door when he received no answer. 

Harry was lying on his stomach now, face still turned to the wall, and he pretended to be asleep, not wanting to hear the man’s attempts to give him comfort.

His attempt at feigning sleep was futile.

“I brought you some lunch,” Remus said. He heard the noise of a plate being set on his bedside table, and the smell of eggs and bacon assaulted his nose. He didn’t do anything to acknowledge the man, feeling slightly bad as he was only trying to be nice, but Harry was tired and sad, and he just wished he could close his eyes and sleep. He’d do anything to have one night where he could switch off his brain and just sleep uninterrupted.

“I can hear that you’re awake, Harry. Please eat something,” Remus added after a while. The mattress dipped under the man’s weight, and he saw from the corner of his eye the man trying to reach out to touch his shoulder. Harry turned to the side and pulled the covers higher on his body just as the man was about to touch him, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Harry, you look thinner than you did back in August. You told me everything was fine.”

Harry wished the man would leave him alone, but he didn’t say anything to send the man away. While he didn’t want to deal with his concern, he did not want to snap at him like he feared he would if he opened his mouth. 

Remus sighed, pushing himself off the bed with a groan once he understood that he wouldn’t be getting an answer from Harry. “Just eat something, please, Harry.” 

The man left, and he heard him talk to someone outside his room, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. 

Someone else had tried later in the evening, but at that time, Harry had actually managed to doze off, his exhaustion catching up to him and giving him a reprieve from his nightmares for a bit. He only knew someone had come because the food Remus had brought was gone—Harry hadn’t touched any of it, his stomach too messed up to be able to handle anything—and was replaced by a sandwich and some fruit. Harry hadn’t eaten since five pm the previous day, but the thought of eating made his stomach churn in disgust. He could taste blood in his mouth, the coppery taste mixing with the bitterness of the snake’s venom that he’d felt in his vision. 

Even though he had no appetite, Harry forced himself to sit up in his bed and pull the plate closer to him. He ignored the sandwich but nibbled on the fruit, hoping that they would leave him alone if they saw he had eaten something. 

The apple sat like a heavy stone in his stomach as he lay back down, the usually sweet flavour of the fruit distorted by the lingering taste of venom in his mouth that made his nausea rise again. He wished he could wash the taste away, but he didn’t have his toothbrush, and he realised he’d left his wand under his pillow at Hogwarts. 

He sighed. He hoped they’d send his things somehow, but for now, he could ask if they had a spare toothbrush or something. He couldn’t stand the taste anymore. 

His whole body felt sore from lying in bed all day when he finally got up, but it was nothing compared to being cramped in the cupboard. His knees and his back had ached for days after he left the Dursleys. Harry hoped he’d never have to go back there, but he knew that he had to.

The light blinded him when he stepped out of the room, but after a few blinks, they adjusted, and the dark spots disappeared quickly. He made his way downstairs, hoping that Sirius would be in the kitchen, the only place he knew. 

Sirius’ voice filtered through the door, left ajar. Harry raised his hand to knock, but brought it back down when he heard his name. 

“—Harry been struggling?” Sirius asked. 

“I—we don’t know, Sirius. We were just as surprised to see him like that. He looked fine just yesterday,” Ron answered. 

“He must be using glamours, Sirius,” Remus cut in. “He bought a book about it in Diagon Alley. I should’ve questioned him more but—”

“Never mind how he looks for now. There’s something wrong with him, other than the fact that he’s clearly not been eating for months, and nobody has noticed! He’s been in bed all day today, and you’ve all heard him yesterday!”

“He’s been looking tired all semester, but he does have a lot going on, with Umbridge on his back and the D—and classes. We just thought he was overworking himself, but he’s stubborn and he wouldn’t hear it.” 

“Umbridge’s still on his back?” 

“Yeah, he had detentions for three weeks last month for punching a Slytherin—Pucey, was it?” Ron said. Harry clenched his fists at the mention of his name, heart skipping a beat, but he managed to reel in his panic. He had to stop reacting every time he heard his name. That was what had gotten Snape suspicious. 

“He punched someone? Harry?” Remus’ voice sounded surprised. 

“Yes, he punched Pucey after the Quidditch game for insulting my parents. Umbridge was furious.”

“We had to hold him back to stop him from smashing Pucey’s face. I’d never seen him that angry,” said George. 

“And you all think this is just exhaustion? There’s really nothing else going on?” Sirius asked. 

“We don’t know, Sirius. We haven’t seen much of him recently outside of class and our study sessions. He’s always with the Slytherins.” 

“Slytherins?” 

“His roommates, you know? Malfoy, Nott and Zabini. Sometimes Parkinson as well.”

“Do you think they’ve done something to him?” Sirius asked. Harry bit down his protest at the accusation. 

“Sirius! You can’t just accuse them because they’re Slytherin!”

“It’s not because they’re Slytherins, it’s because their fathers are notoriously Death Eaters and I don’t trust them with my godson!”

“I don’t think so, Sirius. Harry seems friendly with them, and he’s only fought with Malfoy once over the Seeker spot, but they seemed to get over it pretty quickly.”

“Mm… He might’ve used compulsions on Harry—” 

“They are teenagers, Sirius. I doubt they’d be able to keep Harry under compulsions for so long and—”

“And Harry can throw off the Imperius Curse. Their compulsions wouldn’t stand a chance against him,” Ron reasoned. Harry was surprised that the boy was being so logical and wasn’t jumping at the chance to call the Slytherins evil. 

“Exactly. So let’s not jump to conclusions and accuse them without solid proof. They’ve probably just learned how to get along since they share a room.” 

Harry felt a wave of gratitude towards Remus and Ron. He didn’t know why he was feeling so defensive over the three Slytherins, but he didn’t want to hear them being accused of being evil after everything they’d done for him, and he was glad someone else was being reasonable, since to go on their defence would mean revealing that he was eavesdropping on their conversation. 

Harry was annoyed that they were talking about him behind his back, but he knew how he looked, and the way he’d acted—refusing to talk to them or even get out of bed—must not have helped their concerns. He hated worrying them, and he wished he’d been able to restore his glamour before coming here, but he’d forgotten his wand, and even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t have spelt it on, since Snape had brought him directly to the Headmaster’s office. 

He would have to do better. He’d have to pretend he wasn’t feeling like this, like the earth could swallow him whole and he wouldn’t care. 

And he would have to make more of an effort to hang out with his friends. He’d spent so much time around the Slytherins recently that he’d neglected his first friends. He had no excuses for it, other than the fact that he felt a little freer to show his struggles with the Slytherins, for some reason. They’d seen him at his worst, and they knew why he was struggling so much. His best friends didn’t, and while he could usually tell them anything, this was not something he wanted to burden them with. He didn’t want to saddle them with the knowledge that he was used and broken, and that he felt like the world had stopped the moment Pucey left him naked in the Quidditch changing rooms. 

“There was one time we found him crying—he denied it, of course—but his eyes were red. We don’t know what happened. He ran away before we could get it out of him, but he didn’t look good,” Fred said. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he realised they were talking about the day of the tryouts. The day it had happened. 

Someone sighed, and a second later, the sound of a glass being set loudly on the table resonated in the quiet room. “Can you keep an eye on him, boys?”

“We’ll make sure he’s ok, Sirius.” 

The conversation seemed to taper off after that, and Harry took that as his cue to enter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply before he grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open slowly. He hoped they wouldn’t assault him with questions. 

They all looked surprised to see him, eyes wide as they scanned his body. He was wearing one of Dudley’s old sweaters that he used to sleep in. It hid the way his ribs showed or his spine protruded, but it did nothing to hide the way it hung off his shoulders, showing his collarbones and his thin neck. Thankfully, they had seemed to come to the agreement not to smother him with their worries, because nobody voiced their worries. 

“Hi,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. This time, the greeting was clearer, and his godfather gave him a smile. 

“Hi, Harry. I’m glad you joined us. Do you need anything?” 

Harry was surprised at the man’s acting skills. If he hadn’t overheard their conversation, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the man was worried about him. His voice was chipper, as if Mr Weasley hadn’t been attacked not even twenty-four hours ago, and they hadn’t just been discussing Harry looking like a skeleton. 

“Yeah, do you know if someone is bringing our trunks here?”

“Oh, your trunk is in the twins’ room, Harry. Professor Snape brought it over this evening while you were sleeping, but we didn’t want to wake you up,” Remus said.  

“We’ll bring it over to your room, Harry,” Fred offered, and Harry smiled in his direction. 

“Thanks, Fred.” 

“Anything for our Harrykins!” The twins were off then, disappearing out of the kitchen in a flash of ginger and chaos. 

Harry sat down next to Sirius, thanking Remus as the man set a cup of tea in front of him. Harry didn’t want it, but he took a sip anyway to appease his godfathers. 

“How’s Mr Weasley?” 

“We went to visit him this afternoon,” Ron piped in. “He’s doing all right, I think.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice you all went out.”

“I wanted to warn you, but you were sleeping. You can visit him tomorrow, if you’d like,” Remus said. 

Harry nodded, though he didn’t know how he felt about seeing Mr Weasley in person. It was one thing to see his sons, but the man he’d gotten attacked? He didn’t want to see how badly he was injured. 

Harry finished his tea while the two men questioned him about his first term as a Slytherin. He gave vague answers, straying far away from dangerous topics and hoping that he’d managed to lessen his worries. 

After a while, Harry excused himself, leaving his cup in the sink under Sirius’ instructions—Harry tried to ignore his Aunt’s voice that told him to ‘clean that up, you lazy freak ’—and made his way back into his and Ron’s room, with his best friend right behind him. 

When he opened the door, Fred and George were sitting on the floor between their two beds, playing a round of Exploding Snap with Ginny. They paused the game when Ron and Harry got in and invited them to join. 

Harry obliged. Playing with his friends would be a good distraction. He’d spent enough time moping around, and he didn’t have the excuse of being tired as he’d spent the whole day in bed. 

It was only five minutes after they started playing when Harry noticed the glances the four siblings were throwing at each other when they thought he wasn’t looking. Harry let them go on for another minute, waiting for them to gather their courage to say whatever they had to say, but when none of them looked about to speak, he cleared his throat, placing his cards face down on the floor. 

“All right, what is going on?” 

“Nothing, Harry. We’re just playing,” Ron said, turning his gaze to his cards. Harry raised a single eyebrow (he was getting better at it after three months of observing the Slytherins). 

“I was not sorted into Slytherin for nothing, Ron. You’ve got to try harder than that if you want to fool me.”

“It’s really nothing, mate. Don’t worry about it. We just—”

“We overheard Moody talk with Mum and Dad at the hospital with the Extendable Ears, and they are afraid that Voldemort is possessing you, and that’s how you knew about Dad,” Ginny said, cutting Ron off and saying it all in one breath. The latter glared at his sister, but Harry tuned out whatever he was saying. 

His blood ran cold. It felt frozen in his veins, unable to rush through his veins and pump his heart. His head felt underwater, his friends’ voices far away as if they were standing miles away from him. 

Ginny’s words replayed in his head in a loop. 

They are afraid that Voldemort is possessing you. 

Voldemort is possessing you. 

Is that why Dumbledore did not look him in the eye? The reason he was ignoring him? Was he scared that Voldemort was in his head? That he’d be able to take control of him? Was Voldemort really possessing him? 

Harry thought back to all the times his scar had hurt. Were those Voldemort’s attempts at possessing him? Was he trying to gain control of him all this time? 

His mind went to the vision he’d just had last night, how it’d felt like he was the snake, slithering towards that familiar door until he’d run into Mr Weasley, dozing off in a chair in front of it. He remembered the way the snake had felt unsure at first, trying to control the urge to bite him, how he knew that there was something he must do for his master and that he shouldn’t waste time. But then the man had woken up and he’d attacked him, once, twice, three times. Harry remembered the sound of bones breaking under the strong jaw of the snake, the venom flowing through his fangs and mixing with the man’s warm blood and his strangled cries for help. 

Had he actually done that? He’d known that it was his fault. It was bad enough knowing that Mr Weasley had gotten hurt to protect him, but this, knowing that he’d been possessed by Voldemort and that he could do it again, that everyone was in danger just by being close to Harry, increased his guilt tenfold. He felt like his own heart was drowning in venom, as if the snake’s fangs were squeezing the organ and pumping it full of bitter, acid venom that made his chest hurt.

Harry looked up to his friends at that thought, eyes wide with panic. He scrambled backwards until his back hit the nightstand, the plate still sitting there falling to the floor, sandwiches spilling all over. 

How could they stand to stay in the same room as him? How could they stay there knowing that it was his fault that their father was in a hospital, having almost died because Harry had been possessed? How could they look at him and not see their father’s almost murderer? Were they just stalling him until the Aurors arrived to arrest him? He wanted to tell them they didn’t have to. He’d wait. He’d let himself be taken if it meant nobody else would get hurt.

“Harry, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not possessed by him,” Ginny said. 

“How do you know? Dumbledore thinks so!” Harry said, clamping his hands around his knees to hide their shaking. He didn’t want to freak out in front of them, or to show them this pathetic side of him, but the panic was overwhelming. Fear took control of his body and disregarded any attempts to calm himself down.

“Dumbledore doesn’t know anything, Harry. He has never been possessed by You-Know-Who; he doesn’t know what it’s like, but I do! And I’m telling you. You. Are. Not. Possessed. By. Anyone.”

Harry didn’t say anything, turning his eyes away from Ginny’s harsh stare. 

“Do you remember everything you’ve been doing?” she asked then. Harry looked up again and hesitated before nodding. 

“Then, here you go. I lost track of time when I was possessed. I fell asleep in my bed and woke up covered in paint. If that is not happening to you, then you’re fine, and they’re all being idiots.”

Harry smiled at Ginny weakly, grateful for her reassurances even though they did nothing to ease the panic gripping his chest. He wasn’t sure he could fully believe her, but he wouldn’t let her know that he was still afraid. 

He would find a way to keep his friends safe from Voldemort, and if that meant keeping them safe from him, then that’s what he’d do.

His friends would always be his priority. 

Chapter Text

Hermione’s arrival meant that Harry had to try harder to hide how he was truly feeling. He was surrounded by people who knew him—or at least people who knew him before the summer had come and ruined him—and those people were watching him like a hawk, looking for any clue that he was struggling, that the concerns they voiced during the not-so-secret conversation they’d had were true. Nobody spoke to him about it, but Harry could see it in the way they pushed food towards him, the way he was rarely left alone, and the way they made sure to tell him multiple times that Mr Weasley’s attack was not his fault. If they told Hermione, which Harry was sure Ron would do, she would be the most persistent out of all of them, and she wasn’t afraid to confront him. 

So, he hid the guilt behind smiles and small talk, allowing himself to be dragged into games of Exploding Snaps and chess. He smiled and followed Hermione to the library whenever she asked him if he wanted to do their homework together, Ron begrudgingly joining them while complaining that the Christmas holidays had just started. He smiled and followed the Weasleys to St Mungo’s, ignoring the guilt swirling in his chest and squeezing his heart in a painful grip. He ignored the way he hoped that the guilt could squeeze his heart hard enough to stop it. He felt tired like he had never before. It didn’t matter that Mr Weasley was alive and on his way to make a full recovery. The fact that he had almost died was enough. He had joined Cedric in his nightmares, and Harry was tired of seeing the man—the same man who had taken him in in the summers without question—lie dead on the ground in his dreams. 

Harry smiled and helped Sirius decorate the house for Christmas with the Weasleys as if the only thing he wanted to do wasn’t lie in bed all day or just disappear forever. 

“We used to do this with your father,” Sirius said after he finished his pitchy rendition of ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs’. Harry was hovering near the giant Christmas tree with his Firebolt, hanging baubles at the top while Sirius worked on the bottom. Remus was affixing garlands to the chandelier, which had been cleaned of the many cobwebs that covered it. 

“He would use his broom just like you’re doing. He gave Effie quite a scare once when the tree fell and brought James down with it,” Sirius said, laughing at the memory. 

“You’re forgetting to mention how exactly the tree fell, Padfoot,” Remus interjected. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The tree fell because your godfather knocked it over,” the werewolf said. 

Sirius glared at the man. “It was an accident!” 

“What? You tripped on thin air?” 

“No, I tripped on the cat,” Sirius grumbled. 

“Sure, Siri. Whatever you say.” 

Harry watched the interaction, eagerly taking in any scrap of information he could about his parents. “Did my parents love Christmas?” 

“Oh, if they loved it!” Sirius exclaimed. “Your father would start singing Christmas songs and wear Christmas sweaters the moment Halloween was over.” 

“Your mother wasn’t much better, but she at least waited until December,” Remus added.

Harry imagined his mum and dad dancing around the room. In his imagination, his father would be wearing a sweater with reindeer on it, as a nod to his Animagus form, while his mother donned one with a Christmas tree. They would sing Christmas carols together, his mother’s angelic voice mixing with his father’s less in-tune singing. Harry liked to imagine Sirius and Remus hanging around, playing chess while his parents danced around the couch. 

“I had a Christmas with them, right?” 

“Yes, Harry. It was the happiest your parents had been, even with the war raging on outside,” Remus said, a fond smile on his face as Harry placed the last bauble on the tree. “James learned how to knit just to make you a little reindeer onesie. It was wonky, nowhere near Mrs Weasley’s skill level, but he was so proud of it.” 

“He put you in that thing every day. Lily had to hide it just so she could get you into the clothes your grandparents had gifted you,” Sirius added. 

“I think I might have a few pictures somewhere. I’ll look for them.”

“Thank you, Remus.” Harry gave him a genuine smile as he sat next to the werewolf on the small couch in the drawing room. 

“You’re welcome, Harry.”

“Did they have any Christmas traditions?” he asked, then. 

“Yes, they would make treacle tart together every Christmas Eve and then eat it on Christmas Day,” Sirius answered. “It was a short-lived tradition, but they loved it.”

“Treacle tart’s my favourite,” Harry said, then turned to his godfather, who had draped himself on the armchair, sitting sideways so his legs were hanging over the armrest and his back resting on the other. “Could we do it this year? Together?”

“Of course, pup. We’ll do it together, the three of us,” Sirius nodded, and Harry felt joy creep in and dislodge some of the numbness that had taken hold of him.

With something to look forward to, Harry felt the oppressive tiredness that was clouding his mind recede, making it a little easier to breathe. He was still exhausted, longing for peace, and his guilt didn’t disappear, but he couldn’t wait for Christmas Eve to come, to do something that his parents loved doing, with the two people who knew his parents the most and who were a connection to the parents he had never really known. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Christmas Eve arrived in a flurry of chaos. 

Ten people living in the same house meant that there was always some noise. The twins drove their mother crazy with their frequent explosions, which meant that Mrs Weasley would often be yelling at them to be more careful. Her yelling awakened Sirius’ mother’s portrait, which would then insult everyone in the house. Sirius took to singing Christmas songs, both Wizarding and Muggle—he told Harry that his mother and Remus had taught him and his father the Muggle Carols—at all hours of the day, uncaring of the headache he was giving everyone with his less-than-stellar voice. 

Harry loved it. 

The madness that Grimmauld Place became was a good distraction from everything that was going wrong in his life. It kept him distracted from the voices trying to drown him in his head, and pretending that he was fine, both to himself and to the others, became easier while he was busy avoiding the twins’ experiments and laughing at Ron’s failure to do so. At least during the day, Harry stopped dwelling on the worst school term he’d ever had. 

The night was a whole other story, but he wasn't going to think about that. 

“We’re all ready if you are, Harry,” Sirius called from the door. Harry was sitting on the couch with Ron, playing a match of Wizard Chess and losing badly. He turned to look at his godfather and nodded. 

“Hey, don’t leave me!” Ron yelled indignantly. 

“Sorry, mate, you’re murdering me here. I need to heal my wounds with some treacle tart,” Harry said. 

“Treacle tart? I didn’t know Mum made treacle tart!” Ron said. “Can you bring me some?”

“Your Mum didn’t make it, Ron. Sirius, Remus and I are going to, now,” Harry explained. “It was something my parents did on Christmas Eve, and I wanted to keep the tradition.” 

“Oh, that’s a bummer. I want some now.” Ron pouted, leaning back on the couch. 

“We’re eating it tomorrow. You can have some then.”

“Yeah, no, I think I’ll pass.”

“What? Why?” Harry frowned. 

“I don’t want to die of poisoning, mate. I’m too young.” Ron smirked. 

Harry gasped, hand going to his chest. “I wouldn’t poison you! I’ll have you know that I am a good baker. I’ve made lots of things at the Dursleys! And they’re all alive.” 

Unfortunately, Harry wanted to say, but he kept the thought in. 

“Unfortunately,” Ron grumbled, face darkening for a moment as he voiced Harry’s thoughts. “But I didn’t mean you, mate. I don’t trust anything that Sirius makes.”

“Hey! I take offence at that!” 

“I meant the offence! I had that pie you made back in August. It was disgusting!” Ron said. 

“It was not disgusting!” Sirius protested. 

“Sorry, Sirius, if Ron says something is disgusting, it probably is. He eats everything.” 

“It was not disgusting,” Sirius repeated, huffing and crossing his arms. 

“I won’t let him poison you, Ron, I promise,” Harry said. “And he can try it first. If he doesn’t die, we’ll probably be fine.” 

“Treated like this in my own house! I’ve never seen such disrespect! Remus, don’t laugh, defend me!”

Remus appeared through the door, leaning on the wall next to Sirius.

“I can’t defend you if they’re right. It would be lying and a bad influence on the children,” he said. “Harry and I will make the treacle tart at least edible. Don’t worry, Ron.”

Harry followed Sirius and Remus to the kitchen, where the two had already laid out the ingredients. There was a parchment floating in the air, and as he got closer, Harry recognised it as the recipe. 

“I think a few members of the Order are coming over for Christmas, so we need to make a lot,” Sirius announced. “Should we make two, or a giant one?” 

“Probably two. Do we have a big enough tray for a giant treacle tart?” 

“No, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little magic.”

“Can you enlarge the oven?” Harry raised an eyebrow, eyeing the oven. He didn’t know much about magical kitchens, so it could be possible for all he knew. 

“I don’t think Engorgio would work,” Sirius said, rubbing his chin and looking at the oven with his head inclined to the side. 

“I think Molly would kill you if you broke it. I wouldn’t try it.” 

“Two treacle tarts it is, then! We have two trays.” 

They all set to work, splitting the tasks between them. Remus was in charge of the filling, while Harry worked on the crust. Sirius hovered, shouting instructions and being a nuisance to both of them. 

“Wait, are we doing it twice, or are we doubling the doses and then splitting the dough into two?” 

“You mean you haven’t been doubling the doses?” Harry asked. “Sirius!” 

Harry grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at Sirius’ face, who gaped like a fish. Harry giggled at the look on his godfather’s face.

“Harry! Don’t waste flour!” Remus admonished him, but his scolding was weakened by the sound of stifled laughter.

“How dare you, you little menace!” Sirius bellowed. He was quick to grab his own handful, immediately throwing it at Harry, but he dodged, stepping away quickly, and the flour ended up all over Remus’ shirt and some on his face. 

“Oh, sorry, Remus,” Sirius said, laughing. “You’ve got some flour over there.” 

Sirius stepped closer, raising his hand and brushing away some flour that got on the wolf’s nose. 

“Ew, gross. Don’t flirt in front of me!” Harry complained. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me a little romance bothers you!” Sirius said, taking another step towards Remus. He grabbed his face with both hands and pulled it towards his own until their lips met. 

Harry fake-gagged, but it turned into a laugh when Remus pushed Sirius away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his face scrunched up in disgust. 

“That’s disgusting, Sirius. You got flour in my mouth.” 

“Sorry, love.”

“Are you finished flirting now?” Harry asked, stepping back to his crust-making station. 

“Yes, yes. Merlin, you’re such a prude!” Sirius laughed. He waved his hand, vanishing the flour from both his and Remus’ faces. Harry’s smile faltered at the comment, but it was back on his face before either of them could notice. 

Once Harry was done with the crust, Remus placed a cooling charm on the bowl, and they let it sit.

Thirty minutes later, the crust was properly chilled, and they could bake it. 

“Harry, can you get two trays from the pantry, please?” 

Harry nodded, walking over to get what Remus had asked him for. He opened the pantry door, hands going to the wall to turn on the switch that would activate the Lumos spell, but before he could, a figure was immediately on him. 

He jumped back, eyes widening in surprise. Brown hair, hazel eyes and green Quidditch robes made his blood run cold, his body feeling like he had been plunged into a bath filled with ice cubes charmed to never melt. 

Harry took a step back as the boy's lips turned upwards in a smirk, eyes shining with glee. He could feel cold sweat running down his back. His chest burned, begging him to breathe, but he didn’t, afraid that the boy would jump on him as soon as he let go of his breath. He curled into himself, trying to make himself appear smaller. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be back in the Quidditch changing room. Harry felt the scratchy fabric of his Quidditch sweater on his chest. It was like sandpaper on his skin, and Harry itched to take it off, or run his nails over his skin to get rid of the feeling. He wanted to take a hot shower, but his feet were rooted to the spot, the Petrificus Totalus like a frigid shower of magic on his already cold skin. 

Hazel eyes lusted over his body, slowly moving from his face down his chest, and then to his feet, going just as slowly when they went back to his face. Pucey took a step closer, hand going up to caress his face. Harry didn’t have control over his limbs to move. His fingers brushed his face in a feather-like touch, barely there but enough to set his skin on fire. He went from freezing to overly hot in the matter of a second. 

His ears were buzzing. Anything other than the voices in his head was muted and unable to reach him. Pucey’s hand dropped, but the boy didn’t retreat; instead, he took a step closer, closing the distance between them. 

“The Dark Lord will be happy to know I got you, Harry,” Pucey drawled, his smirk ever present on his face. 

Hands gripped his arms. His heart started beating furiously in his chest, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to see Pucey doing what he wanted with his body. He squeezed his eyes shut until his eyelids hurt, but the feeling of his mouth on his skin never came. 

Harry was pulled backwards, his body hitting a hard surface that, when two arms snaked around him, he recognised as someone’s chest. He closed his trembling hands, the ringing in his ears growing stronger as he was immobilised. 

Pucey had been in front of him just a second ago, though, he remembered through his panic. How did he get behind him so fast?

He took a shaky breath, trying in vain to get air inside his lungs, but when it didn’t feel like it was working, he opened his eyes. 

There was a man standing in front of him, with curly, shoulder-length hair, and staring down at something at his feet. 

Pucey didn't have long hair. He hadn't been wearing a Christmas sweater. It couldn't be him.

Sirius. 

The man was pointing a shaky wand at the floor, and Harry followed his gaze, expecting to see Pucey lying, stunned, on the floor, but it wasn’t him lying there. 

It was Harry’s own body—he had first thought it was James, but the green eyes were unmistakable—sprawled on his back on the floor, unseeing green eyes looking at the ceiling. He looked just like he did now, if not a little worse, skin white as a sheet with a greyish tint. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Sirius mutter a few words, voice weak at first before it gained more strength. 

“Riddikulus!” Sirius said loudly, and Harry’s dead body turned into a black swirling mass that flew back into the pantry. The door closed abruptly, startling Harry out of the other man’s embrace, who Harry belatedly recognised as Remus, now that he could think more clearly. 

It was just a Boggart. 

Pucey wasn’t there. Harry wasn’t in the Quidditch changing room, alone with him, but at Grimmauld Place. And Pucey had no way of getting into the Headquarters, so it was impossible that he was there. 

Pucey had just been a Boggart, just as Harry’s dead body was Sirius’. Harry didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Sirius’ worst fear was seeing him dead, but he didn’t dwell on that. If he did, if he focused on the dead body, on how it felt to see himself lying there, no breath coming from his mouth, chest so still, with a peaceful expression on his face, he’d have to think about the fact that there was a part of him that wished it was real. 

But it had just been a Boggart, and Harry was alive. Harry was alive, and Pucey was his worst fear, and he didn’t know how to process that fact. 

Pucey was his worst fear, and Sirius and Remus had seen it. They knew he was afraid of him, just as they knew he had punched him. Harry’s receding panic came back, stealing all the air he’d managed to get back in his lungs. 

They knew, and they would ask questions that he wasn’t ready for and probably never would be. How could he tell them, his father’s closest friends, that he’d been broken—that he’d allowed himself to be ruined like this, that he wasn’t the ‘prude’ Sirius thought he was. That he had had someone inside of him while he was begging to stop, or trying to, since the spell didn’t let him.

He would need to lie, to spin this in a way that led them far away from the truth, but his mind was spinning, his thoughts felt like slime, slippery and escaping from his grasp. The words stayed stuck in his mouth, grating against his throat like sandpaper and refusing to come out. 

He stepped back, but the movement only brought him back to Remus’ chest, who put an arm around his shoulder to stabilise him. Remus’ hugs were the best he’d ever had, firm but warm, but his hold felt too constricting now, as if a snake had coiled itself around him and was squeezing him until his breath gave out. Harry's mind went back to the snake that had attacked Mr Weasley, and the guilt joined the snake wrapped around his body.

“Harry,” Remus’ voice called, barely a whisper. He felt the breath in his ear, the warm air hitting his neck as well, and the only thing Harry could think about was the way Pucey’s breath had felt on his neck back in September, shivers running down his spine. 

“Harry, you need to breathe, it’s ok. The Boggart’s gone.” 

Remus shuffled until he was standing in front of him, blocking the pantry from view. His hands gripped his upper arms, his hold gentle, but firm enough that he wouldn’t be able to free himself without shoving him away. 

“It can't hurt you anymore. Please, follow my breathing.” 

Remus took exaggerated breaths, urging him to follow with a look in his eyes, and Harry tried to comply. Maybe if he did, they would let him go sooner. He’d be able to run back to his room, pack his things and escape somewhere else, somewhere nobody could reach him until he died. 

Harry copied Remus, breath catching in his throat every time his thoughts wandered back to hazel eyes and brown hair. It took what was probably ten minutes, but felt like an eternity to Harry, for his chest to slow down to a more normal pace, but the lump stayed stuck in his throat. 

“Feeling better?” Remus asked, and Harry nodded shakily, not trusting himself to speak.

He stepped back from the wolf, turning around so he could flee the room, but Sirius stopped him before he could turn fully. 

“Harry, we need to talk,” his godfather said. “Please.” 

Harry pondered his options. He didn’t want to talk. He knew what they would ask, and he wasn’t ready to give any answers. He didn’t want anyone to ever know, but especially not them. 

But at the same time, he couldn’t not tell them anything. It would only make them worry, make them wonder and ask themselves questions. They were smart: eventually, they would reach the right conclusions, and they would know. Harry had to tell them something. Something that would ease their suspicions, something with enough truth in it that they wouldn’t catch him in his lie, but far enough from it that they couldn’t figure it out. 

Harry nodded once, following the couple to the kitchen table. He took a seat at the head of the table, while the two sat close to each other on his right. He was glad they hadn’t sat each at one side of him. He needed a quick escape, and being surrounded by them wouldn’t give him that. 

“Who was that, Harry?” Sirius asked once they were all seated. 

“Nobody,” Harry answered. 

“He’s Adrian Pucey, isn’t he? I remember him from when I taught Defence,” Remus said. “He’s a Chaser for Slytherin, right?”

Harry nodded, gritting his teeth. He’d forgotten that Remus had taught them in his third year, and therefore, he’d had Pucey in his classes. 

“Why is he your Boggart, Harry? Has he hurt you?”

Harry shook his head, keeping eye contact with the man. He tried to keep a blank face, no emotion showing through to betray his words. 

“There must be a reason that he’s your worst fear, Harry. Please let us help you. We can talk to Dumbledore, he can do something—”

“No!” Harry said, anger seeping through. “No. There's no need to involve Dumbledore or anyone else. It’s fine. He just threatened to give me up to Voldemort if I didn’t give up my spot on the Quidditch team. I don’t really think he’s my worst fear. I don’t know why he was my Boggart, but it must’ve been wrong.”

“Harry, you had a panic attack and—”

“It’s fine, Remus, really. It just startled me to see him in the pantry, and I panicked because I saw my dead body on the floor—it isn’t a pleasant feeling, you know, seeing yourself d—dead, but I’m fine now. We need to bake the treacle tart. We promised Ron he would have some tomorrow.”

“Harry, Ron told us you punched him—”

“Yes, because he was talking shit about my best friend and his family. He deserved it,” Harry said quickly. “Can we please bake the treacle tart? Maybe we can summon the trays instead. Will save us some more Boggarts.”

Sirius and Remus gave each other a look of concern—a look that Harry pretended not to see—but finally dropped the discussion. 

The three of them finished making the treacle tarts, the happy and festive mood gone after the panic-inducing pantry trip. 

Harry had been having fun, following his parents’ Christmas tradition with his godfathers, the last two people who connected him with his parents, but also two people he loved. But Pucey, once again, had ruined something he loved. 

He’d ruined him even when he was miles away, and Harry was so tired, so done. 

He longed for the moment he’d be free of him. Harry only had to wonder if the only way to get rid of his ghost that followed him everywhere was to die.

Chapter Text

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Ron said when Harry finally got up from his bed. He’d managed to sleep a bit, but he’d woken up three hours ago and decided to stay in bed. He didn’t know who else was awake, and he didn’t want to risk setting off Sirius’ mother’s portrait. 

“Happy Christmas.” 

“Want to open presents?” Ron offered, nodding to the pile of presents at the foot of his bed. 

Harry shuffled over to the floor, sitting beside Ron as they tore through paper. It took almost half an hour to go through the pile, both of them getting distracted by the presents and forgetting they had more to open. 

Harry was now wearing Mrs Weasley’s gift, a green sweater with a silver H that warmed his heart at the quiet acceptance of the woman. She and Mr Weasley had also given him a few mince pies that he set aside for later. Sirius and Remus had given him a set of Defence books titled Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts, and a bundle of pictures of his parents that Harry spent a long time observing. There were pictures of just his parents, pictures with him as a baby, and pictures with Sirius and Remus. Harry was glad to see that Pettigrew was in none of them. 

Tonks sent him a small, working model of a Firebolt, making Harry feel bad that he hadn’t thought of getting her anything, but he’d only met her once, and he didn’t think she’d get him a present. Hagrid’s gift was a wallet that had a built-in anti-theft device that worked a little too well and made it impossible to put money in it, but Harry appreciated the thought all the same and was glad he’d sent the half-giant a book on magical creatures. 

Ron and Hermione had given him a huge box of Honeydukes sweets and a homework planner, respectively, and the twins an assortment of their joke products that would last him an eternity. 

“Thank you for the book and the gloves, Harry!” Ron said, breaking the silence. “These tips sound amazing. Maybe I won’t be as terrible at the next match.”

“You’re not terrible, Ron. You just need to work on your nerves.”

“Well, either way, thank you. What’d you get?”

Harry’s answer was interrupted by a loud crack. Fred and George appeared on his bed, almost falling down as they bounced on the mattress. 

“Merry Christmas,” George said. “Stay up here for a bit. Mum’s crying again.”

“Why?” Ron asked, frowning. 

“Percy’s sent back his Christmas jumper without a note,” Fred answered. “He didn’t ask about Dad or anything either. We tried to comfort her, but it didn’t work. Lupin’s trying now, but it’s best to let her calm down a bit before we go down for breakfast.”

Fred and George sat on Harry’s bed. 

“Thank you for the gloves and the voucher, Harry!” Fred said. “You didn’t need to get us all that.” 

“I wouldn’t be a good investor if I didn’t invest in you, would I?” Harry said. “Thank you for the jokes. I might try them out on Malfoy.” 

“Oh, please, let me be there! I want to see the Ferret turn into a canary!” Ron clapped his hands, a huge smile at the thought of Malfoy with feathers. 

After a bit, when they started hearing the various inhabitants wishing each other a ‘Merry Christmas’, they got up and got dressed. 

On the way downstairs, Harry was attacked by bushy hair. He spat curly strands out of his mouth, but returned Hermione’s hug anyway. “Merry Christmas, ‘Mione. A bit enthusiastic, there?”

“Sorry, sorry! Thank you for the books! I love them. It is so interesting to read about House Elves, I don’t know why I never thought to get a book! And I love the romance novel as well. It’s been a while since I’ve read one, thank you!” 

“You’re welcome, Mione.” 

“Thank you for the perfume, Ron,” Hermione said, detangling herself from him to hug the redhead. 

The five of them entered the kitchen, where Sirius and Remus were having breakfast, engaged in quiet conversation while Mrs Weasley bustled about, setting fresh food on the table. 

It seemed she had gotten over the sadness from Percy rejecting his family, or at least pushed the matter away enough that she gave Harry a blinding smile once she saw him, dropping the towel she was using to dry her hands and waddling towards him with her arms outstretched. 

Harry had enough warning that he didn’t flinch when she wrapped her arms around him, returning the hug and breathing in the smell of home-baked cookies that he always associated with her. 

“Thank you so much for the necklace, dear, it’s wonderful,” the woman said. She stepped back from the hug, and Harry could see that she was already wearing it. 

“Glad to see you’re ignoring your own son, Mum,” Ron joked from beside Harry. 

“Oh, Ron, shush. Come here.” Mrs Weasley grabbed his arm, pulling him into his own hug. 

Harry went to Sirius and Remus while Mrs Weasley was distracted with her sons, sitting in front of them. He grabbed an empty plate, piling some of the fruit Mrs Weasley had set on the table on it.

“Merry Christmas, Sirius, Remus. Thanks for the books and the pictures.” 

The two returned his greeting, and Harry saw that Remus, too, was wearing one of the cardigans he had bought him. Both Sirius and Remus thanked him for his presents. 

“Did you draw these?” Remus asked, pointing at the two drawings on the table. They were the two drawings he’d made for them. 

“Yeah, I did,” Harry admitted. “They’re not much—I’m quite out of practice but—”

“They’re not much? Harry, these are amazing. I didn’t know you were so talented,” Remus said, smiling. 

“I don’t know where you got it from. Neither James nor Lily had an artistic bone in them,” Sirius added. “Must be my talent shining through.”

Harry laughed, scratching his head as they praised him. “I didn’t have any coloured pencils, so I could only make it black and white.” 

“That’s all right, Harry. It looks quite nice even like this.” 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Christmas came and went, bringing with it the end of the holidays. After breakfast on Christmas morning, they’d gone to St Mungo’s to visit Mr Weasley and bring him his presents. Mr Weasley had appreciated his gift, vowing to work on it as soon as he was discharged.

They’d ended up meeting Gilderoy Lockheart, something Harry could’ve done without, and running into Neville, who’d brought them to meet his parents. Harry had felt bad then, seeing his friend interact with his parents, and swallowed down any reluctance he had about touching to pull the Gryffindor into a hug. 

After that, they’d returned home, where a banquet that rivalled Hogwarts’ feasts was waiting for them. It seemed Mrs Weasley had drowned her worries and sorrows by trying to outdo the Hogwarts Elves, and Harry felt slightly bad when he only put a small portion of food on his plate, under everybody’s concerned eyes. He didn’t tell them that if it were for him, he’d eat even less than what he’d put on his plate to appease them. He didn’t think it would go over well. 

He’d had a piece of the treacle tart he made with Sirius and Remus, though, and managed to finish it, even if his stomach felt like exploding. Ron had forgotten his worries about Sirius’ abysmal cooking skills and helped himself to a second slice. 

It was now January eleventh, the day before they were supposed to be back at Hogwarts, and the house was in chaos, with six people trying to pack their trunks. They all had left their belongings all over the house, the Weasleys more so than Harry, who had limited his chaos to his room. 

Harry was done by now and was checking over his homework to make sure he had completed all of it, while Ron was frantically looking for his Potions essay. 

He had just managed to find it when somebody knocked at the door, before Mrs Weasley’s head appeared in the doorway. 

“Harry, dear,” she said. “Could you come down to the kitchen, please? Professor Snape is here to talk to you.”

Harry frowned. Why did Snape want to talk to him? He hadn’t done anything wrong as far as he knew. A million questions travelled through his mind, each one worse than the last. What if he’d found out about the DA? Or worse, Pucey? Panic soared through his chest at that thought, and he quickly pushed it away. No, it wasn’t possible. The only people who knew what had happened were Malfoy, Nott, Pucey himself, and maybe Zabini. There was no way that Pucey would tell on himself to Snape, and his three roommates had known about it since September and had not told anybody. Why would they break their promise months after it happened?

Mrs Weasley cut off his spiralling thoughts, reminding him that Snape was waiting for him and that he couldn’t stay long. 

With a lump in his throat, Harry followed the Weasley matron down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Snape and Sirius were standing at each side of the table, glaring at each other. 

Both men turned to him when he entered the kitchen, but the tension didn’t dissolve. Harry felt it in the air, thick and overwhelming. He wondered what he’d interrupted, what the two men were fighting about this time, but he didn’t get the chance to find out. 

“Potter, sit down,” Snape ordered. Sirius made to protest, but Harry complied without much complaint. The sooner he did what was asked, the sooner he could leave. 

“What did you need to talk to me about, Professor?” Harry said quietly. If the man was surprised at Harry’s show of respect, he didn’t show it. As for Harry, he felt too tired to argue, to hear the man’s snarling voice every time he skipped his honorifics. He just wanted to be done so he could go back to his bed and rest before he had to go back to Hogwarts, where he had to worry about him once again. 

“It is the Headmaster’s wish for you to learn Occlumency, Potter, and he has asked me to teach you this semester.” 

Harry wanted to ask why the Headmaster wasn’t here to tell him his wishes, why he had sent him to tell him, but he bit his lip and swallowed down the question. 

“What is Occlumency, sir?”

“It is the magical defence of the mind against external infiltration, Potter. It is most difficult, but it is vital that you learn it.” 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. External infiltration? Were they afraid that he’d get possessed? Was Ginny wrong? Had he really been possessed by Voldemort?

He didn’t get a chance to ask. Snape kept talking. “You will come to my office at six o’clock on Mondays for private lessons, which will be explained as remedial Potions to everyone else. No one must know about these lessons, least of all Dolores Umbridge. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” 

He didn’t know how to feel about Snape teaching him Occlumency, whatever that was, but if it helped in any way with keeping Voldemort out of his head, with keeping his friends safe, Harry would do anything. 

It seemed that Sirius did not agree with him, however, as he made his displeasure known. Harry tuned out their argument, wishing they’d release him so he could leave. 

His attempts at ignoring them were successful until Sirius drew his wand, pointing it at Snape’s chest and causing the Potions Master to do the same. Harry was quick to position himself between the two. He had no energy for a fight to break out, even if he wasn’t the one fighting. 

“Stop, please,” Harry said, eyes begging his godfather to lower the wand. 

“Get out of it, Harry. I don’t want to hurt you,” Sirius said. 

“Don’t hurt him either. He’s just following orders!”

“I do not need you to help me, Potter. Step away.” 

Harry stayed where he was, two wands pointing at his chest and back. 

“Cured!” a bright voice announced, the door opening to reveal Mr Weasley and the rest of his family, plus Hermione. “Completely cured!” 

The Weasleys froze in their doorway as they saw the scene unfolding in the kitchen. The smile had dropped from Mr Weasley’s face, replaced by a concerned expression. 

“Merlin’s beard, what is going on here?”  the man said, looking between Sirius and Snape. “Why are you pointing your wands at Harry?”

“They’re not, technically. They were aiming at each other.” Harry interjected. “But I would appreciate it if they stopped, yeah.”

The two men glared at one another one last time before they lowered their wands. Snape pocketed his, sweeping past Harry and Sirius and leaving without saying anything else other than a ‘Six o’clock, Monday evening, do not be late, Potter.’

Now that their impromptu duel was over before it even started, Harry wanted to go back to his room. He smiled at Mr Weasley, welcoming him back home before he, too, made his exit, going back up the stairs and to his room. 

Once there, he closed the door, hoping that only Ron would follow him there to finish packing, and lay on his bed. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

The moment Harry dreaded arrived, and he was on the Knight Bus, on his way back to Hogwarts. The gift Sirius had given him before he left weighed on his pocket, still wrapped as per his godfather’s instructions. 

Harry didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t know if he’d ever use it. Sirius told him that he should use it if Snape ever gave him any trouble, but doing so would mean luring Sirius out of the safety of Grimmauld Place. The last thing he wanted was something happening to his godfather, which was sure to happen if he marched to Hogwarts to fight Snape on Harry’s account. 

And Snape had left Harry mostly alone last semester, other than a few comments during class. He hoped that Sirius’ worries were unfounded, that the Professor would just do what Dumbledore had asked of him without using this as an opportunity to make Harry’s life worse than it already was. 

Harry didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as the Knight Bus violently stopped in front of Hogsmeade. 

Harry said goodbye to Remus and Tonks, who had come with them to drop them off, and watched as the Knight Bus disappeared with another bang. 

He wished he was still on board, that he wouldn’t have to go back to Hogwarts. Staying at Grimmauld Place would mean being under Mrs Weasley, Remus and Sirius’ watchful and concerned eyes, making it more difficult to hide his feelings than it had already been in the few weeks of the Christmas holidays, but it would also mean no Pucey. 

He wouldn’t have to worry about running into him in the hallways, about his knowing smirks and threats. He would be safe from him. 

And there wouldn’t be Umbridge either. Harry wasn’t looking forward to seeing the pink-loving witch every day. He dreaded to think about the new decrees she was sure to have passed in their absence. Would she want to punish them for their abrupt departure?

Sooner than he’d like, Harry was back in his dormitory, unpacking his trunk with a swish of his wand. His clothes flew into his wardrobe, and his school books arranged themselves into his bookshelf.

Once everything was in its place, Harry fell back into his bed, not bothering to close his curtains. His three roommates had yet to arrive, leaving Harry alone in his room. 

They didn’t take long to appear, though, their chatter announcing their presence. 

“Oh, hey, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, once he noticed him lying on his bed. “Had a nice Christmas?” 

Harry grunted in reply. If he could erase this Christmas, he would in a heartbeat, but he didn’t think they’d want that as an answer. “It was all right. How was yours?” 

Malfoy replied, and then the room lapsed into silence as the three boys unpacked their own trunks. 

“Potter,” Malfoy called out after a while, once the three boys had settled back into their beds. Harry lifted himself up on his elbows, waiting for the blond to talk. 

“We were going to give you this before the holidays, but we didn’t get the chance. Merry belated Christmas,” Malfoy said. He was holding out a package. It looked like a box, wrapped neatly in silver paper with a green bow. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“We wanted to, Potter, or we wouldn’t have bought it,” was his reply. 

Harry grabbed the gift from Malfoy’s hands, carefully opening it so as to avoid ripping the paper. Harry opened the box to reveal a scarf, with matching gloves and a beanie, in Slytherin colours. The fabric was soft and warm as he ran his hands over it, and he had to force himself to set them aside and not where them immediately. 

“Thank you. I love them,” Harry said, smiling appreciatively at the three Slytherins. 

“Maybe now I will not need to cast warming charms on you any longer, Potter.” 

“We’ll see,” Harry laughed. Then he got up, rifling through his trunk for the three gifts he’d made for the Slytherins. 

He handed one to each of them, feeling a little self-conscious about his horrible wrapping skills, but none of the boys commented on it as they tore the paper away. 

“Nice, Potter,” Zabini said. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t have time to get frames or to get colours, but it was the best I could do with what I had,” Harry admitted. He had drawn the three boys together, using various pictures that they had in their respective nightstands as reference. He hadn’t had time to make three separate drawings, so he’d looked for a charm and made two copies of the original, which he’d given to Draco. 

“It’s all right, Potter. We don’t need frames.” 

Malfoy walked to his bed, drawing in hand and attached it to the wall beside his bed where he’d stuck his other pictures with a sticking charm. Zabini and Nott did the same, and Harry was glad that they’d liked his gift. He didn’t know what else to get them, and by throwing himself into drawing them, he’d passed the sleepless nights when he did not have the energy to do his homework.

After their gift exchange, the three boys decided to play a round of Exploding Snap before going to bed. 

Harry went to bed early that night, but the impending lessons with Snape caused him to toss and turn all night. 

What if Sirius was right? What if Snape’s only goal was to mess with him, to make his life impossible? What if these lessons brought him nowhere, and Voldemort possessed him again, and this time it led to someone’s death? 

Harry couldn’t afford that and hoped that he’d be able to keep Voldemort out of his head. 

The last question that passed through his mind before he finally gave in to sleep was what exactly Occlumency was, and how Snape would teach it to him. He could only hope that learning how to keep Voldemort from infiltrating his head did not mean that Snape would have to attack his mind as practice. 

He did not want to risk Snape finding out any of his secrets.

Chapter Text

“Come in, Potter.” Snape’s drawling voice welcomed him in his office the following day, at precisely six o’clock. Harry hadn’t wanted to anger the man before they even started, so he made sure to be there on time. Not late, not early, but just in time so the man wouldn’t have anything to reprimand him for. 

Snape was sitting behind his desk, a pile of parchment in front of him and a quill in his hand. He looked to be grading essays, and if the sour expression on his face—though it wasn’t that unusual for the bitter man—told him anything was that they were not good. Snape looked ready to throw the whole lot into the fire burning in the fireplace and watch them go up in flames. Harry could only hope those weren’t the fifth-year essays. He’d worked hard on it, and Malfoy had checked it over last night, before they went to bed. He hadn’t sneered at his abysmal potions skills like usual, so he’d thought he’d done a good job, or at least a decent one.

The man sent the essays back in his drawer with a wave of his wand, getting up and going around the desk. 

The conversation that followed was not pleasant, as Snape introduced him to Legilimency—which, no matter what Snape said, sounded exactly like mind-reading—and talked about his apparent connection to Voldemort. The thought that Voldemort could potentially read his thoughts sent shivers down his spine. He was worried he would be able to see how pathetic he was, how Pucey was his worst fear and that he’d be able to use that to his advantage, but above all, he was afraid that he’d find out about his friendship with the three Slytherin boys, that he would see the conversations where they’d admitted that they didn’t want to be Death Eaters. Harry didn’t want to put them in danger. 

“You may use your wand to disarm me, or defend yourself however you can, Potter,” Snape said as he took out his own wand. Harry eyed it worriedly, wondering what he was going to do with it. He voiced the question out loud.

“I will attempt to break into your mind, Potter,” he said slowly. Those words successfully stopped Harry in his tracks. Break into his mind? Would Snape be able to see his thoughts? “You are able to resist the Imperius Curse, aren’t you? Occlumency is not dissimilar to that. Brace yourself, now. Legilimens! ” 

Harry didn’t have time to protest, to stop him before he could. Panic swelled in his chest as he felt Snape’s presence slip into his mind before he was ready, and image after image started playing in his mind against his will. 

Harry didn’t want Snape to see any of this. 

He was five, and Harry felt the pang of jealousy just as strong as it had been the first time he’d watched Dudley playing with his new bike. He was nine and being chased by Aunt Marge’s bulldog up a tree while his so-called family laughed at him instead of helping him. He was ten, and Uncle Vernon was yelling at him for burning his food. 

No. 

Snape wasn’t going to see this. Harry tried to push him away, imagining that the presence in his mind was an actual, physical person and using all his strength to send him out of his head. 

A hundred Dementors were drifting towards him and Sirius, then it was Sirius, offering him to come live with him. Then he was in complete darkness, looking like his eyes were closed, but Harry knew what it was. It was the familiar darkness of his cupboard. 

Harry pushed harder. Snape was not going to know about the cupboard. 

Pain shot through his knees, and Harry finally opened his eyes, finding himself back in Snape’s office. He’d fallen to his knees, and Snape was standing in front of him, rubbing his wrist and looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Did you mean to cast a Stinging Hex?”

“No, sir. I was trying to push you away.” 

“The Stinging Hex managed to stop me eventually, but it will not work with the Dark Lord. I want you to attempt to push me away using your brain, not your wand.”

“I’m trying!” Harry yelled. He’d been trying to stay calm, but the panic he felt at the thought of Snape seeing his memories was making it harder than usual. 

“Not hard enough! You’ve got to focus, Potter, clear your head and rid yourself of all emotions.”

Harry tried, but the more he tried to clear his head of everything he did not want Snape to know, the more those memories came back to the surface. 

He barely registered Snape counting to three before whispering the incantation once again. 

He was back in Harry’s mind. 

A high-pitched cold laugh filled his ears, then his mother’s screams of his name, and a bright flash of green light filled his eyes. It was not his mother who dropped to the ground, however, but Cedric’s dead body. Harry was back in the graveyard, Voldemort’s resurrected body laughing at him and his pain as he cast Crucio on him multiple times. Pucey was following in the hallway, smirking as Harry felt more and more uncomfortable the more they stayed alone. “Ignoring me is a bit rude, don’t you think, Potter? ” Then Snape appeared, and Harry felt relief at seeing the Potion Master for the first time.

Nausea filled his stomach, and Harry was on his knees again, a single sob escaping his lips before he could stop it.

“Get up!” Snape said sharply. “You’re allowing me easy access to memories you fear, memories that can be a weapon in the wrong hands!”

“It’s hard!”

“You’re not even trying! You are letting yourself be controlled by emotions. You’re wallowing in your sad memories, allowing yourself to be provoked so easily, like a weak fool. You will be easy prey for the Dark Lord and his powers, and you will bring down everybody with you!”

Harry clenched his fists, nails digging in his palms. He wanted to yell at him, tell him that he was not weak, but it felt like he would be lying. He was weak, and Pucey had demonstrated it. Snape had only found further proof of it. That didn’t mean that Harry wanted to confirm Snape’s assertion, so he refrained from shouting and proving him right immediately. 

Instead, he took a deep breath, ignoring the way his stomach churned with nausea, and grabbed his wand tighter. 

“Legilimens! ”

The third time was not easier than the first two, and frustration made itself known. Why couldn’t he push Snape out of his thoughts? Why was he so useless? His thoughts were spiralling, not helping with the task at hand, and one look at Snape once the man cancelled the spell told him that he had lost all his patience. 

The only good thing that came out of it was that he had finally found out why he kept dreaming of that door and hallway: it was in the Department of Mystery, and behind that door was the weapon Voldemort was looking for, the weapon Mr Weasley had almost died to protect. 

Snape was clearly done with him, and the neutrality he’d shown towards him since he’d sorted into Slytherin seemed to have vanished into thin air. He was back at sneering at him, dislike evident in his black eyes. 

“I want you back here at the same time on Wednesday. Clear your mind before going to bed. You are dismissed.”

Harry was out the door before the man could change his mind and keep him longer, heading back to his dorms. 

He closed his curtains once he was back in his bed, casting his usual privacy charms. Nobody saw his next fit that made him laugh like a maniac, and dread grew in Harry’s stomach, joining the nausea that he’d been feeling since the Occlumency lesson. 

Voldemort was happy about something, and Harry did not want to know why.

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

Harry found out the next morning at breakfast, when the owls flew in and deposited the Daily Prophet on Malfoy’s breakfast. The headline stood out, black against white parchment, written in huge, capital letters. Moving pictures snarled and laughed, holding their prison numbers. 

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS ‘RALLYING POINT’ FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

Harry felt his heart drop down to his stomach as he stared at Bellatrix Lestrange’s deranged smile. That was why Voldemort was happy, why Harry had found himself laughing for no reason last evening. And everybody thought Sirius was behind the breakout. 

Harry looked up, meeting the worried gazes of Ron and Hermione. Horrified whispers came from the Gryffindor table—and from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as well, but Harry was not focusing on them—while the atmosphere at the Slytherin table was completely different. Harry was the only one showing his displeasure openly. The rest of the Slytherins were either looking satisfied or not showing any emotion. 

Malfoy, Nott and Zabini were among those keeping their thoughts to themselves, though Harry swore he saw Malfoy’s lips purse in displeasure. Harry didn’t know what they were thinking, but this was not the place to ask. He’d question them in the safety of their dorm room, with the strongest privacy charms he knew. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t, in case Voldemort could read his thoughts and find out their true allegiance. 

In any case, the breakout and the Occlumency lessons effectively killed the good mood—calling it good mood was being very generous. It was just a slight improvement—he’d found himself in during the Christmas holidays, boggarts and guilt over Mr Weasley’s attack notwithstanding. 

Harry had found himself trapped in a nightmare once again, a mix of all his fears and worst memories, awakened by Snape making him relive them during their Occlumency lessons. Harry tried clearing his mind as Snape had told him, but it was easier said than done. 

Harry’s appetite deserted him once again, dread filling his stomach and making it heavy. It felt like he’d swallowed a stone, and he pushed his plate away, still full as he’d only managed to get a few bites in before the post had arrived. 

Nott glared at him from his seat in front of him, pushing the plate back towards him, but Harry’s response was halted by a familiar voice, making his breath hitch in his throat.

“Did you read the news, Harry?” 

As if hearing his voice wasn’t enough, Pucey placed a hand on his shoulder. It was warm, but it still made shivers run along his whole body. Harry focused on Nott, whose hand was wrapped tightly around his knife, eyes not leaving the boy behind Harry. Malfoy looked tense as well, from his spot next to him, glancing at the Slytherin chaser every few seconds. 

Harry wished he could hex the Slytherin, that he could blast him to the wall, but it would give Umbridge another reason to punish him. She’d never take his side. 

He felt frozen in place, as if Pucey had glued him there with his hand on his shoulders. Harry pinched his wrist underneath the table to remind himself that he wasn’t in the changing rooms. A cold hand slid underneath the table, grabbing his hand and holding it. 

Harry glanced, surprised at Malfoy, who gave no indication that he’d moved his hand in his, and then tried to focus on the coldness of the blond’s hand and not the uncomfortable warmth spreading from Pucey’s fingers, that lingered even after the boy had removed his hand. 

“Sorry, Pucey, but we must go now. We have History of Magic,” Malfoy said, squeezing Harry’s hand one last time, and then getting up. 

Harry was quick to follow, swinging his bag around his shoulders and walking behind Malfoy with quick strides. He could hear Nott and Zabini following as well, but he didn’t have time to wait for them. 

He made a beeline for the closest bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet and rejecting the little food he’d managed to eat. 

“Are you all right, Potter?”

“That’s a stupid question, Draco.”

“Shut up, Theo, I know.” 

“Will you two stop bickering?” Zabini snapped. 

If Harry had been in a better mood, he would’ve laughed, but now laughing was the last thing he felt like doing. He sat back once his stomach was empty, back against the cold wall. He accidentally banged his head too hard when he leaned back on the wall, but the pain that spread in his skull gave him a distraction from his thoughts. He would’ve tried it again if the sound wouldn't alert the three Slytherins hovering outside. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” he said, voice raspy. His throat ached as he swallowed, feeling dry from the retching. 

“We said we wouldn’t leave you alone, in case he tried again, Potter. We’re not going back on our promises.” 

Harry sighed, closing his eyes. He wished he could fall asleep right there. Fall asleep and never wake up again, so he wouldn’t have to worry about running into Pucey. So that the three Slytherins wouldn’t have to baby him, protect him as if he were a defenceless toddler who needed twenty-four-hour care. That’s what he felt like, and the more he thought about how the three boys had taken on the job of caring for him, the more he felt pathetic and guilty. 

He sighed again and got up. If they insisted on walking him everywhere, he’d need to get himself together and get up. He wouldn’t make them late for class and risk getting them in trouble. He gave them enough trouble as it was. 

Harry splashed cold water on his face, rinsed his mouth and tried—unsuccessfully—to fix the mess that was his hair, before Malfoy snorted and stepped forward. 

“May I?” he asked, voice uncertain for a few seconds as he raised his hands, pointing at his hair. Harry almost said no, not wanting to be touched, but then he remembered how Malfoy’s cold hands felt whenever he grabbed his to either heal his hand or to offer comfort like this morning, so he nodded. 

Malfoy ran his hands through his messy hair, tongue in between his teeth as he focused on trying to tame his mop of black curls. His touch was soothing, sending away the last threads of panic, and Pucey’s phantom touch faded. The only thing that Harry could feel was Malfoy’s thin fingers combing through his hair, sending goosebumps down Harry’s body for a whole different reason. 

“Your hair is untamable, but it is much better now,” Malfoy said, stepping back.

Harry thanked him with a smile, not trusting himself to speak yet, and took a last deep breath before leaving the bathroom, the three Slytherins in tow. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

January moved slowly, the cold weather not helping Harry’s miserable mood. Snape’s Occlumency lessons, paired with Pucey, who seemed to be everywhere nowadays, lurking in corners and smirking at him, brought his mood down, killing his appetite and causing the three Slytherins to start pestering him to eat once again. 

Harry was tired in more ways than one. His nightmares were in full force, trapping him in his worst memories, triggered by Snape digging through his mind. Harry had not managed to stop his attacks yet, but he’d figured out how to redirect him, how to give him less important memories. 

He fed him images of him playing with Ron and Hermione, of his adventures back in first and second year: the more innocent stuff that Harry didn’t care if Snape knew about. He tried to stray far away from dangerous topics, such as the Dursleys and Pucey. Letting Snape find out would be the last thing he ever did. 

But it wasn’t enough for Snape. Every lesson ended with him berating Harry for his apparent lack of effort, and Harry returned to his dorm with his head aching and his morale six feet underground. 

How was he supposed to protect his friends if he couldn’t even fend off Snape?

It seemed that the lessons had made it worse, rather than helping. While in the past his dreams of the corridor were occasional, now it was a recurring dream, alternating every night with dreams of Pucey, Vernon and Cedric. Harry had been so busy with homework, the DA, the Slytherins’ private lessons and Occlumency that he hadn’t even gone to Madame Pomphrey to get more Dreamless Sleep, leaving him at the mercy of his nightmares. 

Harry returned to his first method of avoiding nightmares: staying up all night doing homework or drawing. He’d started reading through the books Sirius and Remus had given him as well, trying to see if they had any useful information or spells that he could teach the DA. 

He had taken to dropping and applying his glamour in his bed. He hadn’t seen what he looked like since the beginning of January, and he had avoided his reflection without glamours ever since, dreading to see what he looked like now. 

Harry dragged his feet towards the dungeons on the Wednesday before Valentine’s Day. His head felt like it was about to split open, blood pulsing in his ears. Every step towards Snape’s office felt heavy with exhaustion. His thoughts were all over the place, and Harry knew he’d have to deal with Snape’s disappointment today. He just wanted to sleep. 

Harry weakly knocked on the door, waiting for Snape’s clipped ‘enter’. 

Snape didn’t even greet him. He barely gave him time to take out his wand before he pointed his own at his head, whispering the incantation. 

Harry was under the Sorting Hat for the second time. “You do belong in Slytherin, and you’ll see!” He was in the abandoned classroom with Ron and Hermione, being reassured that they wouldn’t stop being his friends just because he was a Slytherin. He was kneeling in front of the fire, hearing Sirius and Remus saying the same thing. Then he remembered passing out and waking up to the three Slytherins surrounding him. 

Harry tried to push him away, but his attempts felt weak, weaker than any other time he’d tried. He was too tired to even change memories and feed Snape insignificant memories. 

Montague called his name in his memory, then Malfoy was shouting at him in their room, angry that the Slytherin captain had offered him the Seeker spot. 

Harry’s headache became ten times worse as his efforts grew in strength. They were getting into dangerous territory. Too close to his worst memory, the one Harry would die before revealing to anyone else. 

He managed to change direction for a few seconds, thinking hard about a memory that would distract Snape. Malfoy was helping him wrap his presents, laughing at his lack of skill. 

Then the scene unwillingly shifted to that day in the bathroom, when Malfoy had hugged him and let him cry on his shoulder. “I’m tired, Draco, ” he heard himself saying. 

Memory-Draco hugged him tighter. “I know,” he whispered, “We won’t let him hurt you again.” 

“So he believed you about Pucey,”  Draco asked in his memory. 

“He’s suspicious,” his voice was wet, muffled by Malfoy’s shirt. “He thinks there’s something going on between me and him.”

“You should tell him, Harry. He can help you.” 

Memory-Harry shook his head, “No. I’ll die before I tell him anything. He won’t believe that, and if he does, he’ll just use it to humiliate me. ”

Harry felt a sob break out from his lips as his most vulnerable memories were shown. The memory hadn’t appeared yet, but Harry’s chances of dissuading Snape from thinking that there was something going on between him and Pucey had gone down to zero. Snape would push and push until he got his answer. He wouldn’t be satisfied with half-truths, with leaving things be. Harry wished the ground would swallow him whole, and wondered why his magic wasn’t reacting. He tried sending a Stinging Hex in his direction, but either it was too weak to do anything or Snape was too distracted by his memories that he hadn’t registered it. 

Either way, Harry and Snape remained stuck in the memory, watching as the three Slytherins comforted Harry and promised him they would help him avoid Pucey. 

That was until the scene changed, and Harry recognised at once where they were. He felt himself start to shake, pain exploding in his hands as his nails pierced his skin. Tears welled up in his eyes as his worst nightmare started playing out. 

“But I’m sure you’d look even better with the robes off, sweetheart. Why don’t I help you?” 

It felt like the day it had happened. His body burned in the exact places where Pucey was touching him in the memories. He felt frozen by the spell once again, his ears ringing as the older boy whispered threats in his ears as he made of his body what he wanted. 

Nausea churned in his throat, and his head ached with each attempt at sending Snape out of his head. But the Professor seemed like he had no intention of leaving, returning to the memory each time it started to fade. 

“The Dark Lord doesn’t want us to kill you,” Pucey spoke in his memory, removing his clothes. Harry hoped the memory would stop. Hadn’t Snape seen enough? Hadn’t he humiliated him for long enough? “It’s a shame, really. It would’ve been so easy with you in our House, but we must respect our Lord’s wishes. He’s wise, and He knows best. But he hasn’t said anything about toying with you. ”

He felt hot, skin burning, and he longed for a shower to wash off the dirt caking his skin. He felt so dirty once again. Would he ever be able to wash Pucey off of him? Would the memories ever go away?

“I’m going to have so much fun breaking you, Golden Boy,” Memory-Pucey purred. “My Lord will be so pleased with me. You will be so broken that He will have no problem doing away with you, and my family will rise above the others .” 

“You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it.”

That was the last thing Harry heard before the memory suddenly stopped, and he found himself kneeling on both hands and knees, throwing up bile on Snape’s pristine office floor. 

His body was trembling with sobs, chest constricting. The dirt was filling up his lungs, making it impossible for him to breathe. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t hear anything but Pucey’s voice. 

“You’re so weak, sweetheart, just how I like it.” 

Pucey was right. 

And when Harry raised his head, meeting Snape’s horrified and disgusted face—more emotion than he’d ever seen in the usually blank-faced Professor—he knew what he had to do. He knew he wouldn’t—he couldn’t keep going like this. 

Snape knew his worst secret. The secret he wanted to keep with his life. 

He was done. 

He scrambled up to his feet, not giving Snape any time to stop him, and ran out of the room. 

He had some letters to write.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape had spent the semester observing Potter, ever since the hat shouted ‘Slytherin!’, making Potter his responsibility. 

The boy puzzled him. He was different now, more subdued, even if he still answered in kind whenever Severus provoked him. 

He had taken to his three roommates easily. Severus had expected to have to deal with their constant animosity, to have to break out fights between them and have to dole out punishments, considering the relationship between his godson and Potter in the last four years. However, they hadn’t given him any problems. On the contrary, they seemed to get along rather well, spending most of their time together. 

But there was something wrong with the boy. He’d seen him play with his food rather often, moving it around his plate, only eating when the three Slytherins subtly pushed his food towards him. 

His handwriting—which was dreadful even at his best—was so shaky that only years of practice reading chicken scratch allowed him to grade the boy’s essays. 

Severus did not want to think about what he’d seen the night of Weasley’s attack, when he’d found out the boy was wearing glamours. He did not think about the boy's thin arms or the way he could count his ribs. It didn’t match the image he’d made of him in his mind, the James Potter’s replica he’d always believed him to be. James Potter would have never let himself get to that point.

Severus prided himself on being able to school his emotions, to keep them in check so that nobody would ever be able to know what he was thinking. He’d mastered the art of Occlumency, learning how to lock his emotions and thoughts behind walls made of the strongest metal possible. 

They did nothing to conceal the horror and the disgust he felt as he watched Potter being hurt in one of the worst ways possible. He wanted to stop the memory, to stop Potter from reliving this nightmare, the moment he’d understood what was about to happen, but there was something freezing him there, not allowing him to retract his presence from the boy’s mind. The damage was done. He couldn’t take back what he’d seen and heard. 

Severus was still frozen as Potter threw up on his floor and then ran out of his office. 

The slam of the door brought him out of his shock. He vanished the sick on the floor, swallowing down his own nausea, and left his office. 

“No. I’ll die before I tell him anything. He won’t believe that, and if he does, he’ll just use it to humiliate me.” 

Potter’s words still rang in his mind, the lack of faith that he had towards him settling like a heavy stone on his stomach. There was only one thing he could do. 

The scene replayed in his mind all the way to the Headmaster’s office, Pucey’s words drowning all his thoughts. 

He’d seen a lot during his years as a spy, tortured a lot of people under the Dark Lord’s orders, but seeing Potter—Lily’s son, his best friend’s son, who he’d vowed to protect—frozen on the ground, as an older Slytherin taunted and assaulted him under the Dark Lord’s name, was one of the worst things he’d experienced. 

His Occlumency walls did nothing to shield the fact that Potter was only fifteen years old, that he was just a child. A child he’d provoked himself, on whom he’d unloaded all of his frustrations and years of hatred for his dead father. 

The Gargoyle opened the passage even before Severus could knock, the weight on his stomach becoming heavier with each step he took. 

Severus was the Head of Slytherin. He’d noticed something wrong in the interactions between Pucey and Potter, but he’d dismissed it after Potter’s reassurances that everything was ok. He’d thought Potter wouldn’t waste the opportunity to complain about a Slytherin, even though he himself was one now, that he wouldn’t pass up the chance of playing the victim. His conversation with Draco the night of the attack had made some of his assumptions crumble, but amidst everything that had happened since then—Weasley’s attack, the Dark Lord’s numerous summons and Dumbledore’s requests—he’d let the matter sink to the bottom of his worries. If it were something that serious, he’d figured Potter would talk. 

But he hadn’t. He’d kept it to himself, choosing to suffer in silence. Only the three Slytherins knew, and even they had kept it a secret. 

Severus Snape did not return the twinkling smile that Albus Dumbledore gave him in greeting. 

“Severus, my boy, what do I give the pleasure of your visit?” 

“I’m afraid it is not a pleasant visit, Albus,” Severus said, voice grave as he stepped to the man’s desk. 

“What is it, Severus?” The man’s smile had dropped slightly, his eyes losing some of that twinkle. 

“I believe it is better if you see for yourself.” 

The memory felt like slime as Severus coaxed it into the Headmaster’s Pensieve. The nausea did not recede, however, and he refused to join Albus in rewatching the memory. Once was enough. Severus didn’t know how Potter dealt with it, having to relive it every day in his nightmares, like he knew he did. 

The twinkle in Albus’ eyes died completely when the old wizard emerged from the Pensieve, looking like he had aged fifty years in the time it took to view the memory. 

“How long have you known about this, Severus?” The Headmaster’s voice was as grave as Severus', as he fell back on his chair, hands gripped tight around the arms. 

“I have just found out, Albus. I had an Occlumency lesson with the boy.” 

“There is not much we can do about this, I’m afraid. It will—”

“What? You plan to do nothing?” Severus rose from his seat, glaring at the Headmaster. 

“The press will find a way to spin this to make Harry look bad, Severus. It will never stay quiet if the boy has a trial.” 

“Potter’s a minor, Albus. There’s a law protecting his identity if he doesn’t wish for it to be revealed. He can testify anonymously.” 

“Do you believe that Pucey will stay quiet about it?” Albus raised a white eyebrow. 

“No, but I shall find a way to ensure that he won’t talk.” 

“Have you talked to Harry about this?” 

“No, he has run from my office the moment the spell ended. But it does not matter what Potter wishes. Pucey needs to be apprehended before he hurts him again or attacks someone else. I believe he has been taunting Potter and threatening him all year.”

“And nobody has noticed?” 

“No. Potter’s kept this quiet,” Severus lied. He wasn’t going to drag his godson and his friends into this. It would only bring Dumbledore’s attention to them. 

“I will call the Aurors, then, if you believe it is the right thing to do. May I use your memory?” 

“Thank you, Albus.” 

Severus removed the memory from the Pensieve, making a copy and storing it into an empty vial, while the Headmaster grabbed a parchment, writing something down before he folded it and handed it, and the memory vial, to Fawkes, who departed in a flash of red fire.

“Now, while we wait, I shall update the registry. I believe Pucey will not be a Hogwarts student for much longer.”

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

“Where’s Potter?” 

“How would I know, Draco? Doesn’t he have Remedial Potions?” Theo answered, not even looking up from the Arithmancy book he was reading. They had a privacy charm around them, so they’d be free to talk without people eavesdropping on their conversation. It was a common thing in the Slytherin common room, so nobody would question them.

“He’s usually back by now.” 

“You know, Draco, darling, you always insist you’re not obsessed with Potter, but you’re doing a poor job at convincing us that you’re not.”

Draco scowled, throwing a pillow in Pansy’s direction, who simply grabbed it, laughing, and placed it underneath her head. She was lying on the couch, legs thrown over Blaise’s lap. 

“Is he walking back with his friends?” 

“I don’t think so, Draco, but Pucey’s over there with his friends. He’ll be fine.”

Draco glanced to where Theo pointed, nose scrunching in disgust as he saw Pucey just a few feet away, surrounded by Montague, Warrington and Bletchey. They were laughing with him, and Draco wondered if they knew what he’d done, if they’d be laughing with him if they knew how disgusting he was. 

Draco shook that thought away and returned to the essay he was writing, deciding that Potter would be fine. 

His attention didn’t last long. 

The door of the dorms swung open, and every head turned towards it as Professor Snape marched inside, followed by Dumbledore and two men dressed in red robes. It took a second for Draco to recognise them as Aurors. 

Draco frowned. What were they doing here?

His question was answered quickly. Professor Snape scanned the room quickly, his eyes meeting Draco’s briefly before they stopped on the older members of the Quidditch team, who were sitting up now, sending confused looks to each other. 

Professor Snape made a beeline towards them, followed by the two Aurors. Snape’s usual neutral expression was contorted in a look of pure disgust as he walked towards the Quidditch team. Draco sat up, and he saw Theo do the same, his book discarded. He exchanged a look with his friend, hope and confusion in their eyes. Would Pucey finally pay for what he’d done?

“Adrian Pucey?” A tall, dark-skinned man called out as the four men stopped in front of the group. 

Pucey’s friends glanced at the boy, confusion written in their faces. Draco didn’t think they were faking it. 

“You are under arrest for the sexual assault of a minor, Mr Pucey,” the man said, stepping forward. 

“What?!” Warrington said, eyes wide, turning to his friend. He scooted away from him. “Adrian, what the fuck?”

“They’re lying! I did no such thing!” 

Pucey stood up abruptly, wand flying to his hand. Draco took out his own, but the Auror was faster, disarming him and stepping forward with magic-dampening handcuffs. 

“You will be able to prove your innocence in court, Mr Pucey, but we have sound evidence of your actions. It is better if you cooperate and come with us quietly.” 

Pucey tried to resist, squirming as the Aurors grabbed his arms and fastened the handcuffs around his wrists. Then, they grabbed an arm each, marching him towards the exit. 

“Mr Pucey,” Dumbledore said calmly, setting his eyes on him. His face was severe, more serious than Draco had ever seen it. “You are expelled from Hogwarts. Your belongings will be given to your parents once your bed has been cleaned.”

The Aurors left with Pucey, then, with Dumbledore escorting them outside. 

Snape remained there, looking at where they had left for a few moments before he turned to address the room. 

“I know you all did not see this coming,” he started, voice low and threatening as he swept his eyes over the room. “Unless you somehow knew about Pucey’s actions and decided to cover for him instead of coming to me. I hope I don’t have to tell you that Pucey’s behaviour is completely unacceptable. It is deplorable and an unforgivable act, and my hope is that you all realise the severity of his actions.

“If any of you, or someone you know, has been sexually assaulted or is suffering abuse of any kind, by Pucey’s hands, or anyone else’s, my office is always open to you, and your identity will not be revealed to anyone who does not need to know.” 

His godfather stopped, giving everyone time to digest his words. 

“I ask that you do not question me on the identity of Pucey’s victim. I believe they do not wish anyone to know, and they deserve privacy after the ordeal they have gone through.”

Nobody talked, unnatural silence filling the common room. 

“If anyone needs to talk, I will be in my office.”

Professor Snape left then, robes billowing behind him. 

Theo and Draco exchanged another glance, and silently, they rose to their feet, heading towards their dormitory. Blaise followed behind, waving Pansy off when she went to get up as well. 

“Do you think Potter has told Snape?” Theo asked once they were alone in their room. Potter’s curtains were closed, leaving them with no way of knowing if he was there, short of opening them.

“He was so adamant about not telling him. I honestly don’t know.” 

“Maybe he’s changed his mind. He’s spent a lot of time with Snape recently, with all the remedial classes he’s taking.” 

“If they’re even remedial classes. Potter comes back looking like he’s seen a ghost every time,” Draco said. “I’m just glad Pucey’s gone. I want to throw up every time I see his face. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Potter, seeing him every day.” 

Theo hummed in response, getting up and walking to the desk. “When’s the essay for Arithmancy due?” 

“This Friday, I believe.” 

Draco absentmindedly watched as Theo sat down at the desk, returning his attention to his essay that he’d abandoned when the Aurors had come to arrest Pucey. 

“Fuck!” Theo’s shout startled him, ink spilling all over his essay. Theo’s chair fell to the floor as the boy sprang up. “Fuck, fuck. No.” 

Both Draco and Blaise jumped off their beds, turning towards their friend, who had become considerably paler. 

“Theo? Theo, what’s wrong?” Draco asked the boy, who had turned to face them, horror in his face as he clutched what looked like a letter in his hand. Draco noticed that there was a pile of them on the desk, and he could read Weasley and Granger’s names on one of them. Theo’s letter had his name on it, next to Draco and Blaise’s. 

Dread grew in his stomach at seeing the hominous letters. What the hell were they? Did Harry write them? Why would he be writing them letters?

“Theo! Talk! What’s wrong?” Blaise shouted. 

“Harry,” Theo’s voice was shaky. He held the letter out to Draco, who took it with a worried glance at his friend. “He wrote us letters—suicide letters—”

“What?” Draco said, voice high-pitched as his eyes scanned the letter. His heart started beating fast, accelerating with each word he read. 

Draco, Theo, Blaise, 

I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me these past few months. I’d never imagined I’d get so close to you three, especially to you, Draco, since we haven’t had the best relationship. 

Draco, I’m sorry I rejected your hand in friendship that day. I was stupid and prejudiced, and all I’d heard until then was that Slytherin was bad. You didn’t help much by insulting the first friend I’d ever made. You reminded me of my cousin—he and I don’t get along at all, you see—and I couldn’t see past that. 

But I can’t help but regret it, now that I’ve gotten to know you three. You’ve kept me going all these months. You’ve helped me even though you knew how pathetic and weak I am, even though you could’ve used this to humiliate me. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I’m sorry you’ve had to carry my burden, that I’ve asked you to keep this secret. 

You won’t have to anymore. Snape knows now. Not that I wanted him to, and I just can’t deal with this anymore. 

I am tired of being scared. 

I am tired of having nightmares every time I try to sleep, of seeing his face everywhere and feeling his hands on me. 

I can’t do this anymore, and I know this makes me a coward. 

But I’d rather be a coward than continue living like this, than keep being a burden on you and make everyone worry about me. I’ve worried my godfathers and the rest of my friends now as well. 

Everyone gets hurt because of me. Cedric. Ron’s father. You’ll get hurt because of me eventually, and I will not let it happen. 

I’ve written letters to my friends and to my godfathers (You’ll find them under the names Padfoot and Moony). Can you do me a last favour and give them to my friends? They will make sure the letters to my godfathers reach them.  

I’m sorry I cannot help you with Voldemort, but I’m sure that Ron and Hermione will get you help if you need a way out. 

Thank you for being my friend. 

I’m sorry. 

Harry.

By the time he finished reading the letter, his hands were trembling, tears falling freely down his face and onto the letter. 

He turned to Potter’s bed, letter still in his hand and took a deep breath before throwing the curtains open, afraid of what he would find behind. 

Nothing was the answer. 

Potter wasn’t there. Only his bag was on the bed, flap left open. Draco didn’t waste time, running out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” Blaise asked. 

“What do you think, Blaise? I’m going to look for him! He’s not—he’s not dying on my watch,” Draco snapped, voice trembling with fear. 

He ran out of the dorm and down the stairs as fast as his legs could take him, Theo and Blaise right behind him. 

“Where could he have gone?” Blaise asked as Draco took the stairs two at a time towards the seventh floor. 

“I’m checking the Room of Requirement first,” Draco answered.

“We should split up. I’ll go to the Black Lake.” Blaise changed directions after Theo and Draco acknowledged him, disappearing down the stairs. 

Draco’s lungs were burning from the run, his breath coming fast and hard. He could hear his heart beat in his ears, thoughts running fast in his mind. 

What if they were too late?

What if they got there, wherever Harry was, and he was already gone? 

He had wasted too much time reading his letter. He should’ve trusted Theo at his word, not losing precious time reading what were meant to be Harry’s last words.  

Now images were playing in his head of ways they could find him. Would Blaise be the one to find him? Would he have to swim in the Black Lake to save him from drowning? Or to drag his body out of the water?

Or would they find him, bleeding out somewhere, or killed by a spell? There were so many ways he could use to kill himself, and Draco had no way of knowing what they were running into. 

He hadn’t even thought of grabbing some bezoar, in case Potter chose poison as his weapon of choice. 

Draco and Theo had just taken the last step to the seventh floor when Draco ran into a body, almost falling down the stairs from the impact if it hadn’t been for Theo’s fast reflexes. 

“Whoa, what’s got two Snakey Snakes in a rush?” 

“We’re not in the mood, Weasleys, please,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice steady. He tried to walk past them. He had to reach the Room of Requirement. He had no time to waste. 

“Wait, have you seen Harry?” Theo asked the two Weasleys. Draco turned to face them. 

“No, we haven’t. Why are you looking for him?” Weasley Twin One asked. Draco had never bothered to learn which one was which, and he wasn’t going to start now. 

“None of your business. Theo, come on.” 

“Why are you looking for Harry, Malfoy? He’s our friend. It is our business if he’s missing,” Twin One said. 

“And you look worried. What’s wrong with Harry? Has it got to do with Pucey being arrested?” 

“He’s going to kill himself.”

“Theo!” Draco said, just as the two Weasley Twins blanched. 

“W-What? What do you mean he’s going to kill himself?” 

The serious expressions did not belong on the two pranksters, Draco could admit that. They looked like they had seen a ghost, all colour drained from their freckled faces. It wasn’t that far-fetched. For all he knew, Potter could very well be a ghost by now. Draco quickly erased that thought from his head. 

He wasn’t going to think like that. Potter was still fine. They’d find him alive and well, and all of this would be a joke. A big, horrible joke, but a joke nonetheless. 

Draco quickly handed over his letter, not even caring that he was sharing personal information with the two Gryffindors. Twin Two took it, reading it with his brother before swearing loudly. 

“Where have you looked already?”

“Nowhere. He’s not in our dorm. Blaise is checking the Black Lake, and we were going to the Room of Requirements but—”

“We just came from the room. He’s not there.” Weasley’s voice was trembling as he gave back the letter. 

“George, the map!” Twin One—Fred, apparently—said, turning to his brother. Draco raised an eyebrow, confused, but George seemed to know what he was saying immediately. 

“Is his stuff in his room?” George asked. Draco nodded. 

“Can you get his bag for us? He has something that will help us find him.” 

Draco and Theo led the twins to the Slytherin common rooms, running fast. They didn’t care that they were leading two Gryffindors to the Slytherin dorms. They couldn’t care. If it led to saving Harry’s life, Draco would let them in without a second thought. 

Thankfully, they didn’t run into anybody. It was almost curfew, so everyone was back in their dorms by now. Soon, they found themselves in front of the common room entrance. Draco ran up to his room, grabbing Harry’s bag before sprinting back to where he had left Theo and the twins. 

Draco thrust the bag into the closest twin’s arms, who immediately started rifling inside. Fred—he thought—didn’t waste time. He swung the bag on his shoulder, letting his wand fall from his holster into his hand, and then he pointed its tip at the middle of the blank parchment he’d gotten out of the bag. 

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the parchment. Draco watched, surprise on his face, as writing filled the parchment. Fred didn’t give him time to read it. He opened what revealed itself to be a map of Hogwarts, eyes scanning it quickly before settling on a spot on the top right of the map. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, as his eyes filled with tears. 

Draco, Theo and George looked down at the map, following the twin’s gaze to see what he’d found. 

Draco saw their names, grouped all together, where the dungeons were drawn. He wanted to ask what the map was, who created it, and why Potter had it, but his attention was stolen by Potter’s name. 

Harry Potter’s name was in the Astronomy Tower. 

Chapter Text

They all started running to the tower without saying a word, their fast breathing and the sound of their footsteps the only noises in the quiet hallways. 

By the time they reached the stairs that would lead them to the top of the tower, all three of them were panting, but they didn’t have time to waste. Theo had gone to the bottom of the tower to catch Harry with a spell in case they couldn’t stop him in time.

The only emotion Draco could feel was dread. He didn’t know what he would find at the top of the stairs, if they’d been too late and Potter had already jumped, or if they had a chance to talk him down. 

Draco and the Weasleys took the stairs two at a time. His heart was pumping loudly in his ears, the fast beating drowning every other noise. Unshed tears blurred his vision as they formed in his eyes. He didn’t have time or the energy to feel embarrassed that the two Gryffindors were seeing him like this. They had tears in their eyes as well, and they, too, did not seem worried about letting Draco see them. They’d all be hypocrites. 

Draco wondered how he’d gotten to this point as he took the last steps that separated them from the truth: would they find Harry there, feet dangling over the edge, or would he be halfway down the long drop? Or would Theo be the one to find him, limbs sprawled in unnatural angles on the damp grass beneath the tower?

He wondered how he’d gone from hating Potter, fighting with him at every chance he got, making badges that insulted him, to offering his shoulder to cry on multiple times, to casting warming charms on him whenever he saw him shivering, to feeling like the world was about to end as he read the boy’s suicide letter.

Draco threw the door open, stumbling outside. The wind hit his face, the cold breeze making him shiver. But he didn’t care. He stepped outside, eyes trained on the figure standing behind the bannister. 

Potter’s hands were gripping the bannister, but his body was leaning forward, head looking down at the drop. His feet were barely on the edge, toes sticking out and not resting on anything. 

The wind was harsh, and Draco was worried that a particularly strong gust of wind would make him lose his balance, tipping him forward and down the tower. 

Draco could hear Fred and George stepping at either side of him, their breaths catching in their throat at the sight before them. 

“H-Harry,” the twin at his right called out, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. He spoke louder, then, his voice carrying over the wind. “Harry, please step away from there.” 

Harry turned his head abruptly, the harsh movement almost making him lose his balance, body dangling precariously over the edge. 

Draco’s heart leapt in his chest. He took a step forward without fully deciding to, hands going out to catch him as if he was close enough to reach him. He scrambled to get his wand in his hand, cursing himself for not having thought of it sooner. 

“Pot—Harry, please,” Draco repeated. “Please come here.”

“Go—go away,” Harry said. Draco couldn’t hear him over the strong wind, but the shape of the words was clear enough under the light of the moon and the artificial Lumos that bathed the tower in light. 

“We’re not letting you do this, Harry, so please step back inside.” Draco’s tone was harsh, words clipped, not giving him any chance of rebuttal. 

“Don’t do this to us,” one of the twins said. “You’re going to hurt everybody if you die.”

“I don’t care!” Harry shouted, shuffling around so he was facing them, but still on the wrong side of the railing. “I don’t fucking care anymore. I’m so tired. I’m tired. I just want to be done.” 

Potter was crying, his tears glistening under the moonrays. 

George stepped forward. “This is not the answer, Harry.” 

“I don’t care, George. I want it over. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Harry's sobs were growing harder, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe through the tears. “It’s for the better, really. You’ll get it once I’m gone. Nobody will get hurt because of me anymore.” 

“Nobody’s gotten hurt because of you, Harry. But they will if you go through with this. What do you think Ron and Hermione are going to think when we have to tell them that you’ve killed yourself? What are our parents going to think? Or Sirius and Remus?”

“Your dad was hurt because of me. Cedric and my parents died because of me,” Harry said. “And they will get over it. They all have each other. They don’t need me.”

“Harry, please,” Fred said, voice pleading. It cracked in the middle of the word. 

Draco wanted to say something, something that would convince Harry that he should not jump, but his mind was blank. He was scared of making things worse, of pushing him to jump sooner, not giving them time to talk him down. So he let the Weasley twins talk. They’d known him longer than he did. Why would Potter listen to him over the two who had been his friends since he set foot in Hogwarts?

“None of that was your fault. It was—it was Voldemort’s fault, all right? Not yours. Never yours. Nobody blames you for those things.”

“And Ron and Hermione need you, Harry. Sirius and Remus as well. We need you, Harry. You’re one of our best friends.” 

“I need you too, Harry,” Draco joined in. Harry’s eyes turned to him, green gaze piercing him. They were beautiful, he realised, even if they looked dull, void of life now. But Draco sent that thought away. It was not the time nor the place to admire Harry's eyes. Not when he was about to try to dissuade Harry from killing himself. If they succeeded, he'd have all the time in the world. If they didn't... If they didn't, Draco would probably see those eyes in his nightmares, the dullness and despair in them haunting him forever.

“What would you need me for? I’ve only been a burden to you and your friends.”

“You’re not a burden, Harry, please don’t refer to yourself as such,” Draco scolded him. He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “We helped you because we wanted to. We could’ve just let you be, if we’d wanted to.”

Draco kept his focus on Harry, not averting his eyes, scared that the boy would use any moment of distraction to jump. 

“You’re our friend, Harry. We’ve come to care about you, and none of us wants you gone. Blaise and Theo were helping us find you as well, Harry. You should’ve seen Theo when he found your letters.” 

“Why?”

“You have a way of making people like you, Harrykins,” one of the twins laughed, though it was weak, not a true one. 

“Yeah, right,” Harry scoffed. “Tell that to my relatives, or to Snape, or Umbridge, or half of the Wizarding World. They all hate me.” 

“Those people are idiots, Harry. You shouldn’t do this because of them. Your relatives hate magic, don’t they? It’s not personal. Snape hates your father and takes it out on you. Umbridge hates what you represent, and the half of the Wizarding World that is against you is just a bunch of scared idiots in denial who do not want to believe the war has started again and are venting out their frustration on the easiest target.” 

“And Snape doesn’t hate you, Harry,” Draco reiterated. “I don’t know how he’d found out, but he’s gotten rid of Pucey for you.” 

“What?” Harry said, eyes wide. “What do you mean?” 

“Aurors marched in the common room this evening. They arrested Pucey for—” Draco glanced at the Weasley twins briefly, wondering if he should continue, but he swallowed down any reluctance and continued on, “for sexual assault. He will go to court, from what I heard, and Dumbledore expelled him.” 

He heard gasps behind him, but Draco glared at them, turning his head briefly to warn them against making any comment. 

“Snape told—”

“Snape called the Aurors, and now Pucey can’t hurt you anymore, Harry. You’re free of him.” 

“He’s gone? Actually gone?” his voice sounded hopeful, low as if afraid that if he spoke any louder, the answer would change.

“Yes, Harry.” 

“We’ve seen him get dragged away by Shakebolt and Tonks,” Fred chimed in. 

Harry sobbed, his shoulders shaking as he closed his eyes. Draco took another step forward, the twins following behind as he inched closer to Harry. 

“Please, Harry, you don’t have to worry about him anymore. Just come here.”

He looked hesitant, taking a minuscule step closer to the railing. 

“I—I can’t,” Harry croaked out. “I can’t. It doesn't matter. It doesn't—I’m stillI—I’ll always see him in my nightmares. It will never stop. He will always be there. He and Cedric and the Dursleys. I just don’t want to see them anymore. I just want to sleep.” 

“We’ll get you some Dreamless Sleep, Harry. I’ll stay with you and wake you up when the nightmares start, but please, please, don’t jump.”

“Why? Why would you do that? I don’t deserve it. I’m just a weak and pathetic freak, like the Dursleys keep telling me—they were right.”

“I like you, Harry!” Draco blurted out. “I like you, all right? I’ve been growing feelings for you ever since you sorted into Slytherin—maybe even before that. Theo and Blaise always make fun of me for it, of the fact that I try to deny it, but I do. I like you, Harry, and I would like to have a chance to see if we could work out.” 

Draco was panting, heart trying to carve its way out of his chest.

“What? No, you can’t like me—I’m too broken for it. Why would you ever like this?”

“There are plenty of things to like about you, Harry,” Draco said. His ears were burning, aware that they weren’t alone, that the Weasley twins were listening in and that they could use this against him in the future. 

He found that he didn’t care at the moment. He could worry about it later, when his friend wasn’t dangling precariously close to the edge. 

Draco didn’t know what he was doing, confessing his feelings in the middle of Harry’s suicide attempt. He was humiliating himself. It was never going to work. Why would he care that Draco had a crush on him? In what world would it be enough for him to decide not to jump?

“I’m not—I’m not ready for a relationship, Draco. Not yet. Not after him,” Harry said, voice quiet. 

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m not asking for a relationship, Harry. I’m just telling you that I like you, as a friend and more. There are people here who value you. People who need you and will be sad if you leave them.” 

“Please, Harry,” George said again. “Don’t you want to find out what kind of boyfriend Malfoy is, eventually?” 

“Whoa, never thought I’d hear you say Harry, Malfoy and boyfriend in the same sentence,” Fred commented. Draco was about to glare at them—it was not the time for jokes, Harry said he wasn’t ready—but Harry let out a startled laugh. It was short, barely there, but there nonetheless. 

“I don’t know how to do this. How to keep going,” Harry admitted, after a bit of silence and one more plea from the twins. 

“You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out, together. We’ll help you, Me, the demon twins, Theo and Blaise. You’re not alone.  Do you trust us?”

Draco slowly approached Harry, holding out his hand, palm up.

Harry hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand. He closed his eyes for a second, then removed his hand from the railing. Draco widened his eyes, stepping even closer as Harry held himself up with just one hand on the railing, and his feet badly balanced on the ledge, but soon, Harry’s cold hand was in his, and Draco didn’t waste time helping the boy over the bannister and back to the safety of the tower. 

Harry was engulfed in twin arms the moment Draco stepped back. He’d wanted to hug him as well, but he held back, allowing the twins time with their friend. 

“You scared the shit out of us,” Twin One said. “Don’t ever do this again, please. Promise us.”

“I don’t know—” 

“Promise. Promise us that you’ll come to one of us if it ever gets this bad again. You can talk to us.” 

Harry took a deep breath. He saw his head move up and down, and then his whispered “I promise” made Draco release the breath he was holding. 

“Come on, you’re freezing,” George said, stepping back from the hugs and running his hands up and down Harry’s arms. 

“I didn’t exactly think about bringing a jacket to my death,” Harry said, voice shaky from both the cold and the adrenaline. 

Draco scowled at the dark joke, pointing his wand at Harry and casting a warming charm over him. 

“Wait! My cloak!” Harry said, trying to disentangle himself from the Weasleys’ hold. It looked like the two boys did not want him to leave their arms, however, probably afraid that he’d go back on his promise the moment they let him go. Draco couldn't blame them.

“I got it,” Draco said, turning back to look for the cloak. He found it next to the door, balled up on the floor. He made to hand it to Harry, suggesting that he wear that over the warming charms to offer him even more warmth, but the twin glare the Gryffindors threw at him told him he’d said something wrong. 

“He’s not wearing that,” who Draco thought was Fred said. “It’s an Invisibility Cloak. He’s not going to disappear on us any time soon.” 

Draco’s eyes widened at that, but at the same time, he wasn’t surprised. This explained the Hogsmeade incident in third year. 

The four of them made their way down the Astronomy Tower, Harry still between the twins. 

Once they reached the bottom, they stopped in a circle, the twins releasing Harry. 

“We should go now,” Twin Two said. “Please, take care of him, Malfoy.” 

Draco nodded, stepping closer to Harry and grabbing his hand, making sure he was all right with it. 

“You should take the cloak,” Harry said to the twins. “In case you ran into trouble. You can give it back tomorrow.” 

“Don’t you need it?”

“I’m a Prefect, I can figure it out,” Draco butted in. “And we can use that handy map of yours, Harry.”

“Map?” 

“We used the Marauder’s Map to find you, Harry,” the twin holding Harry’s bag said, holding the bag out to him. Draco grabbed it, swinging it over his shoulder. 

“Could you let Theo and Blaise know that they can come back to the dorms? I’ll take Harry to our room.” 

The twins nodded, disappearing under the cloak and leaving Draco and Harry standing alone in the dark corridor. 

“Where’s Theo?” Harry asked. 

“He went to stand under the tower in case you—in case you—”

“Oh,” Harry said, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I made you worry.” 

“It’s all right. Just don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try.”

It was not what Draco wanted to hear. He wanted to make him take an Unbreakable Vow that he would never try to take his life again, but Draco knew it was not the answer. They had a long road ahead of them. A long road of trying to convince Harry that his life was worth living, that he was likeable, needed and loved, and that nothing of what had happened was his fault. 

They would have to take it one step at a time. 

The first of which was getting Harry back in their dorm without running into anybody, then making sure that he wouldn’t hurt himself while they weren’t paying attention. 

They walked in silence to their dorm, Draco still holding Harry’s hand in his. Once they were in the safety of their room, Draco turned his body so he was facing Harry, pulling on the boy’s hand so he would come closer. Then he hugged him, closing his eyes and taking in the scent of Harry’s apple shampoo. 

They stayed like that for a while, not letting each other go, until the door creaked open, and Theo and Blaise stepped in.

“Harry,” Theo whispered. “Thank Merlin, you're safe.” 

Theo crossed the room in a few strides, grabbing Harry from Draco’s hold and hugging him. Harry looked surprised at the boy’s sign of affection, but he still returned the embrace, though it was shorter than Draco’s. 

Once Theo released him from the hug, Harry walked to his bed and lay down on it, only bothering to take off his shoes.

“Would you mind keeping your curtains open, for our peace of mind?” Draco asked tentatively. Harry agreed, turning the other way, and Draco went to his own bed, taking a page out of Harry’s book and falling on his bed fully clothed, too tired to even spell his pyjamas on. 

He fell into a fitful sleep immediately, seeing all of the ways the night could’ve done wrong in his nightmares. He was almost glad when Harry woke him up with his own nightmares, but berated himself for the thought when he remembered where those nightmares had led him. 

Draco would’ve taken all of the other boy’s nightmares for himself if it meant that he could have a peaceful night and stop believing he was better off dead. 

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

The first thing Harry realised when he woke up was that he was unusually warm, and his head was lying on something hard. 

It took a second for him to realise that the something hard was Draco’s chest. His face burned up as he became aware of the arms surrounding him and keeping him in place. His own arm was around the other boy’s waist. 

Harry felt a swell of panic rise at their proximity, every point of contact between them heating up, but it died quickly. Draco wasn’t going to hurt him. Then he remembered how they’d gotten like that, how he’d woken him up after his nightmare, and stayed there until he’d fallen back asleep, just holding him and running his hands through his still windswept hair. Draco must have fallen asleep himself before he could go back to his bed, just like the first time he had helped him after a nightmare. 

The memory of the previous evening came back to him at once, stealing his breath, and the panic returned, making the bedsheet feel like heavy weights. Draco’s arms were suddenly too constricting, holding him down. He pried himself away, trying to be gentle enough that the boy wouldn’t wake up even in the midst of his panic. 

Harry stumbled to the bathroom, barely holding himself up, and the door slammed closed behind him. He went to the sink, his hands on the smooth porcelain in a white-knuckled grip. He was looking down at his hands, watching a few drops of water run down the sleek surface. 

He tried to breathe deeply, breaths loud as they caught in his throat. It felt like he was fishing, the hook grabbing the air inside his lungs and trying to pull it out, but encountering resistance at his throat, which felt like it was closing in on him, not allowing his exhales to push through. Not enough air was getting in, and the little that did get to his lungs stayed stuck there, making his chest burn. 

He had tried to kill himself. 

He had stood at the edge of the tower, feet dangling so many feet from the ground, ready to let himself fall to his death. 

He’d be dead by now if Draco, Fred and George hadn’t talked him down. 

Harry didn’t know how to feel. 

Was he sad that he hadn’t succeeded? That he’d let them stop him, that they’d taken a promise from him that he wouldn’t do it again? 

Or was he glad that they did? That he had another chance to live, to heal now that Pucey was gone?

His emotions were like a tempest inside of him, swirling quickly inside his chest and each fighting to get out. 

Sadness. 

Grief. 

Confusion. 

Anger. 

Relief. 

He had no idea what he should feel, and he didn’t know where to start to figure it out. 

“You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out, together. We’ll help you, Me, the demon twins, Theo and Blaise. You’re not alone.  Do you trust us?” 

Draco’s words rang in his head. They told him they were going to figure it out together. That they’d be there to help him. Draco had asked him if he trusted them, holding out his hand, and Harry had taken it. 

Harry found that he did trust him—them. And maybe he would be all right, with their help. 

Maybe he’d be able to leave this all behind, to be able to sleep without his past plaguing him. 

But for now, the remnants of his nightmares remained, so vivid in his mind that he felt like he was reliving them. It’d be hard to move on, to get to a point where his memories didn't make him feel like drowning anymore, but with their help, maybe he could do it. 

He could live. He could live for them until he could do it for himself. 

He could live and find out if Draco meant what he said about having feelings for him, or if he was just saying it to convince him not to jump. He could see if the feelings he himself felt for the blond could bring them somewhere, once he felt ready for it and not like his skin would burn with every sexual touch, even if it was meant to feel good. 

For now, he’d have to figure out how to stop looking like this, he thought as he raised his head to look at his reflection. He looked worse than ever, eyes puffy and red, dark circles surrounding his once bright, green eyes. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale and grey, and the once soft skin looked as dull as his eyes. He didn’t bother looking at his body; he knew he was thin. 

He’d have to do better. Harry didn’t know how Draco could ever like him like this, but he promised himself he would make more of an effort. He’d force himself to eat, even if the food made him nauseous and tasted like dirt in his mouth. He was tired of looking like this and being afraid of people seeing him without his glamour. 

He wasn’t going to make people worry about him like that. Sirius and Remus didn’t know anything about what was going on in his life, but they’d taken one look at him and started worrying. 

He knew Ron and Hermione were worried as well. 

The Weasley twins had seen him at his worst just last night. They knew his secrets, and he knew he’d revealed more than he’d wanted to about his life with the Dursleys. He’d seen the tears in their eyes, their panic when they found him on the edge, about to jump. He’d felt it in the hug they gave him the moment he was on safe ground, in the way they held him tight, fingers digging in his skin in an almost bruising grip that should’ve hurt but felt comforting. In the way they hadn’t let go of him until they had to part ways, and the way their bodies trembled slightly at either side of him. 

He knew Theo—and Blaise—had been worried as well, if the way he’d hugged him as soon as he set eyes on him once they were all back in their rooms was of any indication.

Loud knocking at the door startled him out of his thoughts. “Harry, Harry!” Draco’s panicked voice called. 

Harry took a deep breath and opened the door. Draco was on him the moment the door was no longer between them, hugging him.

“Can’t breathe, Draco,” Harry said. The boy stepped back, a sheepish smile on his face. He looked tired, with dark bags under his eyes and eyes slightly red. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologised. “It’s just… I woke up and you weren’t there—I’m still a bit panicky, you know. Yesterday we couldn’t find you and—” Draco cut himself off, glancing away from him for a second, before his silver eyes scanned his face. 

“Are you all right?” 

Harry hesitated, but then shook his head. Draco was hugging him again then. 

“It’s all right, Harry. You’ll be all right again. We’ll help you,” he whispered, hot breath tickling his ear. “I’ll help you.”

Chapter Text

Everyone was whispering at breakfast when he walked into the Great Hall. For once, it did not seem to be about him. 

Nobody turned to him when he entered, flanked by Draco, Theo and Blaise—he couldn’t call them by their last name now, not even in his head, not after everything that had happened. Last names were too impersonal, and after they’d saved him, Harry felt they didn’t deserve to be called the same way he used to when they were enemies. It had been a long time coming, and he should’ve done so a long time ago, and not just when he was in distress. 

Harry noticed the air was particularly heavy at the Slytherin table. The Quidditch team, sitting together at the end of the table closest to the door, looked disturbed, talking in hushed tones. There were a few talking normally around the table, smiling and laughing as if the rest of the school wasn’t gossiping about something that was clearly not good. 

Harry wondered what had happened. 

He found out as soon as he sat in his spot between Draco and Theo. Pucey’s name was the first thing he heard, spoken by Warrington. 

Draco’s words from last night came back to him at once. 

Pucey was gone. 

He’d been arrested. 

Snape had found out about it, and he’d gotten him arrested. And from the lack of stares, from the lack of his name whispered right after Pucey’s, Harry knew that Snape hadn’t told anyone that it was him that Pucey had hurt. 

“He’s fucking sick,” he heard Montague say, his nose twitching as if just the thought made him sick. “I can’t believe we’ve spent so much time with him when he is so… perverted, and to go after a younger year at that? I wonder who it was.” 

Draco grabbed his hand underneath the table, rubbing his thumb on the back of his hand, smooth fingers over the Blood Quill scars.

“You’ve heard what Snape said. Whoever it was wishes to remain anonymous,” Bletchey said. “And I don’t blame them, honestly. I wouldn’t want everyone to know my business.” 

“I just can’t believe we’ve never even noticed.” 

“What can you expect? Adria—Pucey… You know what he was getting into—following him. His family is a whole bunch of sick people who love hurting others. I’m just glad someone put a stop to it.” 

Harry was struggling to breathe, vision clouding as the tears that he had been trying to keep at bay for the past few weeks welled up in his eyes. He thought his tears had run out, that he’d cried enough last night and that morning, but it seemed only the mention of Pucey, of what happened to him even if nobody was mentioning him, could bring all his emotions back to the surface. 

He was gripping Draco’s hand now, his attempts at breathing deeply making him feel lightheaded. 

He tried to drown out their voices, focusing on his food. It tasted like bile in his mouth and slid down his throat like sandpaper. 

Harry felt every eye on him, even though he knew that, for once, everyone was too busy thinking about the Aurors escorting Pucey out in handcuffs. They didn’t know he was involved in any way. 

Harry was afraid that it would only take a look at him for them to know. They would look at him, and they would know, and his life would be over.

Theo started talking about the Transfiguration essay McGonagall had assigned, trying to involve him in the conversation. His eyes looked worried, probably scared that he was spiralling again. 

His fear was not unfounded. 

Harry gave him a weak smile of gratitude, trying to do his best to stay focused on the conversation. 

Draco, Theo and Blaise stuck with him in every lesson, engaging him in conversation every time he looked ready to get lost in his thoughts, nudging him gently to grab his attention. 

Snape had left him alone during Double Potions, ignoring the fact that Draco was doing most of the job for them. The hostility he had gained back towards him in the last month seemed to have shifted back into neutrality. The man had stared at him plenty, however, a puzzled look on his face.

Harry was too tired to care that it felt like pity. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to handle the man’s sharp insults in his current state of mind. He’d only managed to get through Umbridge’s class by droning out her high-pitched voice, following Draco’s quietly given directions. Luckily, the woman hadn’t tried to engage him in her class, content to let him be now that he wasn’t shouting ‘lies’ about Voldemort’s return. Do not poke the sleeping dragon, or something like that. 

He had opted to eat lunch in the kitchens that day, not wanting to deal with the gossiping students. It seemed that the news hadn’t died yet, and everyone was still speculating on what Pucey had done to get arrested. From what Draco had told him, Pucey was taken away in the common room, and only the Slytherins had heard what he was accused of. The news of his arrest had reached every student in Hogwarts, but not the reason why, it seemed. Harry knew it was only a matter of time before everybody knew. He just hoped they wouldn’t find out who was Pucey’s… victim. 

Draco, Theo and Blaise stayed with him, ordering their favourite food from the elves. Dobby was only happy at the idea of helping ‘the Great Harry Potter’, and made way too much of what the three Slytherins had requested. 

Harry spent his lunch break trying some of every dish they offered. His stomach was aching by the time they were done. He hadn’t eaten this much in months, and his stomach was paying the price. He grimaced at the cramp spreading through his stomach. He’d overdone it in his eagerness to go back to normal, but he tried to push through it, clamping his mouth shut to quell the nausea, as he followed the three boys to Transfiguration. 

The three boys remained by his side throughout the rest of the day, distracting him from the previous day’s events with random conversation, until it was time for bed.

When he woke up the next morning, Draco was once again asleep in his bed, though they weren’t in each other’s arms this time. 

Breakfast was quiet until the owls flew in, bringing the morning post. Then, the hall erupted in whispers. Harry could tell it was bad news from the expressions on everyone’s faces. The Hall fell into whispers once again. 

Harry turned to Draco, who was holding his own copy of the Prophet next to him. Harry still hadn’t renewed his subscription to the newspaper. He wouldn’t, until they started publishing the truth about Voldemort. 

Draco turned the paper when he noticed that Harry was trying to read, covering the front page. 

“I don’t think you should see this, Harry,” Draco whispered. Harry glared at him, grabbing the paper from his hands and pulling it until it was in front of him. 

The moment he saw the headline, he regretted not listening to Draco. 

Pucey’s hazel eyes stared at him, under big letters.

PUCEY ON TRIAL FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT OF A MINOR. WHAT IS GOING ON IN ALBUS DUMBLEDORE’S HOGWARTS?

Adrian Pucey, seventeen years old, attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has reportedly been arrested on Wednesday evening by Aurors Kingsley Shakebolt and Nymphadora Tonks. The boy was in the Slytherin common room when the two Aurors apprehended him, accompanied by Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Severus Snape, Potions Professor and the Slytherin Head of House. 

According to our sources, Pucey, son of Darius and Livia Pucey, will go on trial for sexual battery. The identity of the victim remains hidden, but we know that it is a fellow underage student. Pucey is being held in the Ministry, awaiting trial, under oath that he will not reveal the identity of the underage student without express permission, as per the law on cases involving minors. 

We do not have more information about the impending trial, but we do ask this, dear readers. Why is this allowed to happen in a school where our children are supposed to be safe? 

Why is Albus Dumbledore fighting an inexistent enemy, while such things are happening under his nose? 

Where was the esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts while that child was being attacked in such a way?

Is he so busy lying to the Wizarding World, claiming You-Know-Who’s return, that he does not see the evil lurking in his own school?

Is Hogwarts as safe as Albus Dumbledore claims it is?

Our hearts go out to whoever has fallen victim to such an egregious act, and we shall keep you informed when we have new information pertaining to the trial. 

Harry’s hands were shaking as he read the last word. He was trying to keep his panic at bay. He’d given in to his panic so many times already in the past few days. He didn’t want to let himself be dragged down by it now, in the middle of the Great Hall. 

Everyone had finished reading it by now, the room swelling into a cacophony of disgusted whispers. 

Everybody knew what Pucey had done now, even if his name was being kept under wraps. Harry wanted to flee, to escape from the Hall that felt too small, too constricting. The air felt thin, like everyone was stealing the air with every whisper, leaving Harry breathless. 

He wished he could leave, run away from the gossiping mass of students. Draco’s hand kept him down, his touch gentle but firm. 

“If you flee now, they’re going to know it was you,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Hold on until we finish breakfast, at least. You can do it.”

He didn’t think he could. Draco had too much faith in him, but he tried. He took deep breaths, using Draco’s hand over his knee to ground him. 

Then he made the mistake of looking up, glancing at the Gryffindor table. Ron and Hermione were staring at him, concern clear in their faces. Hermione was attempting—badly—to hide the fact that she was crying. 

They knew. 

They’d connected the dots, and they knew it was him that the Prophet was talking about. 

It became even harder for Harry to stay put, to sit there and not go back to the Astronomy Tower. 

Harry dragged himself through breakfast, all the goodwill about eating properly gone now that everyone knew what Pucey had done. Now that his friends knew why Harry had punched Pucey after the Quidditch match. 

He made it somehow, and soon he was standing outside the Great Hall. Draco, Theo and Blaise were around him, looking worried. 

“We have Arithmancy now,” Theo said. 

“I’m not leaving him alone, Theo. Not after the past few days,” Draco said. “I’ll stay with him.”

“You don’t have to babysit me, or talk like I’m not here. I’m not going to do anything.”

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I don’t feel comfortable knowing you’re alone after that article. You don’t look fine, and you looked ready to bolt earlier—to go back there.” 

“We’ll stay with him,” a voice said behind them. Harry turned and saw Fred and George step beside him. “We have a free day.” 

Draco looked relieved as he nodded and sent a thankful smile to the twins, after making sure nobody was there to see it. They’d been the first to leave the Hall, and everyone was still eating, too busy reading and discussing the article to feed themselves. 

“All right, then.” 

The three Slytherins said goodbye, leaving him alone with the twins. 

Harry had mixed feelings about their treatment of him, acting as if he’d hurt himself the moment he was left alone, but the way his skin itched made him grateful for the company. 

He didn’t want to be alone and stuck with just his thoughts for company. They were too dark, and Harry was tired of the dark. He’d spent the better part of his childhood—and more recently the last half of his summer—drowning in the dark. 

He wanted the light. And he was going to make sure that he’d get it. 

Fred stepped towards, arms twitching at his side. He looked hesitant, wanting to reach out to him but not knowing if he could. 

“You can hug me, you know,” Harry said. “I’d like a hug, actually.” 

Fred smiled, pulling him into his arms. Harry closed his eyes, leaning his forehead on his shoulder and embracing the warmth that he emanated. 

“Come on, let’s go somewhere with more privacy,” George interrupted their hug. “You two can cuddle then.”

Fred stepped back from the hug but kept his arm around his shoulder. The three of them walked outside, settling on a thick, conjured blanket in front of the Black Lake. The snow was still thick, covering the ground in a white cast. It was cold, but Harry remembered to cast warming charms over all of them. Draco wasn’t there to do it for him, after all. 

“When—when was it?” George asked after a few minutes of silence. Harry froze, but then waved his wand, a privacy charm settling around them. 

“Quidditch tryouts,” Harry answered, with the steadiest voice he could manage. 

“Quidditch tryouts? But those were back in September! You’ve been going—”

“That’s the day we ran into you, isn’t it? When you were crying and looking like someone had dragged you through a bush?” 

Harry nodded imperceptibly, looking down at his hands. When he looked up again, both twins were looking sick, frowns on their faces. 

“Harry, I—we’re sorry. We should’ve noticed—shouldn’t have believed you when you said nothing happened. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not even remotely your fault, Fred,” Harry didn’t hesitate to say. “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t want you to know.” 

“Still, we could’ve helped you, Harry, somehow, and not let you get to this point—” 

“Draco, Theo and Blaise have been trying to help me already. Since September. I don’t think anything would’ve helped, short of going back in time.” 

“They knew?” Fred asked, eyes wide in surprise. 

“Yeah, Draco and Theo did—they were the only ones who knew from the start; Blaise only suspected, I think—I had a panic attack when they confronted me about stealing Draco’s spot on the team, they saw my bruises and figured it out. They’ve been trying to help me since, trying to convince me to tell someone.”

“Why didn’t you?” 

“I–I didn’t want anyone to know,” Harry started, picking at his hangnails. The sharp pain kept him grounded, easing some of the familiar panic growing in his chest. “I felt so weak and dirty—and I didn’t want anyone to know how pathetic I am—that I couldn’t even stop him from hurting me that way. I felt like I would die if someone knew—it was bad enough that my roommates did, and then Snape found out, and I couldn’t deal with it.” 

“You’re not any of those things, Harry. You’re one of the strongest people we know,” George said, taking his hand lightly in his, stopping him from drawing even more blood from his fingers. 

Harry scoffed. Yeah, right. 

“You’ve been holding this for six months, Harry. And who knows what else you’ve been going through. I don’t—I don’t blame you for feeling like this, though I wish you didn’t.” 

“It’s been so hard—” Harry said, his words cut off by a sob. Harry wondered if he would ever stop crying. “He was everywhere, with that fucking smirk, and I see him even when he’s not there. I always feel his hands on me, touching. I can’t sleep, and ever since your dad’s attack, it’s only been getting worse. I don’t know how to do this, how to keep going.”

“We’ve told you the other day. We’ll help you figure it out.”

Fred hugged him again, arms tight around his torso. Harry hid his face on his shoulders, letting all of his emotions out for once. Fred let him, rubbing his hands on his back, and he could feel George sitting close by. 

They stayed like that until Harry felt like his tears had finally run out for now, his sobs fading into hiccups that gradually disappeared. 

“Ron and Hermione know, don’t they?” Harry asked when his voice was steady enough. It still cracked, dreading the answer even though he already knew. 

“We think so, yeah,” Fred confirmed his suspicions. “But they’re the only ones, and we haven’t told them about—about the Astronomy Tower. They only guessed that you were the one hurt by Pucey, since they saw how you reacted to Pucey at the Quidditch match.” 

“Everybody saw that,” Harry pointed out. 

“Yeah, but nobody knows you like Ron and Hermione, or your closest friends—they don’t know you wouldn’t just punch someone like that—”

“He did insult Ron and your parents. I would’ve probably punched even—even if nothing had happened with him.”

“Yes, but you didn’t see yourself. You looked furious, and you were looking at him like he was Voldyshorts in person.” 

“Plus, everyone thinks you’re crazy, so that reaction played in their expectations of you right now—we’re not saying you’re crazy! You’re not, but you know how the Prophet’s been painting you,” George said, hurrying to correct himself before he could take it the wrong way. 

“Do you really think so? That nobody connected me with Pucey?” 

“Yeah, Harry. You would know if they found out it was you.”

“And—and what did Ron and Hermione say? Do they—”

“They don’t hate you, Harry, or think you’re dirty or whatever your head is convincing you that you are. They’re worried about you, disgusted by that monster like we all are, and sad that you didn’t think you could tell them, and that you’ve suffered in silence for so long, but they’re not mad at you, nor are they disgusted by you. We’ve had to hold them off from hurrying to the Slytherin table.”

Harry felt warmth spread at those words and vowed that he would start spending more time with his best friends. 

“We do have a question, though,” Fred said, a mischievous grin replacing the serious expression on his face. Harry felt slightly better at the change of subject, tired of talking about Pucey. 

“What’s up with Malfoy? Or should we say, Draco?” 

Harry’s face was red in an instant. Even the tips of his ears felt warm with embarrassment. “There’s nothing ‘up’ with Malfoy.”

“Ah, Lord Harrykins, somehow, we don’t believe you. We might have been a little preoccupied at the time—” the mood grew sombre once again at the reminder of what exactly was preoccupying them, “but we did see how he was looking at you, how distressed little Malfoy looked at the thought of losing you, and we’ve all heard his love confession—”

“He said he liked me, not loved,” Harry mumbled, crossing his arms. 

“Oh, so you do know something’s going on between you two!” Fred’s eyes twinkled, oddly reminiscent of Dumbledore’s signature sparkling eyes. 

“He just said that because I was about to kill myself.”

Fred and George flinched, wincing at Harry’s blunt words. 

“I don’t think so, Harry. I think he was genuine,” George said. “Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t have told you yet if you hadn’t been in that situation, but he was telling the truth.”

“Why would he like me, though?” Harry asked. He was sad that he managed to bring the mood down once again, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “I’ve only been a burden to him these past months, acting like a whiny little kid. He’s had to deal with my breakdowns, me waking him up every night with my nightmares when I forget to cast privacy charms, and me passing out all the time—” he’d passed out a few times since that first night, a combination of exhaustion, not eating enough, and blood loss. Every time, the three boys helped him. “I don’t get why he’d want to be saddled with him.” 

The two boys looked more worried with every word he said, and Harry was starting to regret opening up to them. 

“There’s a lot to unpack there, Harrykins. You’ve been passing out?” Fred asked. Harry didn’t answer, returning to picking at his hands. George pulled his hand away again, causing Harry to scowl at him. 

“He clearly feels something for you, whether you are a whiny little kid—” “Which you’re not.” “Or not” 

“The question is—” 

“Do you have feelings for him?”

“I… I don’t know,” Harry said. He couldn’t pull at his hangnails since George was still holding his hand, so he settled for playing with the string on his robes. “I think so? He’s been great to me. I think I would’ve tried sooner, if it hadn’t been for him, but I don’t know if I can—if I’m ready for that kind of relationship.” 

“He’s willing to go slow with you, he said,” Fred reminded him. “You can take your time, figure out together what you’re willing to do and what you’re not, and if you think it’s too much for you, you can always take a step back. And if he hurts you, if he goes back on his word, you come to us and we’ll beat the shit out of him. He’s never going to want to even look at you the wrong way again.” 

“You have all the time to figure things out, but I think you need to talk to him, and not keep these things—your fears—bottled up.” 

“Since when do you give out relationship advice?” Harry raised his eyebrow. 

“We don’t!” Fred smiled brightly. “But we will always make an exception for our Harrykins!” 

“Thank you, guys,” Harry returned the smile, though it was dull and weak. 

“We want to help you,” George said, squeezing his hand. “Just don’t shut us out again, please. Come to us if you ever feel like this again.”

“We’d miss you so much if you were gone, Harry. Please, stay.” 

Harry nodded weakly. 

“Now, who wants to lose at Exploding Snap?” 

George took out a deck of cards, dealing them, and the three of them played all day, chatting about lighter subjects. 

Harry was breathing a little easier when the three said goodbye at dinner, having had lunch together in the kitchens like he had done with the Slytherins the day before. 

It was not enough to keep his nightmares away, especially since Harry and the three Slytherins had Astronomy that night. It was his first time in the tower since Harry's suicide attempt, and Harry could tell Draco was struggling not to think about it as well, standing closer to him than usual. Theo also stood close, his eyes darting to him every time he had to move close to the edge.

Morning found Draco in his bed. Harry wondered when he started craving the blond’s presence. 

The nightmares felt a little more bearable when he had his arms around him.

Chapter Text

“Are you coming to Hogsmeade?” 

Harry turned to Draco, who was standing in front of his bed. The boy was dressed in a white button-up shirt and black slacks, accompanied by a black robe with silver embellishments along the hems. His hair was combed neatly; however, it was not gelled back, but its strands fell loosely on the boy’s forehead. 

He looked beautiful, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat as the boy flashed his bright smile at him. 

“Uhm… I don’t know,” Harry said. He coughed to clear his voice. 

“You should. It’ll do you some good to get out of here. Change of scenery and all, you know?” 

“Mm…” 

“Come on, Harry. You can’t stay cooped up here. You’ll get bored.” 

“I do have plenty of homework to keep myself busy,” Harry said, lifting his Potions book that he had just gotten out of his bag to show Draco. Then he started fiddling with the book, smoothing out a crease that had formed in the corner of a page. 

“You’re always doing homework. You need a break,” Draco said. “Go out with me? Please?” 

Harry froze, hands stilling over the book. Draco seemed to realise what he’d said, what it sounded like to him, because his face softened slightly, taking on an unsure expression. 

“It doesn’t have to be like that, if you don’t want it to be,” Draco said softly. “But you shouldn’t spend all of your time doing homework. It won’t help you get better. It is beautiful outside.”

“I would like to go out with you, but…” 

“We can talk about it then, if you come,” Draco cut him off. 

“What will people think of us? Of the two of us, going out together on Valentine’s Day. Someone is bound to notice, and if the wrong people see, it’ll get back to your parents and him.”

“I can come with you. It’ll be less suspicious if you’re not totally alone.” Blaise spoke from his bed. “I have a date with Pansy, but I can ask her if she minds making it a double date.”

“What about Theo? Won’t he be alone, then?”

“Got a date with Daphne,” the boy in question butted in, coming out of the bathroom. “We can make it a triple date.”

“See, Harry? Everything has a solution,” Draco said with a grateful smile to his friends. “The only things you’ve got to worry about are taming that dragon’s nest you’ve got on your head and finding decent clothes to wear.” 

“Well, I shall not be able to go, then,” Harry joked. “I have never been able to tame my hair. My Aunt shaved it all off once, leaving only my fringe because God-forbid she sees more proof of my freakishness, but it regrew overnight. She was so mad.”

Harry’s laugh faltered when he saw the boys’ smiles dampening, replaced by frowns. He got up from his bed, closing his book but leaving it where it was, and opened his trunk to search for clothes to wear. 

He grabbed a pair of clothes and went to the bathroom, changing quickly. He’d chosen a white shirt, with a dark green sweater over it and black trousers. It didn’t feel as fancy as Draco’s outfit, but it was comfortable and warm. He cast his usual glamour and then turned his attention to his hair. 

It really was a mess, and he doubted he could get it to look remotely good. Hermione was the only one who’d managed to get it to look somewhat nice for the Yule Ball. After that day, it had gone back to his usual bird’s nest. 

He tried to comb it, untangling the worst knots, but even then, it was sticking out all over the place. For the first time, Harry cursed his hair, which he knew he’d gotten from his father. He had never cared about his hair, but now that he was actually going out with someone, he hated that it was perpetually messy. 

Defeated, he left the bathroom, balling up his pyjamas and throwing them in the hamper for the Elves to wash. 

When he lifted his head, he met Draco’s eyes. He had a determined look on his face, eyes set on him—or better, his hair. He was brandishing a bottle of something, a comb and a brush. 

“Sit,” Draco ordered, nodding at his bed, and Harry complied. Draco was in front of him in an instant, conjuring a ball of light to hover over them. Then he uncorked the bottle, pouring some of the liquid on his fingers. 

His hands were cool as he ran the product in his hair, massaging his scalp. Whatever it was that Draco was putting in his hair smelled like vanilla, and Harry realised it was the same smell as Draco’s cologne. 

Draco worked on his hair for a while, combing through it with both his fingers and the comb. His touch felt gentle, so soothing that Harry’s eyes were closing of their own accord, and Draco had to nudge him awake every few minutes, a bright laugh escaping his lips every time. 

Harry almost whined when Draco’s hands left his hair and didn’t return, but he caught himself before he could embarrass himself any further. 

“It is still a bit messy, but at least now it looks on purpose,” Draco said, stepping back to admire his work. “Now, let’s go, or they will leave without us.” 

Harry grabbed his cloak, the scarf the boys had given him and hesitated over the beanie. He didn’t want to ruin Draco’s hard work. 

“You can wear it if you want. It’s charmed so that your hair stays in place, and the product I used has a strong hold. I’ve never had a problem.” 

The two of them walked side by side in comfortable silence, meeting the other two couples—it felt weird to refer to them as the ‘other couples’, implying that he and Draco were a couple themselves—in the Slytherin common room. It was empty, everybody had already gone to Hogsmeade or was enjoying the unusual sunny day in the grounds. 

“You look positively Slytherin, darling,” Pansy said, once they stopped in front of them. “I’m so happy for you two! I’m glad Draco has finally accepted his huge crush on you, Harry. Hearing him try to deny that he’s obsessed with you was getting old. He was becoming quite pathetic.” 

“I am not pathetic!” Draco scoffed, crossing his arms as Harry felt himself blushing from head to toe. “And we’re not anything yet. We haven’t even gone on one date.” 

“You are going on one right now, though! Blaise and Theo have clearly described this as a triple date. You cannot deny it, darling.”

“We’re going to take things slow, Pans. Please don’t press it.” 

Pansy’s sharp smile softened. “Of course, Draco. I was just joking. I am happy for you, though, even if you go at the pace of a slug.”

“Thanks, Pansy.” 

The six of them walked as a unit to Hogsmeade, chatting about random stuff. Harry stayed quiet, preferring to listen rather than talk. Draco glanced at him every now and then, nudging him and engaging him in conversation, but mostly let him be once he saw that he was doing all right. 

Soon, they were in the village, which was crowded with couples on dates and students simply wanting to get out. 

Everybody had gotten used to seeing him with the Slytherins by now—they got some looks at the beginning, but they stopped now that it wasn’t a novelty anymore—so Harry was only getting the usual stares associated with being the Boy-Who-Lived and the resident liar. 

They split up into their couples, still all walking together, but in smaller groups of two. Harry felt suddenly nervous at the thought of having Draco’s undivided attention, with a privacy charm following them as they walked, close enough that their hands were brushing against each other. 

“So, I’d never thought I’d be on a date with Harry Potter,” Draco said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. 

“Eleven-year-old me would’ve gotten himself committed if he found out, yeah,”

“Is fifteen-year-old-you fine with it?” Draco asked, voice hesitant. 

Harry took a moment to think about it. “I think so,” he started. “I do like you, Draco. I never thought I’d ever feel anything but dislike towards you, but here I am.” 

“Well, fourteen-year-old me—who spent the whole year trying to convince himself that he did not have a crush on you—would be secretly happy,” Draco said, eyes alight with happiness. “Well, fourteen-year-old me and present me are surprised you even considered going out with me. I didn’t think you liked boys.”

“Please, Fred was my awakening,” Harry laughed. 

“Weasley, really?” Draco raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Well, I guess you could’ve done worse. You could’ve said Ronald.”

“Hey! Ron’s not that bad!”

“You’re telling me that you’d go for your best friend?”

“Well, no, but I people do like him, you know? Hermione and Ron have been dancing around each other for ages, even though they don’t really know it, and I think Lavender’s got a crush on him. I’ve noticed her staring at him recently, during the DA meetings.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, if you say so. Though I can’t imagine being with someone with deplorable table manners. I can see Ronald’s mouth from the Slytherin table.” 

“Well, not everyone can be perfect,” Harry said. 

“So Fred Weasley was your first crush? When was this?”

“Well, first year, really. He and George helped me with my trunk, but it really took off in the summer of second year when they rescued me from my relatives’ house. They felt like my heroes then.”

“Do you still like him?” he asked, sobering up. He was biting his lip, glancing at him with his hands in his pockets. 

“Nah, he’s like my brother. He just made me realise I like boys too.” 

“Too?” 

“Yeah, I like girls as well, I think. Never really been with one, but I did have a crush on Cho last year, before—before that night. Is it a problem?” 

It was his turn to feel uncertain. He’d never really had anyone to talk about this stuff. He’d never admitted his crush on Fred to anyone. He couldn’t very well go to Ron and blurt out, "Hey, I think I like your brother", and years of growing up at the Dursleys made him cautious of revealing this part of himself to anyone. The Dursleys would kill him if they ever found out he liked boys as well, and he didn’t know what the views were on it in the Wizarding World. 

He felt ok talking about it with Draco because he was obviously fine with it, as he’d himself admitted that he liked Harry, and it was obvious his friends supported him, but was liking both boys and girls different? Would Draco think he was weird?

“It’s quite all right, Harry,” Draco said softly. 

Harry smiled. “Do you like both as well?”

Draco was quick to shake his head. “No, I tried being with Pansy, but it made me quickly realise it wasn’t for me. I love Pansy, but being with her like that—it just felt wrong, and not just because she feels like a sister to me.”

Harry nodded. 

They walked around the shops, Draco getting a huge bag from Honeydukes, choosing a variety of Harry’s and his favourite sweets. 

A few hours later, they entered The Three Broomsticks, all hungry for lunch.

They were looking for a table big enough for all of them when Harry spotted Hermione and Luna Lovegood waving at him from a table in the corner.

“You can have lunch with her, if you’d like,” Draco said when he noticed him waving back to Hermione. “I know you haven’t hung out with her much.”

“But our date—”

“You see me all the time, Harry, and we’ve been together all morning. Go have lunch with her.”

Harry thanked him, promising that he wouldn’t be long. Hermione gave him a big smile, though it was a bit watery, sadness clear in her face. Harry hoped she wouldn’t mention anything, and she didn’t, opting instead to ask if he was having a nice day. Harry answered, but refrained from telling her that he was on a date with Draco Malfoy. He didn’t know how she’d take it, and he didn’t want to make a scene here, with too many people eager to get the latest gossip on him. 

Hermione’s smile wavered then, the Gryffindor becoming uncommonly uncertain, but it was explained quickly, as she told him about her plan to have him interviewed by Rita Skeeter. 

Harry regretted deciding to interrupt his date—which was going so well—to sit with his friend. He thought he’d be just hanging out with her—and Luna Lovegood—but instead he’d been trapped in an interview with one of his least favourite people. She didn’t make the top ten, but she was still there somewhere. 

The displeasure must’ve shown on his face, because Hermione looked abashed, apologising for not talking to him about it sooner and ambushing him. But the damage was done: the blonde woman sat down at the table in front of him, and Harry could barely contain his scowl, his face settling in an unpleasant grimace. 

Skeeter was quick with her questions, her quill writing away on her parchment. Harry clenched his fists under the table as he was forced to recount the events of the graveyard for the first time since that night. His jaw was set, words escaping his lips with difficulty. He hesitated when he got to the part where the Death Eaters joined Voldemort. 

He felt the urge to glance back at the table where his friends were sitting, knowing that three of the people sitting at that table were the children of the Death Eaters who’d shown up in the graveyard and laughed as he was tortured. 

He didn’t know what to do. Should he mention them? Should he lie and skip their names? He couldn’t run to them and ask. His nails dug harder in his palms as he made a decision that he hoped he wouldn’t regret. 

He felt bad as soon as he said the words, bile rising in his throat at the thought of hurting the people who had helped him so much in the last few months, the people who had saved his life. 

Harry rushed through the rest of the story, giving short answers to every question Skeeter asked him. 

He was up and out the door as soon as Skeeter said she had everything she needed. He ran back all the way to the station, where thestral carriages were available to all students who didn’t want to trek all the way back to the castle. Harry could hear his name being called as the thestrals departed, but he didn’t look back. 

He could only hope that his relationship with Draco wasn’t done before it had even started. 

Hermione must’ve found Ron and then run after him, because they were running towards him as he walked the way back to the Great Hall. 

“Harry! Harry, please stop!” Hermione called out. Harry quickened his pace, throwing open the doors and making a beeline for the seventh floor. He didn’t want to go to the common room and risk seeing his friends, not yet. 

His friends were following behind, but he didn’t care. If they were going to talk, they needed someplace private, where the lower years and whoever skipped the Hogsmeade trip couldn’t overhear them. 

Harry continued to ignore Hermione’s attempts to talk to him until they reached the seventh floor. He paced in front of the tapestry three times, asking for a room where they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Harry turned to them the moment the doors closed. 

“A bit of notice would’ve been nice, Hermione!” he said, glaring at his best friend. 

“I’m sorry, Harry, I did not think—I know I should’ve asked you earlier, but I do think people need to know the whole truth and—” 

“Yes, but what about what I need, though? You just sprung this on me, without even letting me plan ahead on what to say! Don’t you think it’s hard for me to think about that day? About Cedric?” 

“I know, Harry, but I haven’t seen you in ages. I didn’t know when to ask—”

“We do have classes together, Mione. You could’ve asked me then.” 

“You’re always with the Slytherins nowadays! We can never get you alone!”

“I would’ve come with you if you’d asked. I did just that today, didn’t I?” Harry pointed out. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been hanging out with you a lot this year, but I had a lot going on, all right? I—I needed some space.” 

Hermione’s face fell, lips quivering slightly. “Oh, Harry.” 

“Don’t start, please. I know—I know you know, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Harry, I’m so sorry. I wish we could’ve been there for you. Oh, I can’t imagine—” she hiccuped, brown eyes becoming shiny with tears.

“Hermione,” Ron said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Not now. He said he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.” 

“But he’s got to talk about it. He can’t—”

“I’ve talked about it plenty these days, thank you.” Harry crossed his arms, looking away from Hermione. “The Slytherins I’m always with have been helping me with it.” 

“Malfoy? Really?” Ron lifted an eyebrow, frowning. 

“Yeah, he’s different when nobody’s watching,” Harry said. “They all are, or I wouldn’t be hanging out with them.” 

“So they know about…about Pucey?” 

Harry nodded, looking down at his hands. His cuticles were all bloodied by his nervous picking, but he didn’t care. 

“Yeah, they know,” Harry said. “They’ve known since it happened.” 

“Why have you told them, and not us, Harry? Don’t you trust us?” Hermione asked. 

“It’s not about trust, Mione. I just didn’t want you to know, and it’s not like I’ve purposely told them either. They just found out.” 

“When did it happen?” 

“September, after Quidditch tryouts, but I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Harry ignored their wide eyes and Hermione’s trembling lips, sitting on a couch that the room had given them. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to push.” 

But you did, Harry wanted to tell her, but refrained from doing so. His mind wandered back to the interview and what he said to Skeeter. 

The more he thought about what the three Slytherins had done for him, the more he regretted agreeing to it. He should’ve turned on his heels the moment Skeeter appeared, refusing to talk to her. But he’d let himself be convinced by his best friend and roped into an interview he did not want to give once again. 

Harry could only hope that Skeeter wouldn’t twist his words into something else. He still remembered the article right after the wand-weighing ceremony. Harry had vowed never to talk to that woman again, but Hermione had assured him that she wouldn’t publish anything without her permission. He hoped she wouldn’t go back on her word. 

Nothing stopped the fact that he had ratted out Draco, Theo and Pansy’s parents. He knew they weren’t innocent. They weren’t good people, and Harry knew that. He’d been aware of it when they laughed at his pain. But they were his friends’ parents, and Harry knew Draco loved his father, even if he didn’t want to be like him and join Voldemort. 

Harry was scared that they wouldn’t want anything to do with him once they found out. He was scared that they’d reject him, send him away, and use every dirty secret they knew about him against him. They’d be able to humiliate him if they really wanted to. 

“I’m sorry about the article,” Hermione repeated after a bit of silence. They were still staring at him, and Harry realised he’d been lost in his head for a bit, not saying anything. 

“I’m just worried about what I said about their parents,” Harry said with a sigh. “I don’t want them mad at me, you know? I have to live with them.” 

It wasn’t the only reason, but Harry couldn’t exactly tell them that he liked Draco. They didn’t even know he liked boys as well—he’d never found the courage to come out to them, even though he had a feeling they wouldn’t be mad at him for it—but it was Malfoy. It was one thing to be on friendly terms with him, since he had to live with him, but dating him? Harry could already imagine Ron’s reaction, the way his ears would go red and his chest puff up with rage. He could see Hermione’s shocked expression, which would then morph into one of a disappointed parent. 

No, he couldn’t tell them. At least, not yet. 

“I’m sure they’ll understand it was the right thing to do,” Hermione said softly. “You can’t protect their parents, Harry. They’re Death Eaters, and they’ve made their choice. I’m sure they’re smart enough to know you couldn’t have done anything else.”

Harry hoped she was right and wished she hadn’t crashed his date with Draco. 

He had been having fun.