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Chapter Text

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August 2, 1995

~~~

dear ron and hermione,

i suppose i’m writing because i know i won’t be around when you read this.

i’ll be frank with you…. the last few weeks have been… terrible. it’s too much to put into the single page i have. i won’t write it. instead i think i’ll just put what matters.

the first is less important i think. i have been having dreams about voldemort… i know where to find him. im going there. im going to end it all before he can gain power. what happened with cedric… i refuse to ever let it happen to you. i refuse to let him get any bearing. i will end this war before it starts. and when you get this, voldemort will be dead. hopefully im not, but i think i will be. im not a seer but i have this feeling in my gut that its the end.  i dont feel like theres really any other option, honestly. 

that is the first thing i needed to say. but it isnt why i wrote this letter. it isnt what i need you to know.

i always wanted a family. dreamed of it. you know? literally. i remember having a dream when i was 6 about some family coming for me. i thought having one would make me happy. i thought it would save me.

it has. 

i know that because you two are my family. 

i love you, and i’m sorry i haven’t said it yet. 

god. what do you even say in a letter like this? i keep pausing to think, but all i can think of saying is that one thing. i love you. i love you. i love you. i don’t think i’ve ever said that to anyone before. i love you. it feels good to say it. it feels better to mean it. 

you are the most amazing people i have ever met. 

i’m sorry i’m not very good with words. maybe i dont have to be for you to get it. i hope you get it. 

but. um… dont be sad when im gone, okay? remember our laughs. and how we made up after every fight. and how we fought a troll together. that was pretty sick. 

i suppose i will not be seeing you again

just know that i love you… both of you. with every bit of my weird heart. 

harry

~~~

August 3, 1995

~~~

The screams of Walburga Black exploded as soon as the door of Grimmauld place slammed shut behind Harry, fighting the urge to rip his arm out of Severus Snape’s firm grip. 

“Alright, alright!” yelled Sirius from up the stairs, making Harry’s chest leap with excitement—and something darker. “Shut up, mother, we get it. You’re mad. What else is new?” 

He came down the stairs, glaring at the screaming portrait, not even bothering to look Harry’s way. Clearly not expecting Harry’s presence, otherwise Harry was sure he’d run straight to hug him. Instead, Sirius fumbled with the curtains of her portraits, muttering curses all the while. Harry watched with an amused sort of detachment, reminding himself to stand normally. Reminding himself to not move too quickly. Reminding himself to pretend like everything was completely normal and utterly fine.

Sirius turned, seeing Snape first, a dark glare entering his gaze. 

“Snivellus,” he said bitterly. 

“Black.” 

He narrowed his eyes before he let his eyes flicker to the person attached to Snape’s strong hand—instantly, a beaming smile replaced the glare… only to just as quickly turn into a look of horror, and he stumbled down the rest of the stairs before landing right in front of Harry, his eyes widening even more in the proximity, his hands reaching out like he wanted to hold him but hesitating mid-air.

“Harry?” he asked, his eyes flickering all over Harry’s face. At the blood on his shirt. At the way his elbow was large and purple and swollen. What happened?” He turned to Snape, his teeth baring like padfoot was about to come out and bite, before he hissed quietly: “What did you do?”

Snape didn’t have a chance to defend himself.

“Did I just hear Harry’s name?” It was Hermione, from the side room. 

“Harry’s here?!” It was Ron, from the kitchen. 

And soon, there was a large group of individuals in the room—Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, the twins, Ginny, even Remus—all giving various gasps of shock and horror as they processed the state that Harry was in. 

Harry knew what they were seeing—he’d seen it in the car’s mirror that morning, though truth be told, he hadn’t let himself look for long. He’d been so blinded with his murder plan that he just… drove. But he knew that the whites of his right eye were no longer white but now red, and that there were purple and yellowing bruises along his jaw. He knew there were hand marks around his neck, though he didn’t know the state of those—he’d avoided looking at those marks because he felt nauseous at the thought of them. And he knew that there was a large cut across his cheek and over his scar. 

“Harry, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, sounding like she was fighting off screaming—at whom, Harry didn’t know. “What happened?” 

Sirius’s glare was still sharp on Snape, but Snape didn’t seem to mind. He simply started to say, “Harry was—”

“Attacked by a death eater,” Harry interrupted, offering everyone a sheepish grin. He lifted his arm, the one that didn’t have a probably-broken elbow—and ruffled his hair, the movement feeling tender on his scalp. “Er, death eater got to me,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Bit unfortunate, really. But, er, nothing serious I guess, since I’m here now?”

The uproar that followed was honestly kind of annoying, Harry decided, feeling strangely numb. Voices broke out all at once. Mrs. Weasley gave a horrified gasp; Fred and George immediately started talking over each other about how when and where so they could go kill the bastard who did it; Hermione’s “What do you mean nothing serious?”; Ginny shouting like she could be heard over everyone else; Ron’s eyes went dark, his face twisted into something ugly and painful. 

Harry kept smiling, though it felt quite brittle. 

“EVERYBODY QUIET!” 

The yell from Sirius made Harry flinch back, which sent a twinge of pain through his side and his back and—well—everywhere, really. Sirius opened his mouth, but Snape beat him, his voice sharp and quick as he spoke. 

“Thank you, Black,” said Snape before Sirius could start on his own tirade about said Death Eater. Harry was secretly grateful, but he’d let hell freeze over before he said that. “Now, as you can see, Mr. Potter needs some medical attention.” He turned slightly, and Harry felt his—and everyone else’s—gazes on him. “Would you prefer my help, or should I go get Madam Pomfrey?”

Harry hated that he was given the choice. He fought off the desire to tell Snape to go fuck himself. 

But, he didn’t. He didn’t really want to, anyway. Truthfully, all he wanted was to go lay down in a bed, underneath a blanket, and sleep. Maybe if he was nice enough, Snape would give him a Dreamless Sleep potion. 

He debated, not looking at anyone as heat crept up his face. The last thing he wanted was for Snape to take in any of his injuries—he could probably deduce where they came from if he did—but the very last thing he wanted was for Madam Pomfrey to, because she probably would tell Dumbledore. He doubted Snape would care enough to. 

Sirius, however, had his own opinion.

“I won’t let you make things worse for my godson—” he snapped, baring his teeth again and glaring at Snape. Not looking at Harry. Irritation joined the embarrassment—did Sirius really hate Snape more than he cared to see Harry? 

“For fuck’s sake—” Harry snapped, voice sharp. “Just—just get it over with. I don’t care who does it.” 

“You don’t—” Sirius started, eyes turning round, looking like a kicked puppy as he finally looked at Harry.

“I said,” Harry snapped, interrupting, but then took a deep breath to calm himself down. It wasn’t Sirius’s fault he was there. And Sirius was just worried about Harry and wanted him to be comfortable. He tried—and failed—to ignore everyone’s eyes on him as he spoke more gently: “I said I don’t care, because I don’t care. I honestly just want to go to sleep, and having to wait around for Pomfrey will make that take a bit longer.” He offered Sirius a smile. “It’s okay, really. Thank you for caring.” 

Sirius stared at Harry. His eyes flickered to Snape for just a moment before saying, “Fine, but I’m going to come and ensure he doesn’t do—”

“Black—” Snape started, but Harry spoke at the same time.

“No!” Harry barked before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat. They all turned to him. “No, it’s—er—fine. Really. I would rather, er, it just be one person. You know.” He shrugged, the movement sending a spark of pain as the slits on his back opened slightly. “Just—er—maybe you can make some tea? And, maybe draw a bath or something?”

Sirius hesitated. And there in the background, Hermione was biting her bottom lip like she was about to carry Harry away. And Ron’s gaze was dark, his hands clenched in fists, glaring at Snape. But then, Mrs. Weasley jumped in to save Harry’s day. “Of course, dear!” she said warmly, but the heaviness in her tone wasn’t lost to anyone. “Let’s go make some tea for Harry—and for everyone, I believe.” She smiled down at Harry. “It’s good to see you, dear.” 

She shuffled to Sirius, and started gently pushing him towards the kitchen. He stood firm for just a moment, staring at Harry, and then glaring at Snape, and then, finally, finally, let himself be swept away. 

Hermione edged a little closer, her voice soft. “Harry, how are—”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated. Though his voice was tight. And he didn’t look very fine. “Just… We’re going upstairs.” He let his gaze flicker between Ron and Hermione, focusing his gaze on Ron. “Stand guard?” 

Ron didn’t smile like Harry expected him to. But he did give a single, sharp nod. And Harry breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Ron would absolutely stand guard and not let anyone enter the room. Even Hermione.

Snape turned again, putting his gaze on Harry. Harry didn’t look up. “Let’s go, then, Mr. Potter.” And he started pulling Harry up the stairs. His grip was tight, but Harry couldn’t help but feel it was the only thing keeping him from falling over. 

They entered an empty room, devoid of any personal belongings, and Snape transfigured the bed into a tall cot in the middle of the room. Harry sat on the cot, exhaustion overwhelming him. Finally, he was sitting to rest. And Snape started pulling out potions from his robe pockets and setting them onto the side table, so many that Harry was certain he’d put some sort of spell in the pocket because there was no way there was that much space in there. He began counting them—though for what, Harry couldn’t imagine—before he finally turned to Harry and stared down at him with a blank expression.

“I suppose… I have to take potions?” Harry asked cheekily. 

The corner of Snape’s lip turned down slightly. “Just a few. But I need to assess the damage first.”

Harry blinked, smile freezing. “You mean, with a spell?” 

Snape nodded. “With a spell, yes. For internal damage. Externally…” He turned and withdrew a small leather satchel from his pocket and began rummaging through it, reaching down into it—elbow deep, so now Harry had confirmation there was a spell—“You will need to remove your shirt.” 

Heat crept up Harry’s neck again, and he tried grinning wider. It stung his cheek. “I mean, I really only need the internal injuries checked on. That’s where the important stuff is, right?” 

Snape found what he was looking for, and he pulled it out. Just another bottle. He examined it closely as he spoke. “It is an option. But I assure you, that will be neither efficient nor painless.”

Harry fought off the initial desire to tell Snape to fuck off again—because really, he did need someone to check in on his rib—so he just shrugged like it didn’t bother him and reached his good arm up and started to pull off his shirt. 

It… hurt. Which was an understatement. His shirt stuck to his back, where dried blood acted as a crusted glue, and Harry forced himself to not make a sound as he tugged at it, feeling the fabric tug and scratch against the cuts. The painful, painful cuts. 

“Foolish boy,” Snape snapped, and Harry flinched before he could stop himself. Snape didn’t seem to notice as he took a step forward and snapped at Harry to put his arm down. He walked behind Harry to observe his back, the blood probably covering the whole thing. He waved his wand, and the shirt was suddenly very wet and sticky, and then he waved his wand again, and it was completely dry, no more crusties glued in. 

“I am going to cut the shirt off of you. It should not hurt, as it’s clean. This will make it easier to take off. I believe I will need to heal whatever… whatever this is before you can lay down and I can get to the rest.” 

Harry grimaced, but didn’t move as Snape—without magic—used scissors to cut the shirt, from the bottom to the top. Harry was more than grateful he didn’t have to hear any ridiculous gasps or sighs. When the fabric was completely off of him, Harry looked towards the ceiling. Snape summoned something from across the room into his hand, and whatever it was, he gently—surprsingly gently—started to rub a salve over the skin that provided instant relief. Harry let out an involuntary sigh.

Snape worked quietly. Moved cold fingers across each of the gashes, one by one. There weren’t many of the big ones, but there were enough small ones that it took long enough that Harry’s bruised rib started screaming. But he felt the skin between each gash stitch together with Snape’s movement. Harry tried not to think about it. The entire time, Snape didn’t say a word. 

Until he did. “And what, may I ask, caused your injuries?” 

Okay, well. Harry decided that questions were probably worse than annoying gasps. 

“I said already,” Harry said, including a silent obviously in his tone. “Death eater.” 

“Is that so,” he replied dryly. 

“Yep,” said Harry, popping the ‘p’. “Made its way all the way to Little Whinging. That was, you know, right before the dementor almost got to us. Luckily, we made it past the wards before it was too late.” Although Snape wasn’t looking at him, Harry offered a charming grin. 

“Hmm.” 

He clearly didn’t believe Harry. Harry didn’t care. Snape didn’t have to believe him. He just needed to get him physically functioning again. 

Finally, he stepped back from Harry’s back and said, “Lie down. Your back is… closed.” 

Harry lay down on his back, letting out a sigh of relief once he could relax his stomach and chest muscles. Now that his back was, as Snape said, closed. 

Snape stood over him, observing Harry’s body without any emotion. Like Harry was a potion he was needing to analyze. Harry pretended like he wasn’t bothered at all.

“So, this is weird,” Harry noted. 

Snape made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. He raised his wand and muttered a spell over Harry’s body. His eyes suddenly started darting in the air, over different parts of his body, like there were words over each of his injuries. 

“The good news, Mr. Potter,” said Snape without emotion, “is that most of your injuries are fairly surface level. They will be gone by tomorrow evening. You will deal with some scarring on your back, and the one on your cheek. The anti-scarring magic may be too much for your system on top of the rest of the potions you need to take. But, yes. Take this.” 

He handed Harry a potion, which Harry took instantly and downed it. He gagged on the taste, his stomach already having been twisting in the pain. 

“You have two fractured bones,” he continued, handing Harry two more potions. Harry grimaced as he took them in his hands. “The left radius and your second rib on the right. Luckily, they are just fractures. However, while your elbow is not broken, it is out of place. I will set that right now. It will hurt.” 

Harry braced himself. Snape handed Harry one more potion to drink, which he did, before he went to Harry’s right side. He put two firm hands on Harry’s arm, one above the elbow, one below, and jerked his arms. 

A gasp, followed by a long moan, escaped his throat as his elbow simultaneously went through extreme pain and then a great amount of relief. 

Snape handed him a salve. “Put this on your neck.” 

He did. He tried to not appreciate the fact that Snape didn’t try to do it himself, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Must be the exhaustion. He truthfully couldn’t handle the idea of someone’s hands near his neck right now. The salve was pink and slimy as it was placed on his neck—again, providing instant relief. He sighed. And then, Snape raised another wand, and started reading the air again, before putting the wand away. “The rest is surface level bruises. Can you handle that?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child, Sir. I can handle a few bruises.”  

Snape sneered. “You were reckless,” Snape said, voice cold, “marching to the Manor. You should be grateful the Dark Lord wasn’t there. You would have been dead in this state.”

“I would have killed him first,” Harry said, teetering between humor and the darkness he’d been ruminating in for a week. 

Snape’s hand hesitated. Just for a moment. Before he continued grabbing the last potion. “This is Dreamless Sleep. Take it. You should be healed by tomorrow. I will be remaining here overnight in case any complications arise, such as swelling of the brain.” 

Harry looked at him sharply. “No, it’s fine. Don’t—”

“I must ensure your safety,” Snape snapped, “since you are so incapable of doing so yourself.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much umph behind it. He was tired. And honestly, a Dreamless Sleep potion sounded really nice right now. He took the potion from Snape, but before he drank it, he watched. 

Snape began packing away the now-empty potion bottles, each movement precise and careful. Harry waited for the inevitable. The lecture about being a burden. The sneer about stupidity. The mock about him being just like his father. He could almost hear the words in his head. 

But they didn’t come. 

Instead, Snape transfigured the desk chair into a large recliner—not soft, but not wood, either. He pulled out a book from that tiny satchel, but before he opened it, he glanced up at Harry, glaring slightly. 

“Drink.” 

Something uncoiled in Harry’s chest. Something small. And maybe it was because he was exhausted, or maybe the salve did more than stitching skin, or maybe because Snape hadn’t been terrible like he could have been… but he accidentally spoke before he could stop. 

“Thanks,” he said softly. And then, the mortification followed the word, and he downed the drink immediately. 

With his eyes closed, he felt himself already start to fall away. From the pain, towards the warmth of darkness. And just before he fell asleep, he must have had his dreams blend into his reality, because he could swear he heard Snape speak.

“You’re… welcome… Potter.” 

Right before the darkness pulled him under, he had one thought. 

Hell, apparently, has frozen over. 

~~~

July 12, 1995

~~~

The lawn needed watering. 

But unfortunately for the Dursleys, the summer was hot, and there was a water shortage. Unfortunately for the Dursleys, the restrictions for water usage were a bit too expensive for Vernon to ignore, so Petunia was forced to complain about the lawn every time she walked outside to hang up the laundry or get in the car to do groceries or chat with the neighbors at the end of the driveway.  

Unfortunately for Harry, who had already been having a bad summer, this really set the scene for the rest of it. 

~~~

August 4, 1995

~~~

When he woke up, he felt warm. 

That was the first thing he noticed. 

The second, that he felt really, really good. Barely any pain. Just some bruises on his side that were softly sore as he reached over and felt around for his glasses, unsure when he’d taken them off. He found them on the side table, before sitting up and blinking the tiredness from his eyes, taking in the room—well, as best as he could in the darkness.

He didn’t exactly forget that he wasn’t at the Dursleys and had come to Grimmauld Place, but it definitely felt weird. And smelled different. Dusty, and old. His skin felt a little numb as he tried seeing in the dark, but except for the bed he was laying in, and the recliner that Snape had transfigured, Harry didn’t see much. 

Snape was not there. Ron and Hermione had, at some point, taken his place in the chair, asleep together, and Harry felt something weird knowing that at some point they had swapped spots. He wondered if they informed Snape, or had an awkward conversation, or if they’d simply snuck in after he’d left.

At the foot of his bed, there were folded up clothes—Ron’s. Harry reached for them, and shoved the shirt on his head, feeling his muscles relax as he took in the citrusy scent as it fell over him. Slowly and quietly, Harry tiptoed out of bed, careful to avoid any creaky floorboards as he headed to the shower across the hall, locking the door behind him. 

He kept the light off and avoided the mirror as he showered. 

After he was clean, he put back on Ron’s clothes, the pants a little too long and baggy on him but nothing even close to what wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs was like. The white socks were fluffy and soft as he pulled them on and continued to tiptoe down the stairs. 

He checked the mail briefly. There were no letters. 

No news was good news. 

Harry caught a glance at the clock over the cabinets—it wasn’t even 6AM yet, and he doubted anyone would be awake any time soon. He helped himself to handfuls of each type of food he could find—crackers, a slice of bread, grapes, slices of cheese, and random pieces of what he thought was sliced turkey. He pretended he was having one of those fancy snackboards that Petunia made for her bookclub as he ate standing by the counter. It was delicious, and he was disappointed when his stomach started to feel like it was going to burst at the seams. 

He forced himself to put the rest of it in a little baggy, and put it in his pocket. For later. Just in case.

Just as he was leaving the kitchen to go sit in the living room and look for a game or book or something to keep him occupied, the door opened, though it was near silent, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief when Walburga didn’t immediately start screaming. 

It was Snape, shaking off the water droplets that were soaking into his hair and onto his coat. When he saw Harry standing there, staring at him, a cracker and fruit in hand, Snape didn’t say anything. No Good morning, no How are you, no nothing. 

It was just as Harry liked it. 

But he did reach into his pocket and handed a few bottles out to Harry, who took them without a word.

“Your morning potions,” Snape said coldly. “I suggest you eat it with food, or you may become sick.”

Harry grinned, which made Snape give him a weird look. “Good thing I had breakfast already,” he said, and then popped open the first potion and downed it. He gagged, and then wiped his mouth. 

“Delicious as ever, Sir.” 

Snape didn’t laugh, but his lips tightened. “I will be back during lunch to drop off your next ones and ensure they’re working the way they should.” 

They stared at each other for a beat before Snape turned back around, opened the door, and slammed the door shut behind him. 

Which, of course, woke up Walburga. 

“FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR!” she screamed at Harry as he fought to close the curtain. “YOU NASTY HALF-BLOOD—”

Harry successfully closed it. But it was too late. He could hear the sounds of groans and mumbles behind several doors, and Harry cringed. “Sorry,” he called up with a loud whisper.

He tiptoed back to the living room, feeling flushed and embarrassed. He didn’t even get the chance to slow his heartbeat back down before the sounds of scrambled footsteps tumbled down the stairs, annoyed whispers bantering. 

“Stop pushing me, Ronald!”

“Well then stop trying to go first,” he snapped back.

“Harry’s gonna—”

Ron and Hermione landed at the bottom of the stares, giving each other glares before noticing Harry sitting on the couch, legs tucked under him and in the middle of putting a blanket over himself. 

“Harry!” Hermione said, her face breaking out in relief the moment she saw him. 

She ran over to him, followed by Ron, as they both took in his face. He knew he probably still had bruises ready to see, but he was sure he looked a lot better than he had last night, especially as Hermione asked her next question:  

“Can I hug you?” she asked. 

Harry nodded. 

She didn’t hesitate. In an instant, she was sitting on the couch next to him, twisting at the waist and holding her arms around his neck, her head in his neck, hair covering half of his face as Ron’s smile twisted looking down at him. 

“Oh, my gosh,” she said, as she sat back up and took him in, taking in his face. Eyes lingering over the spots he knew were probably still purple and yellow. “I’ve missed you so much this summer. I’m so sorry we couldn’t write. I asked Dumbledore every time I saw him, but he said no every time.” 

“It’s fine,” he said, stomach tightening. “Did you… get any of my letters?” 

Ron waved his hand at Harry, signaling for Harry to move into the middle couch cushion. “Shove over, I’m sitting here.” 

Harry moved, while Hermione kept talking. “No, we didn’t. You sent letters? Oh, I don’t know why Dumbledore didn’t allow it, and, well, I don’t want to blame him, exactly, but he just said it was for your protection, and I tried asking why, but he just insisted it was for the best, and who am I to argue? Well, I supposed I did argue a little, but I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I just. I’m glad you’re here. Especially before I have to go back home—Mum and Dad are taking me to the Galapagos for the rest of the summer tomorrow, so you really did come just in time. Oh, Harry, I missed you.”

Harry sighed and offered her a tired smile. “‘Mione,” he said, voice tight. “It’s okay. I missed you, too. Did Hedwig get here okay?” 

She nodded, eyes still brimming with tears. “Yes, yes. She got here two weeks ago, and she’s been doing great. Dumbledore sent her to Hogwarts until you got back, though, just to be safe. We could probably owl him and have him send her here as soon as possible.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Hermione jumped to her feet. “Okay—I’ll go grab some parchment and a quill. Be right back.” And her bushy hair followed her out the door, before she almost immediately was back in the room, arms full. How she moved so fast, Harry didn’t know, but before he knew it, she was sitting on the floor, setting up everything on the fancy coffee table in the middle of the room. 

“I’ll write it, Harry, you just sit there,” she said, as she dipped the feather in ink. 

Ron shifted to Harry’s right, before lifting his legs and putting them over Harry’s. The pressure felt nice. But now, he was facing Harry, and Harry kept his eyes on Hermione’s rapidly moving hand. 

Ron cleared his throat, the only other sound in the room besides the scratches of ink on parchment. “Did you—uh—get my letter?”

Harry nodded. It was still under the loose floorboard of Dudley’s second bedroom. “I did.” 

Hermione paused her writing. She sat, unmoving for a moment, before looking at Ron, confusion crossing her gaze. “You were able to write to him?” 

“Well,” said Ron, grinning sheepishly. “Dumbeldore said we couldn’t send owls. He didn’t say anything about letters the Muggle way.” 

Hermione blinked. Then, her jaw opened. “Ron, that wasn’t what he meant! But—oh, I’m so glad you did. Why didn’t you tell me? I tried sending out so many owls, but they were always returned.” 

He shrugged, before putting a casual hand on the back of the couch. “I dunno. You might have told Dumbledore.”

She frowned. “I wouldn’t have. Do you really—Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you could do that.” She turned back to the parchment and kept writing, looking much more subdued. 

Harry focused on the warmth of Ron’s legs on him as they sat there in silence, Ron and Harry both watching Hermione write. And he focused on the fullness of his stomach. And the fact that his body felt overall rather relaxed in this house. And when Hermione got up to send her letter via owl, he offered her a smile, which she returned easily before running upstairs, her footsteps pounding on the stairs. 

Ron snickered. “That’s our Hermione.” 

Harry smiled. “It sure is.” 

Chapter Text

~~~

August 4, 1995

~~~

Harry’s nerves were definitely not frayed now that he was safe at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. And he was feeling completely normal about everything. 

All morning, he hung out in the living room with Ron and Hermione, basking in their presence. At some point, the twins and Ginny interrupted their peaceful morning by getting in a big fight. There was a lot—and he really needed to emphasize a lot— of yelling. Mrs. Weasley tried to stop it, but it would restart every half hour, so Harry ignored it and continued his game of chess with Ron. 

Sirius spent all day walking around the house sullenly, giving Harry looks like a sad puppy. Harry tried to talk to him a few times, but Sirius had simply responded, “No, it’s okay. I know you’re upset with me. You don’t need to talk to me…” and then would go back upstairs, only to repeat it twice by lunch, the sound of yelling in the background. The irritation that dwelled in his gut after that didn’t go away, no matter how many games he played with his friends. 

At lunch, Snape passed by and dropped off his potions, snapping that he didn’t have time for diagnostics yet, but he’d be back around dinner for those. Harry shrugged and took the potions, feeling much better after taking whatever the purple one did. 

Afterwards, Harry started exploring the house. Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Snape had briefly explained—after making Harry read a note written by Dumbledore—that it was Sirius’s house. It had been in the Black family for generations, and was where a group called the Order of the Phoenix had begun meeting. In other words, it was supposed to be a safe place. 

As Harry explored, in the back of his mind, he started preparing a new plan to kill Voldemort. 

The house was bigger than it seemed at first glance. The hallways were cramped and small, but the rooms were big—and there seemed to be an endless amount. Harry found a random circular staircase that led up to another tremendously long hallway, leading to room after room. It was probably technically a mansion, but it didn’t feel like a mansion. It felt… unalive. The house was dreary. Dull. Dusty. Some doors opened. Some doors did not. Some rooms had large, handwritten signs that read DO NOT ENTER, which Mrs. Weasley explained was because they needed to go through the rooms and ensure there was nothing unsafe in there. The open rooms were safe; the locked ones were absolutely not. 

At some point, Fred and George came across him and asked him what he was doing. 

“Exploring,” he said, shrugging.

They suggested playing hide and seek. Harry, who was quite experienced in sitting in small spaces, was the best, and always the last to be found, which he loudly bragged about. 

He ignored the concerned looks people gave him randomly. 

He ignored the way his hands shook. 

He ignored the sharp looks Ron and Hermione gave him when he jumped when Fred and George kept apparating into and out of the rooms.

He was annoyed that a part of him just wanted to lay in bed. Or take a bath. But he knew that if he did that, it would just make them more concerned, or worse—ask questions. If he was okay. If he was healed enough. If he needed anything. 

So he ignored it all, and he laughed loudly, and he had a grand old time until the smell of spices filled Number 12 Grimmauld Place when Mrs. Weasley called out from the kitchen.

“Dinner!”

Harry, who was in a rather intense game of Exploding Snap (while Hermione watched and offered her commentary every few minutes), grinned at Ron the exact moment he won. 

“Ha!” Harry shouted, before putting a finger L to his forehead. 

Ron rolled his eyes as he groaned. “Mum distracted me.”

“Did she now?” Harry laughed, getting to his feet. “And what about last game?” 

Ron gave him the finger, which made Hermione gasp and Harry laugh. They walked into the kitchen while Mrs. Weasley continued shouting.

“GET DOWN HERE IF YOU WAN—Oh, hello, you three. Hungry?” Mrs. Weasley smiled at them warmly, her eyes lingering over Harry’s cheek. Which he decidedly ignored.

Harry, still full from this morning, knew it probably isn’t a good idea to eat yet. But the chicken sandwiches she made looked delectably appetizing, and his mouth was watering, and he didn’t hesitate to put two on his plate, despite knowing there was no way it was all going to fit into his stomach. 

Ron grabbed three, though, and Harry knew it would all fit in his. Harry eyed it jealously before sitting at the table, Hermione taking the spot across from him, Ron sitting to his right. 

When the twins came through, followed by Ginny—who had a deadpan glare at the back of Fred’s head—Remus, and Arthur, loud chatter followed. Harry tried picking up on any of it, but the only thing he could think about was how disappointed he was that he was already full. Only a few bites in. But he grinned up at them, anyway, and then raised a questioning eyebrow to Ginny who mouthed, Later, with another hot glare sent to Fred, and, well, now Harry was curious to know what George had done to earn that look to ensure that he never did the same thing. 

Sirius entered the kitchen, head downturned, looking sullen. His long, curly hair fell into waves around his strong face, facial hair prickling out and making his face look shadowed. His bright, blue eyes avoided Harry as he took a plate and went to leave, only to be stopped by Remus, who didn’t look his way but leaned against the counter with his own food and gave Mrs. Weasley a polite smile. 

“Sirius, sit,” he said pleasantly.

Like dogs do, Sirius listened and took the spot next to Hermione. But his hunched shoulders and downturned face signaled that he was feeling chastised. 

Harry sighed. Took another bite. And then gave Sirius a smile. “How’s Buckbeak?”

Sirius immediately perked up. It was as easy as winning exploding snap against Ron. 

“He’s good!” he exclaimed, before taking a bite. Mouth full, he continued talking: “He’s currently napping, and I’m thinking that…” He paused, eyeing Mrs. Weasley, who was now chatting loudly with Remus, drowned out by the argument that just exploded at the end of the table between Ginny and George. 

Mrs. Weasley ignored it. 

Sirius leaned in closer to Harry, which made Ron and Hermione follow suit—with the movement, Ron’s arm brushed Harry’s. 

“Tonight,” Sirius whispered, “I think I might take him out for a flight. Don’t tell.” He winked at them and then leaned back before the other adults could hear what he’d just confessed to the three of them. 

Hermione frowned over at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, but she was still whispering. 

“Why not?” Harry asked, just as quietly. “They probably need some air.” 

Hermione turned her frown on Harry. “It’s dangerous.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s not dangerous. We lived in caves for a year. We’ll be fine.”

Hermione’s expression didn’t change, but to Harry’s surprise, she leaned back and didn’t say another word. 

But her eyes flickered over to Harry, with just as much concern. 

“Well,” said Sirius after a beat. “How are you feeling Harry?” 

Harry’s mood soured. He took another bite, his stomach twisting as he swallowed. “I’m good,” he said. “Hermione, you said you’re leaving tomorrow, right?” 

She nodded. “Yeah, to the Galapagos—but I can ask my parents to let me stay if you want me to!” 

Harry shook his head and took another bite. “Don’t be silly,” he said, his hands hesitating to grab the second sandwich. He did. “I was just wondering where it was. Isn’t it an island or something?” 

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s an Island Group near Ecuador. It has some good places to swim, but we’re going because they want to show me the rare animals, and because it has a huge history in how we learn about evolution. It’s really a fascinating study on…” She trailed off when her eyes hovered over his cheek, which Harry—irritated—covered when he leaned forward and put his cheek in his hand. He signaled for her to continue. She cleared her throat, and opened to her mouth, but it was interrupted by Ginny suddenly standing and throwing her sandwich on Fred. 

“JUST APOLOGIZE.”

The shout was so loud that it immediately silenced the rest of the conversation, and Mrs. Weasley instantly scolded, “Ginny!” 

Ginny turned to her mom, anger and fire in her eyes, limbs stiff as she pointed a finger at Fred, who was laughing loudly while pulling out chunks of chicken from his hair. “Don’t get on me about this!” she exclaimed. “He’s the one who wrote a fake break-up letter to Michael and then sent it!”

Mrs. Weasley turned on Fred, who was still laughing. “Fred!” 

“What?” he asked. “He responded just as he should have!”

“It hurt him,” Ginny said, her hands twitching like she was about to ring his neck. 

“He begged you to take him back. You should be flattered.” 

“I don’t care!” she shouted. “Apologize to him. That was cruel!” 

Fred rolled his eyes, but Harry noticed that George wasn’t laughing. His gaze was fixated on his plate, grimacing as he took another bite. 

“Fred, that was not nice!” Mrs. Weasley said, putting her plate down and storming over to Fred, before grabbing him by the ear and pulling him to his feet. Fred immediately stopped laughing and started whinging. 

“Stop! Mom, stop!” 

Harry suddenly felt very nauseous. 

“Apologize to your sister, and you will be writing a letter to Michael explaining what you did. And making it up. Somehow.” 

Fred was still shouting. “Stop! Alright, fine! Let go of me!” Mrs. Weasley finally let go of his ear, and he rubbed it, sending Ginny a glare. “Jeez, you need to learn how to take a joke.”

“I can take a joke,” said Ginny. “But with you around, we don’t need any other unfunny ones.”

Fred zero’d in on her. “Why you little—” He lunged for her, and Mrs. Weasley stepped in between them, putting a hand on Fred’s forehead, pushing him back. 

“You’re 17!” she yelled at him. “Act like an adult!” 

He let out a strangled sound before he suddenly apparated away with a loud crack. 

The sound made Harry flinch. And at that exact moment, he knew he needed to get up. 

“Oh, no,” he said, before standing and sprinting to the sink, and ruining his lunch. 

He was too caught up in his own misery to notice what others were doing. But by the time he could focus on anything other than the heat in his face and the terrible stench that filled his nose, there were noises all around him, making him feel overall quite overwhelmed. 

“Harry, what happened!?” 

“Are you sick?!”

“I bet Snivellus didn’t give you the potions you needed. When I get my hands on him…”

The one thing that was grounding him was the warm hand on his back, silently rubbing large circles. Harry focused on the warmth of it before he finished gagging and let out a large breath, guilt replacing the nausea as he realized he probably ruined everyone’s lunch. 

He turned on the water of the sink, letting it wash down, cheeks flushing in embarrassment and forcing himself to shove it down before he turned around, the movement stopping the hand on his back. 

“Sorry,” he said, offering a sheepish grin to the awkwardly silent kitchen. “Guess I ate too much.” 

Ron, who was closest to him—he must have been the hand on his back—muttered a quiet, “It’s okay.”

 Harry cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said again, louder.  

“It’s okay, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, sweeping him into a hug. It was warm, and Harry let himself lean into it for a moment before she pulled away and looked down at him, concern in her warm, brown eyes. “Do you need any potions?” 

Harry shook his head, staring at the wood floor. “No.” Though, Snape said he’d be here around dinner, so Harry probably did need some potions. 

And speak of the devil… 

“FILTHY HALF-BLOOD! LEAVE MY HOME!” 

Sirius was out of the room in an instant, shouting at the screaming portrait. “SHUT UP, MOTHER!” and then the half-second of quiet was promptly interrupted with Sirius snapping, “What did you do to my godson?”

Harry sighed. He just wanted some quiet. 

But he left the kitchen, Ron and Hermione following him, to where Sirius was now glaring at Snape, who was sneering at Sirius, both of them at eye-level. 

“Black, I am simply here to give said godson his potions,” he sneered. “I am just as pleased about my presence here as you are. Now, step aside.”

“You will not tell me what to do in my family house,” Sirius snapped, glaring harder. 

“Fine then,” he said, before turning his head slightly to Harry. “Potter, come.”

“Don’t tell him—”

“It’s fine,” Harry muttered, slipping past them and holding out an expectant hand to Snape. “I’ll just take them and go upstairs.”

“Harry,” Sirius said, tone irritated, “just—go. I’ll deal with this.” 

Harry’s eyes darkened as his jaw ticked. “There’s nothing to deal with,” he snapped, and shock passed Sirius’s face—and Hermione’s, too. Harry took a deep breath and reminded himself that he wasn’t still at the Dursleys. That he didn’t need… He shook his head. Don’t think about that. He turned to Snape, who was wearing a blank expression, holding out the potions.

It felt like he was staring into Harry. 

Harry snatched them, before storming upstairs, straight into the room he’d been given, and closed the door behind him. 

There was more shouting from downstairs, and Harry let out a sigh, deflating almost instantly. He moved to the floor, the wood hard on his ankle as he crossed his legs, the door hard against his back—which wasn’t sore, but felt weird. Like it was holding some kind of phantom pain. And before he could think too much about it, he uncorked the potion bottles, and downed them quickly, gagging a little at the slimy texture. 

He set the bottles carefully against the wall next to the door so he wouldn’t forget them, and closed his eyes, ignoring the sound of quiet footsteps shuffling outside of his door, accompanied by quiet whispers. Ron and Hermione. 

“He’s not fine,” Hermione whispered, just enough for Harry to hear over the yelling from downstairs. “He’s clearly not fine.”

“Yeah, I know. But… He’s laughing, isn’t he?”

“They aren’t happy laughs.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

A beat. And suddenly, Walburga was screaming again from downstairs, and Sirius was screaming, and Mrs. Weasley was yelling, and it all masked the whispers from right outside his door. 

Harry kept his eyes closed, the cool air of the room breezing over the drying sweat on his skin, making him shiver. He felt… shut down, right now. His thoughts weren’t flowing. Everything felt stuffy, inside of him. 

If he didn’t feel like it was choking him, Harry would appreciate it. 

He raised a slow hand to his neck, tenderly touching the edge of his neck with the tips of his fingers. He rubbed at it. Knowing it wasn’t injured, knowing it was healed. 

But he felt choked. 

He opened his eyes, feeling dull. Taking in the room now that there was more light streaming in from the window. The curtains over the windows were too short, and the light streamed from the bottom half. It didn’t look much different, although now he could see the dust particles everywhere, not just smell them. The bed was already starting to warp, the transfiguration magic weakening with each minute that passed. By tonight, it will probably have morphed into a 45° angle. 

It wasn’t the only thing that didn’t seem to fit. Harry didn’t feel like he fit in it. He couldn’t tell if he felt too big in the room or too small, but it wasn’t the place for him. He looked down at his hands, phantom pains prickling his fingers. 

The screams from downstairs suddenly died down, and the whispering continued: “—don’t think pushing him will be good.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” 

“I don’t know—just be there for him? Listen when he wants to talk?”

“Ronald. He’s not really one to talk about… you know…” 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

It stung. And it wasn’t true. Harry talked about plenty of things. Sure, he didn’t yap as much as Ron and Hermione, but he definitely talked. A lot, even, sometimes. 

“You’re not suggesting we force it out of him, are you?”

“Of course not,” Hermione snapped, louder than a whisper. There was a beat, and Harry could almost imagine the silent conversation the two of them had before Hermione sighed and lowered her voice, even quieter than she’d been before. “No, you’re right. I should stay.” 

Just then, something caught Harry’s eye. His eyes flickered to it—the spot where wall met baseboard. There—the wallpaper—a horrid, yellow color—was peeling from the bottom. 

“I think you should, too.” 

Harry stood immediately and opened the door, giving them both a look. They stared at him like the possum Vernon had once hit with his car under high beams. 

“Don’t stay on my account,” he said coldly. “And for the record, I am fine.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, before she frowned, a stubborn expression passing her face. “Harry. You’re not okay.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? And how would you know? We haven’t talked in weeks.” 

She flushed, but she didn’t back down. “That wasn’t my fault. I tried writing. But that’s—not even the point. The point is that you’re—”

“I’m not getting into this,” he interrupted, pushing past the two of them, heading back down the stairs, towards the screaming. He’d much prefer that to whatever this was. 

“Stop—” Hermione reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm. 

He ripped it out with so much force that Hermione stumbled forward, tripping slightly. If Ron wasn’t fast enough in catching her, she and Harry may have stumbled down the stairs. Harry stared at her, feeling nauseous again. 

“‘Mione—” he said, his breath catching. His throat was choking him. “I’m sorry.” 

She shrugged off Ron once he steadied her. “It’s okay,” she said, but her voice sounded a bit thick. “Can we talk about it?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“Harry,” she said, and then he saw tears in her eyes. “I have been worried about you for weeks. And then—yesterday—you show up the way you did. That wasn’t nothing.”

“Well, of course it wasn’t nothing,” he said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. “I told you. Death Eater. I don’t know who since they were masked. You can ask Snape—he found me at…” His jaw tightened. “Don’t ask me about it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.” 

He inhaled deeply. 

Exhaled slowly. 

And then he offered them both a smile, which seemed to trouble them both. 

He didn’t give them a chance to ask about that. “I’m really happy to see you again. Can we just… have a calm summer?” He made eye contact with Hermione, and the fact that she was so willing to stay behind from an island for him made him feel both very warm and very guilty all at once. He didn’t want to take away her beautiful vacation from her. “I’d like to come visit you in the Galapagos, if that’s possible.” 

Hermione made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “Harry—”

“What is that about the Galapagos?”

All three of them swiveled to the voice—Remus, who was standing at the top of the other flight of stairs, leading down to this short hallway. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Hermione’s going tomorrow, and I was asking if we could come visit her.”

Remus reached them with a light step, as if he were trying to offset the tension of whatever was going on downstairs. “I see.” 

“I don’t think Dumbledore really wants us to leave,” Hermione said, emphasizing the word us with a nudging nod at Harry. 

Harry deadpanned. Surely she knew he could see her do that. 

Remus’s light smile seemed to tighten. “Ah, well. We’ll have to ask him, then. For now, might I suggest we all do something relaxing?” 

She hesitated, but then Remus smiled down kindly at her. She sighed. “Okay. Sounds like a plan, then.” 

They all headed downstairs, where the yelling had died down. Mrs. Weasley was talking in a hushed tone to Snape, and Sirius was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, clearly upset. Harry had never realized it before, but Sirius kind of reminded him of a teenager. 

That’s because he never had the chance to really become an adult. 

The thought made him pause. Guilt over sassing Sirius now joined the guilt about Hermione. 

He headed straight to Sirius, looking up into his chiseled face. “Um. Do you want to do something together?” 

Sirius didn’t look at him. His jaw clenched, and Harry wished he knew what Sirius was thinking. 

“Sure,” Sirius eventually muttered. “After you spend time with Snivellus.” 

Harry frowned, his throat tightening painfully. “He’s just making sure the potions are working.” 

Sirius huffed. “Yeah.” 

Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry with a grin, and Snape took a step forward. 

“Let’s go, Mr. Potter. To your room.” 

Harry found himself back in the room, standing awkwardly across from Severus Snape. Not in as dire circumstances as yesterday, it felt much more awkward today. 

But Snape didn’t move like he was feeling awkward. Rather, he barked, “Sit. On the bed.” 

Harry sat in the warped beds annoyed that Snape didn’t bother to fix it up again for another night. He bit his tongue to keep himself from saying so, because Snape held a wand over his head right now, and they weren’t monitored by Dumbledore at this exact moment. Harry didn’t think Snape would do anything damaging,  but he could send a small stinging hex his way. 

Although, if things got hostile, Harry supposed a stinging hex could end up being worth it. 

He’d had worse. 

Snape waved a wand across Harry’s body, before invisible words popped back up, and Snape was reading them like they were made of neon signs. 

After a few moments of silence, Snape spoke. “Your potions are working successfully. Are you currently experiencing any discomfort?”

Just all over everywhere inside his chest. “No.” 

“Hm. Do you feel that there is anything your body needs?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Nothing, I guess.”

For some reason, Snape’s lips tightened. “I see.” His eyes scanned the words again. “You are healing, but you are also malnourished and exhausted. Concerningly so. I am prescribing you a Dreamless Sleep potion to take nightly, for two weeks. Just until the exhaustion is healed. I expect you to eat plenty—although, not so much that you expel it, as Molly has informed me you chose to do.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He hadn’t done that on purpose. 

“I will come in daily to check on you, no matter what Black says. At no particular hour, as my time is valuable and I have things to do outside of these walls. Understood?”

Apparently, his thanks from last night meant shit. “Right.” 

“I expect you to inform an adult if anything happens. If you need anything or are concerned about your health for whatever reason. Understood?”

“Okay,” Harry said, irritation seeping its way into his tone, avoiding Snape’s gaze. “I’m fine, and I’m going to be fine.” 

Silence. Snape didn’t move. Or speak. 

Harry kept his eyes on the floor. 

As the seconds passed on, they trailed over to the spot near the door where the wallpaper was starting to peel. 

He wondered how long it had been like that. If it was just the years and the age that caused it to curl like that, showing off an orange-tint glue on its back. Or maybe, whoever had this room before—maybe they’d started picking at it in frustration. It probably wasn’t Sirius’s room. Maybe he’d had siblings. Or an aunt. Or maybe it started peeling a hundred and fifty years ago, with Sirius’s great-great-great grandmother. For some reason, he imagined a petulant child sitting in that spot, locked in their room, picking at it until they were allowed to leave. 

Eventually, Harry realized that Snape wasn’t going to move or speak or leave until Harry looked at him. He could be stubborn. Dig in his heels and refuse to look. Or maybe he could say something rude and make Snape angry. But if Harry were to be honest with himself, he wanted Snape gone, and he didn’t want Snape to wonder anything—not that he would care, of course—so he simply glanced up at Snape and offered a polite smile. 

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to do all those things.” 

Snape stared down at him, his onyx eyes unreadable. Harry wondered what he was feeling. Or, well, thinking. He doubted very much that Snape had very many feelings besides anger. Maybe he was holding it back right now, but Harry wracked his brain for what he could be angry about. Sirius, probably. Clearly the two of them didn’t get along. 

Harry wanted to know more details. 

But with that thought, Snape turned and left the room without another word. 

Harry gave it a second before following behind. 

Snape was already gone by the time Harry made it down the stairs, and the  mental image of Snape sprinting out of the building brought him a moment of humor before heading downstairs. 

“So,” he said by the time he landed in front of Sirius, “What do you say to some games?”

They played games all night. Fred and George showed Harry some of their new inventions for their new joke shop—“which we can do thanks to our benevolent benefactor,” said George with a cheeky grin—and Ginny avoided them except to grab a snack at some point with a glare to Fred, and Ron and Hermione played chess, which Hermione lost at and then angrily grabbed a book and read without another word. Remus left with Molly at some point, saying they were going to go get some groceries—with a pointed glance at Sirius, so Harry doubted they were just leaving for groceries—and left Sirius in charge. 

At some point, Sirius brought out some firewhisky. He didn’t offer any to anyone, but Fred and George stole a bit and got fairly tipsy before going upstairs with—in Harry’s opinion—mischevious looks on their faces. 

At some point, Hermione had fallen asleep on the armchair, her head fallen forward, bushy hair frizzy and having fallen half in her face when Sirius finally noticed. 

“Merlin, what time is it?” he whispered. “I guess it’s time for bed, isn’t it?” 

He sat across the coffee table from Harry, who was sitting with his back against the couch, Ron tall on the couch next to him. His spread leg had at some point touched Harry’s shoulder and stayed there. It was a small point of contact, but it was warm. 

Sitting in front of Sirius was warm, too. 

“Pft, it’s fine,” Harry said, just as quietly. “We can just keep playing quietly.”

Sirius grinned, but then his smile faltered somewhat. “No, I really think it’s time for bed.” 

Harry groaned as his head flew back with an eyeroll. “It’s literally summer. I think that should mean we can stay awake as long as we want to.” 

Sirius let out a quiet chuckle. “I would agree, except that I, myself, am quite tired. How about we finish this in the morning, huh?” 

Harry sighed, staring at the game of Mancala in front of them. Ron had been watching intently. 

“Your mother taught me this game,” Sirius said quietly as he closed it up. 

Harry sat up straighter. “She did?” He blinked a few times. It was the first time anyone had mentioned his mother beyond her eyes and how much she loved him. “Was she good? Was she competitive?” 

Sirius smiled, but it fell almost as swiftly, before his face looked gaunt. The way it had after he’d left Azkaban. 

Harry regretted asking. 

“She was,” he said, voice deeper. Serious. No humor to be found. 

But upon seeing Harry’s face, Sirius offered another smile. It wasn’t a happy one. And he lifted the rest of his cup of firewhisky and said, “To another day in captivity.” 

Harry lifted an imaginary cup in response, and then Sirius was gone. Staring at his disappeared form, Harry said what he wanted to in response to that: “The captivity that only matters if someone is counting on the outside.” 

Harry stared at the spot that Sirius had disappeared to for several moments before he realized Ron had been watching him. He’d been… strangely quiet all day. Harry found himself wanting to fill the silence. “What do you say we play another game?” 

Ron didn’t respond, but Harry turned to him. Ron was watching him, too. Harry was getting quickly tired of people watching him with eyes like that. Sharp. Narrowed and wide all at once. Searching. All in a single day.

Annoyed, Harry got to his feet, something empty in his chest when Ron’s knee left his shoulder. “Fine. Time for bed, I guess.” 

He was already halfway up the stairs when he heard Ron shaking Hermione awake. “... ‘Mione, go to bed.”

Angry, and feeling guilty for being angry, Harry made it to his room, knowing he was either going to have to make some stupid makeshift bed on the floor or have to curl up like a dog in the weird angled transfigured bed. The door opened without even a squeak to express the irritation he had in him, the silence worse than the rest. Halfway into the room, though, Harry froze. 

The bed had gone back into the form of its original chair, that white plastic chair pushed to the side under the small desk. 

But that wasn’t what drew his eye. 

There was another bed there—a mattress, on the floor, but pushed against the corner of the room, with several pillows and several thick blankets on top of bright orange bedsheets. Whoever had made it had clearly spent a lot of time making it as comfortable as possible. Harry stared at it. Irritation forgotten, replaced with something else entirely. 

~~~

July 13, 1995

~~~

Harry awoke with a start, the remnants of his nightmare still trapped behind his eyelids like a flash of lightning through burning sand. 

Cedric… 

Harry sat quickly, head swiveling towards his locked bedroom door, waiting for a hint of a yell, or a stomp, or a sound. Ignoring the silent tears already leaking from his eyes like a faucet. 

Nothing. 

No stomps. 

No yells. 

No sounds. 

Harry exhaled shakily, relief releasing him from the panic. 

But now that the panic passed, the grief made itself known. The hole in his chest. The emptiness in his limbs. The memory of having to bring back Cedric. Amos staring down at Harry with blame. As if it was Harry’s  fault. 

Which it was. 

If Harry hadn’t… if he hadn’t insisted on bringing him with, then Cedric would still be alive. 

Again, Cedric’s body falling passed through his mind, vivid, as if it was happening all over again. The sound of body crumpling against ground. The rush of magic past Harry’s ear. Sickening. 

He was tired of feeling this way. 

He sat on his rickety mattress, moved to the side so his back was against the wall. Drew his legs in close to him, wrapped his arms around his knees. Put his head in his knees. 

And cried. 

Silently, he cried. 

It wasn’t long before his oversized pajama bottoms were wet with tears and snot. Harry was careful to not blow his nose as he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt. He was careful to hold back the whimpers that were begging to come out. The darkness and the silence and the heat were all stifling, to say the least. They seemed to make the pain all the worse. 

This would all be so much easier if Ron and Hermione would write him. Why wouldn’t they write him? He hadn’t gotten a single letter. Not a single sentence, at the very least letting him know they were thinking of him. At least letting him know that they missed him even a fraction as much as he missed them. 

He wondered if they also blamed him. 

Hedwig hooted softly from her cage—not loud enough for Uncle Vernon to hear, but enough to feel like a calming melody on Harry’s skin as he cried. He didn’t get out of bed and walk over to her, but he did lift his wet face and settle his chin on his knees, the tears continuing with a blank face. The room was dark, but he could see her white blob as she stared his way, eyes wide and glinting under the minimal flicker of streetlight from the window. 

He wanted to ask her: You still care. Don’t you?

But he didn’t. Because she was trapped in her little cage, locked away just as Harry was. If anyone had any reason to hate Harry, it was Hedwig. Year after year, he brought her back here, where she got little food, and was trapped in her cage, and wasn’t allowed to stretch out her beautiful wings. 

He should try to send her off to stay somewhere, with someone—the Weasleys, maybe. School, maybe. It would be kinder of him. If he stole pliers from the shed and broke open the cage and set her free.

But she was his only friend. And even though she should hate him, she still looked at him now, and she offered another soft coo, as if answering the question he didn’t ask: Of course I still care. 

He sat like that until his tears dried, and footsteps sounded from outside of his room. Within minutes, the smell of sausage was already wafting upstairs, and hunger rumbled in his stomach. Harry wasn’t bothered as much about the food, though, as he was the water. He’d been sweating all night—and all day yesterday, really—and he’d cried for over an hour, leaving him dried out, feeling like the withering flowers and grass outside. 

The last three weeks at the Dursleys had been miserable, but in a way that Harry hadn’t been used to. He was used to waking up and getting started on chores. Getting yelled at by Vernon. Being tripped by Dudley. Being glared at by Petunia. 

But apparently, the threats that the Weasleys and Moody made were enough to keep them from constant punishments. This would be good, except it left Harry quite isolated, and Harry already found himself missing it. Because for three weeks—at, least, Harry assumed it had been three weeks, as he didn’t have a very good sense of time now—Harry’s days had gone as such: wake up. Either be locked in his room from sunrise to sunset or kicked out of the house for endless hours, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, hours that dragged on in the heat either in a stifling bedroom or under the sun; and immediately be locked back in his room since the sun set. 

He’d tried riling up Vernon multiple times during the day, but he’d simply been shoved out the house with a fist around the scruff of his neck. He’d do anything to have back the chores, for something to do with his hands.

He missed his friends. As he always did. 

Harry was pleasantly surprised when Petunia passed by and unlocked his door. Click after click after click until she was gone. Harry waited a moment before he left the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards as he went down the stairs and into the kitchen. 

Petunia ignored him as she scooped Dudley and Vernon’s food onto large white plates. Harry stood by the counter, grabbing a small bowl and scooping eggs and sausage into his own plate, without so much as a glance from Petunia. 

“How’d you sleep, Duddikins?” Petunia asked Dudley as he trudged into the room, flopping into his chair with half-closed eyes. 

“Fine,” Dudley muttered, almost immediately shoveling food into his mouth, smacking lips and slurping sounds unnecessary and annoying. 

Harry stared at the egg in his bowl. It was slightly undercooked, the way Vernon liked it. Harry always preferred his eggs a little overdone. “My night was great,” he said to no one, a dry sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Slept like a baby, really. And I love how hot it is in that room.” 

There was a beat as Petunia and Dudley stared at Harry, Harry with his gaze focused on the yellow egg. 

“Oh,” Petunia finally said, an odd tone to her voice. “Do you have a problem with the temperature in your room?” 

“Oh, no,” Harry said. He didn’t know why he was riling her up—Vernon could come down at any moment—but there he was. Doing it. He finally looked up from his egg to her. “I love the way the air stifles me enough to dehydrate me on a nightly basis.” 

Petunia blinked at him. Dudley stared with a dumb expression, as if he couldn’t fathom what Harry was saying. 

“Go to your room,” she said quietly. Calmly. It resembled Snape when he was angry. “We can make sure you aren’t too hot again.” 

Harry paused, frowning. Something cold passed through his feet and hands, though it didn’t make sense. 

What did she mean by that?

She stared at him for several seconds before nodding to the door. Harry tried to subtly swipe an extra apple as he headed out the kitchen.

Petunia’s voice stopped him.  

“Without that,” she said quietly. “I’ll bring you food later.”

Harry slammed the apple hard enough to bruise it on the counter and left his bowl of half-eaten eggs on the counter, before heading back upstairs to his room. 

~~~

August 5, 1995

~~~

“I asked mum to bring over my bed.”

Harry turned around, Ron standing in the half-open doorframe. Ron was staring at the bed. Hermione sleepily passed them, muttering a small, “Good night,” before heading upstairs and closing another door behind her. 

“Mum, um, apparated it over,” Ron continued, shrugging. “The bed was warping.” 

He shrugged again. Like it wasn’t a big deal. 

“I like the sheets,” Harry said, a large lump in his throat. Guilt for snapping earlier in his gut. “Er—thanks.” 

Ron shrugged again. “I was cold this morning. I figured you might need something warm, too.” 

Harry nodded. 

He did want something warm. 

When Ron turned to go upstairs, Harry asked, “Where are you sleeping?” 

“With Fred and George.”  

Harry cleared his throat. “Won’t you want your bed?” 

The corners of his ears turned pink. “Nah, I got it for you.” 

Harry nodded slowly. “Okay.” But then: “You could sleep in here, you know,” he said, pointing to the bed. “I could make a bed on the floor.” 

Ron blinked before chuckling slightly. “What? No, I got it for you. As I just said.” 

Harry offered a small smile. “Don’t you hate George’s snoring?” 

With the roll of his eyes, Ron nodded. “You do have a point.” He stared at the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

Harry huffed. “It’s your bed.” 

“The one I got for you…”

“So?”

“We can always share it,” Ron muttered, much quieter. “I mean, me and my brothers are always sharing the bed.” Without looking at Harry, Ron shrugged again. “You don’t snore nearly as much as George. And we can just put pillows between us.” 

Harry had never shared a bed with anyone before, but when they’d gone to the World Cup, he had seen the twins share a bed, and Percy and Ron did—with much arguing, of course—, and he knew Ginny and Hermione often shared the bed when Hermione visited. 

He pushed down the part of him that said it was weird and shrugged. “Okay,” he said, shrugging. “I guess that should be fine.”

Ron nodded. “Okay. I’m gonna get changed into pajamas. Do you, um, need some?” 

Harry looked down at the jeans and shirt he was wearing—already Ron’s. “I should be fine like this.” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’ll bring you an extra pair. Mum cleaned the ones you used last night.” 

Harry nodded and waited for Ron to leave. He avoided looking at the peeling wallpaper. He avoided thinking about his summer. He avoided thinking about how he got here. 

Instead, he thought about Voldemort. 

How was he going to kill Voldemort now? 

He looked at the Dreamless Sleep Potion that Snape had given him. The small bottle was sitting on the desk, where the white chair was pushed under.  If Ron weren’t going to sleep in the same room, Harry would surely avoid taking it. But Ron was there, and he didn’t want Ron to wake up to his shouts or cries. He’d rather die than that. But… he needed to know where Voldemort was. In those visions he’d been getting all summer. The dreams where he was slithering on marble floors and watching Voldemort through low eyes. 

If he took the potion, would he still get them? It was a dreamless potion—so maybe all it would do was erase the other dreams. The nightmares. The ones where Harry saw dead bodies and heard his mother’s voice and dreamed of losing his friends in hedge-mazes. 

But if he took the potion, and he got nothing… 

He’d have to stop taking it. 

Harry’s thoughts were flowing by the time Ron got back to the room, a pair of pajamas in his hands. He handed them to Harry, who quickly went to the closet and closed the door behind him in the cramped space. Harry had changed in front of Ron plenty of times before, in the dorm room, but… he still had bruises and new scars. On his neck. On his back. All over. 

He really didn’t want Ron to see that. 

Instead, he changed in the closet. He was used to closets, anyway. At least he didn’t have to sleep in there. 

Ron was already in the bed by the time Harry left, laying on the side closest to the wall. Harry shrugged and fell to his knees on the bed, the softness landing nicely, and he pushed open the sheets and got under, the heaviness of the covers settling nicely over him in the otherwise drafty room. Harry smiled as the fluffiness above and below him landed in his chest like a soft hug. 

The sheets smelled like Ron. Warm and cozy and like home. He missed the Weasley’s house. He missed Ron’s room, full of life and that horrid orange color that was so happy. 

But he was glad he didn’t have to miss Ron anymore, who was breathing quietly next to him. 

“I think Hermione’s going to stay,” Ron said quietly, his voice lower than Harry remembered from a month ago. 

Of course she was. “Okay.” 

“Is that okay?”

Harry nodded against his fluffy pillow. “I think she’ll regret doing that” 

“I dunno,” said Ron, quieter. “I think she missed you lot. We both did.” 

A moment passed. 

“I missed you, too,” Harry replied. More than they’d ever know. 

Neither of them said anything. It wasn’t awkward, but they both knew the other was awake. In their own thoughts.

Harry tried avoiding most of his thoughts and instead focused his thoughts back to Voldemort. Only to be taken from those thoughts before he could spiral into them as Ron spoke again. 

“Harry?” 

Harry took off his glasses and set them on the floor by the mattress. “Yeah?” 

Ron swallowed loudly. He opened his mouth with a soft smack of lips, and an even quieter breath, before he said, “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Harry offered a smile into the darkness. “I am, too.”

Chapter Text

~~~

July 14, 1995

~~~

Harry’s eyes were open before his mind was awake. 

The nightmare played behind his vision, guilt and disgust and horror overwhelming him as he scrambled and put on his glasses, trying to drink in the room around him. Trying to remind himself that he wasn’t in the graveyard, and he hadn’t been betrayed by the professor he had learned to trust, and there weren’t any dementors surrounding Voldemort. 

At some point, the dream had morphed into something darker, more… tangible, maybe. Harry was slithering on the ground like he was a rodent or snake, like the dreams he had before Voldemort came back. This time, however, he was in a large home. Beautiful and glistening in the day and the night, with spacious rooms and chandeliers hanging in each room. Artwork and detailed carpets covering the floors. It was nice and comfortably cool as he followed along the paths of the rooms. Passing faces too blurry to see, crossing marble shelves that held unnecessarily expensive vases and sculptures. Soft whispers from his Master in rooms Harry entered before he finally woke up. 

His eyes squeezed closed automatically as the memories seemed to come back with a second wave, and all he wanted to do was hold himself in a ball. But he shook his head before he could let himself break into that, because if he did it now, he would be stuck there for who-knew-how-long, and Harry didn’t want to feel like he’d broken. 

So he reminded himself that he was no longer in the dream anymore. No, he was here. In Dudley’s second bedroom. 

The tears didn’t come today. Harry would feel relief over it—he was so tired of waking up crying—but the hole in his gut gained no relief. And he started to wonder if he couldn’t cry because of the dehydration. If there wasn’t enough water in his body to produce tears. Surely, there was enough salt, if the taste on his tongue was anything to go by.  

The room was stifling, and Harry stood shakily, walking over to the window, feeling like he was in an oven, wishing the window would open. He tried for it daily, though he knew it was futile. Vernon had, for some reason, glued it shut. Harry had tried asking about it, but Vernon had simply given him a dark glare and said, “No questions.” That had been the first day back, and when he was still sad. 

The sadness that was slowly becoming replaced with anger. 

Maybe it was the heat. 

Again, Harry wondered what Petunia meant by her comment yesterday. What did she mean he wouldn’t be too hot again? 

It was a question that followed him throughout the day. As no one came to unlock the door, and he was trapped inside. Like an oven. All day. His thoughts slowed. His feelings dulled. He stripped into his boxers, avoiding the way his stomach started to bloat in a strange way.

A moment of horror passed through him as he pictured them ignoring him, letting him die of a dehydrating heat in this room. Maybe Petunia hadn’t meant that he wouldn’t be hot—maybe she meant she just wouldn’t have to hear about it. 

But no. She wouldn’t do that. 

They wouldn’t want the hassle. 

Harry was too exhausted to pace as he had the past several days. He hadn’t had any water since yesterday morning. Instead, he lay on his bed, and tried to go back to sleep, but his eyes felt like there was sand in it and had moved into his mouth. He tried keeping his mouth closed, hoping for saliva to come to, but it didn’t work.  The little amount of saliva that came into his mouth didn’t satiate the thirst. By noon, his lips were already cracking. 

At some point, Harry had successfully fallen asleep. But he didn’t think he was asleep for very long—as he hadn’t had a single dream—when a strange sound made him rise up. His glasses were still on his face, not having moved an inch, and he followed the sound to Hedwig’s cage.

Harry stared at her across the stifling room, the sun streaming into their dusty bedroom, acting like a heat lamp. She sat there in her cage, its smell turning sour in the heat. It wasn’t the smell that made concern settle over him, and though he was painfully tired, he sat up in the bed, his shoulders hunched over, every movement feeling shaky in his weak muscles. 

Hedwig was being weird. 

Her snowy feathers were ruffled, the way they did when Pig was around, and she had her wings spread out to the edge of her cage—was it really so small? Her beak was open, her pink tongue almost sticking out from behind it, and she was panting. Like she couldn’t breathe right. 

Sickness joined the terrible ache in his muscles, his body heating somehow more. Stumbling in the movement, Harry stood and crossed the room, his bare feet making sticky sounds against the slightly damp floor as he made his way to her cage. 

“You okay?” he croaked. 

She just stared at him with big yellow eyes, and continued panting. 

Harry squared his jaw, his swollen fingers clenching on the dresser. In first year, he once asked Hagrid if he should get a coat for Hedwig during winter, wondering if she got cold. 

“Definitely not,” Hagrid said, chuckling. “But they certainly can get too hot.” 

Harry had gone straight to the library and read everything he needed to know in case Hedwig ever got too hot. 

These were the symptoms. Right in front of him. 

He needed to get her out of here. 

Harry slowly went to his bed and started brainstorming. He could wait until they let him into the shed and get the pliers—but that definitely wouldn’t happen today. And from the way she started trilling in the back of her throat, fluttering vibrations and cooling sounds that were not the comforting coos she’d offered before, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to wait until the maybe possibility that he’d be let out tomorrow. 

He needed to get her out today. 

He wished he had his wand. It was the only other thing coming to his brain, which thoughts oozed out like molasses from his dehydrated noggin. If he had his wand, he would risk expulsion to ensure she didn’t die of overheating. Snow owls weren’t meant for this kind of weather anyway, 

But he couldn’t have his wand. Because his first day back, before he even had the opportunity to sneak anything to his room, Harry had been completely forced to put all of his things in the cupboard under the stairs, locked with three separate locks. Harry wondered sometimes what the looks the shopkeepers would give him whenever he bought every lock in this house, or maybe he had some sort of collection somewhere. Harry hadn’t even been able to bring parchment, his wand, quills, or even a single book to read to keep his mind busy. 

It was selfish of him to keep her here. He should have kept her at school. 

He knew it was miserable every time, but the idea of coming back alone had been almost too much. But now? It was almost too much knowing she was here, more miserable than he was. 

It wasn’t until he heard Vernon’s car in the driveway that he remembered that Fred and George had taught him the muggle way to pick locks. 

All he needed was something small. 

The happy sounds of wife greeting husband as Harry slid to the floor, not having the energy to squat. Quietly, he lifted the loose floorboard, searching for something he could use to break her out. A bobby pin or something. But all he could find in the completely empty space was some loose papers he must have left from last summer. 

Undeterred, Harry put the board back and continued searching. There had to be something in this room. He searched for possible loose nails. Or a pin. Maybe something in his pant’s zipper? There were some of Dudley’s old broken toys under the bed, and he pulled apart the electronic box. There had to be something here. Malleable but strong. 

And that was where he found it. Inside the battery pack, there was a small spiral piece of metal that Harry fought tooth and nail to pull it out, cutting his finger in the process. 

But he did it.

He shaped it and waited until after dinner and the sounds of the TV started playing to unlock the lock. His hands shook as he felt and listened for each click of the lock to undo. It was starting to cool off in the room—at least a little in comparison to earlier. But Harry was still burning, and he was concerned at his own self, because he wasn’t sweating the way he felt he should. And as the minutes passed and he struggled with the lock, Harry felt like the heat was coming more from within him than the air surrounding him. 

Hedwig stopped the vibrations in her throat as she watched him, but Harry couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. 

“I’m so sorry, girl,” he croaked as he struggled. “I should have kept you at Hogwarts.” 

When the lock finally gave, Harry forced himself to not shout out of relief. But he controlled himself. He would always control himself. He simply hooked it on the side of her cage and opened the little door. 

“You’re going to be uncomfortable for a minute,” he said, pulling a shirt from off the floor. “Just be patient, okay?”

She watched him with wide eyes, and he hoped she understood. She fought a little when he wrapped her in the shirt, tight, and placed her next to the door, safe out of the way just in case things got ugly, but close enough that he could easily grab her when it was time. 

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, before clothing himself with oversized shorts and a t-shirt. 

And then, with all the strength he could muster from his shaky muscles, he pushed the cage off the dresser. 

It fell with a loud bang and lingering clang. 

“BOY!”

It was a warning. A reminder, to stay quiet. Normally, Harry would either offer a fake apology or simply stay quiet, but he needed one of them to come up here. To unlock the doors. 

He opened the dresser drawer. 

And slammed it shut. 

Twice. 

“BOY!”

The sharpness in Vernon’s tone held a heavier warning. Either he had had an extraordinarily good day at work or he was too lazy to get up, but the TV continued playing, and the lack of footsteps storming up the stairs was disconcerting. Harry would have to push. Hard.  

Bracing himself, Harry slammed the drawer again, and immediately grabbed the VCR player Dudley had broken last year, and dropped that, too. 

There was no warning call this time. Harry waited in the middle of the room, hunching his shoulders forward, facing the door, his heart pounding as the steps came, pounding up each step at the same beat of Harry’s heart. The clicking of locks started, and Harry counted. Around number 6, Vernon shouted, “Damn locks!” but he continued down the line until the door burst open with a loud bang on the side dresser. 

Vernon stood in front of him, face purple, holding a glare, his hand still on the handle. One eye was more narrowed than the other in what was probably meant to be a menacing threat, but if Harry wasn’t so exhausted,  he’d probably ask Vernon if he’d gotten salt in his eye. 

Instead, he immediately shouted, “I want out of here! I’m tired of this room!” 

Vernon took a step forward, and Harry braced himself. But Vernon must have remembered the threat at the beginning of the summer, because he stopped himself, darkening the shade of his purple face into a rather nice mauve. 

“You want out of here? Fine. Get out of my house.” 

And then, almost as if he were a bellhop, he held the door open wide for Harry. Harry moved quickly, hoping the speed would keep Vernon from changing his mind. He passed by him, grabbing the wrapped-up owl with a careful hand, shielding her in case Vernon chose to grab his weirdly shaped wad of clothes. But Vernon simply stalked him down the stairs and glared at him as Harry grabbed his shoes and—without even putting them on—left the house. 

Someone locked the door behind him. Harry knew he’d be let back in in the morning. For now, Harry stalked directly to the shed as he unwrapped Hedwig, the night air cooler than the stuffiness of his bedroom, until he reached the hose. He didn’t care if Vernon heard it. He didn’t care. He placed the entrance close to his mouth and twisted the knob about nine times before the water finally came out in a strong stream, the warm water hitting the corner of his lips before it finally started to cool off. 

He drank like a camel that hadn’t had water in weeks, though he knew it was probably dramatic. It hadn’t even been 48 hours. But the thirst was insatiable, and he kept drinking until he felt like he was going to throw up. And then, it was too late, and he drank too much, and it came right back out of him like a poison. Still, after the gagging ended, he put his mouth right back to the edge, forcing himself not to repeat the over-do-ness of it all, but it was hard. 

Before it was too late, he closed his mouth and sprayed his face and hair, the water sending cold chills down his whole body. He made a little puddle for Hedwig and set the flowing hose on the ground over the puddle as he finally finished unwrapping Hedwig and placing her next to the water. 

She hooted and ruffled her feathers at him, giving him a reproachful look. 

Harry laughed, but it didn’t feel very funny to him. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes as he looked down at her. 

“Drink,” he said, and with another glare his way, she did. “I want you to go to the Burrow. Or to Hogwarts. Either one, really. Anywhere you feel safe, yeah?” 

He reached out to stroke her feathers, but she hopped away from his fingers, and a lump jumped into his throat. 

“Don’t be mad,” he said, fighting past it. “I don’t want you to get sick. You know you’re my girl, yeah?” 

She stopped drinking before expanding her wings. Harry’s heart dropped a little, thinking she was going to leave without a look his way, but she took a few hops towards him, putting her head forward, as if asking him to pet her. An apology, maybe. Or her saying she accepted his.

The lump grew, but he did as she asked. He gave her a few pets, and then she cooed at him, before flying away. 

~~~

August 5, 1995

~~~

Harry’s mind was awake before his eyes were open.

Sometime in the night, Harry had awoken to a nightmare, but his body had been trapped from moving, and he was stuck there for what felt like hours before he could sleep again. Apparently, the Dreamless Sleep didn’t work the way it was supposed to. Either he was immune, Snape had replaced it with paralyzing poison, or he was getting some of those visions that he was sure had to do with Voldemort. Snippets, but full of darkness. 

He couldn’t decide which was worse: waking up to his own panicked shouts and tears, or waking up immobilized. 

But now, Harry wasn’t paralyzed. He just lay there, feeling strangely comfortable, especially after the long night he’d had. Sunlight was streaming into the bedroom, a warm, line of yellow brightness shining beyond his eyelids. The house was silent. Peaceful. And the cozy smell of Ron was there, masking the dust with a soothing overcast. He let himself note the softness of his pajama bottoms and slightly too large t-shirt, the pillow perfectly placed under his cheek, the bone of his lower back against the wall. He felt… snuggly. A word he’d never felt before. Feeling like he was on a cloud. 

The presence next to him was just as grounding. Ron’s breaths were heavy, still deep asleep. Harry finally opened his eyes, ready to take in the room, ready to quietly get out of bed and start the day, but he paused. 

Ron was facing him, the sun streaming through the little window and falling on the bottom half of Ron’s face. His mouth was slightly open, a bit of drool dried on the side of his cheek, making Harry inwardly chuckle. His orange hair had grown a little and fell across his forehead, a single strand tracing some of Ron’s freckles in a perfect little line. And before he knew it, Harry was taking in all of Ron’s freckles. They were each a different size and shape, hoarding themselves near his nose and cheeks but expanding out like stars across the rest of his face. One, by the corner of his lips, looked like a little heart. Another, on his nose, looked like a bowtie. 

Angel kisses. That’s what he once heard one of his elementary school tears call them when a girl had been teased for them by Dudley. It means that you have angels watching out for you, the teacher had said. Each kiss is a thanks for the good you’ll do in life.

Ron must do the most good of them all. 

Harry didn’t really believe in angels—or maybe he did, he didn’t know—but what he did know was that right now, he didn’t want to stop counting the freckles. 

He counted to 40 when Ron suddenly inhaled deeply, and Harry closed his eyes, feigning sleep, heart jumping, feeling like he was about to get caught doing something wrong. But Ron didn’t wake up. He just shifted in his spot and continued breathing heavily. Harry waited a few minutes before opening his eyes again and continued his counting, though he only saw half of Ron’s face now, as he’d moved onto his back in the shift.  

As he counted, Harry thought. Not in the dark way he had for the past few weeks. Right now, he thought of things that made his mind feel like something bright had walked into its center and sat down yogi-style. He had missed Ron deeply. Ron, who always had such a way of lighting up every room he was in. Harry had missed what it felt like to laugh sincerely and remember he was just Harry and that he had people who cared. He missed teasing and being teased and feeling like he was a part of a family. 

But with that thought came the reminder of the letter. Within an instant, Harry had silently and smoothly slipped out of the bed,  careful to not jostle the mattress or blankets too much, passing the peeling wallpaper and tiptoeing downstairs, checking outside the front door for the letter. 

It then occurred to Harry that the letter probably wouldn’t actually arrive here. Harry had written using the address Ron had written on the letter he’d sent—143 Barn Ln, London. And Snape had explained that the house had a secret keeper that made it so only Dumbledore could share the address of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. So even if Harry had written Number 12 Grimmauld Place, how could a Muggle postman find it anyway?

Did that mean the address Ron used was fake? 

Why that place?

143 Barn Ln, London. He should find where that was. Maybe they had the letter by now. 

Harry quietly pulled on some shoes and tiptoed to the edge of the stairs, straining his ears for noise. There was no stirring, which Harry was grateful for. Normally Molly would be awake by now, but it was possible she was still “out shopping” with Remus. 

He tiptoed to the door. He’d just be gone for a few minutes. Find a newspaper stand and ask for a map of London, shove it under his shirt, and sneak back in quietly, no one the wiser. With smooth fingers, Harry turned the handle to the front door, moving a half centimeter at a time, protecting against any squeaks so as to not wake up the screaming portrait of Sirius’s mother, before he finally successfully opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through. 

No portraits screamed. 

The door behind him closed with a near-silent click as he slowly let go of the handle. Letting out a relieved exhale, Harry turned around, ready to scurry out of sight of any of the windows, only to come face-to-face with a pale, dark-haired potion’s professor.

“Mr. Potter.” 

Harry squeaked and jumped back like a frightened cat, the sound of Professor Snape’s silky voice as much of a threat as if he’d sent Avada Kedavara his way. 

Trying to not look guilty, Harry put a hand to his chest and let out a sharp laugh. “You scared me, Professor!”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Where were you going?”

Harry grinned widely. “Nowhere.”

“... Nowhere.” Disbelieving. 

“Yep,” Harry said, popping that promising ‘p’ again. “Was just gonna come out here and sit on the curb.” And then, as if to prove his point, Harry immediately plopped down onto the footstep in front of the door.

Snape raised one sardonic brow. “I see,” he said, and Harry felt like he did not, in fact, see. “Tell me, Mr. Potter. Do you believe me to be daft?”

Harry’s smile tightened. “Daft, no.” 

Snape’s lips downturned slightly, as if expecting Harry to continue his sentence. 

He didn’t. 

They stared at each other for several seconds, Harry smiling, Snape scowling, before finally Snape snapped: “Get inside, Mr. Potter. If you cannot be trusted to stay indoors, I’ll be forced to place a tracker on you.” 

Harry’s smile fell instantly. He didn’t stand. “I don’t need a tracker.”

Snape put a hand in one of his robes’ pockets, which was a surprisingly human thing to do. The strangeness of it was overshadowed, however, when Snape spoke, sarcasm dripping like a leaking faucet. “Remind me, Potter, where I found you not even two days ago?” 

Heat entered Harry’s hands. “I’m not there now, am I? I’m sitting on the front steps.” 

“Which you would not be doing if I hadn’t appeared, I’m sure.”

“Why are you here?” Harry grumbled. 

“To check your vitals. Now get inside.” 

Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. “Check them here. Then I can continue having fresh air in peace.”

“Open a window if you need it that bad.”

The heat was getting hotter. “No.” 

“Why are you being insolent?” Snape snapped with a glare, before waving his hand sharply, signaling for Harry to stand. “Do you think I like coming here? That I have to make sure The Precious Boy Who Lived doesn’t die because he made the choice to meet Voldemort face-to-face?”

“In my defense, Sir, me going to see Voldemort didn’t make you do anything. You don’t have to do anything. I had it under control.”

Snape glared down at him, silent for a moment. Silent and thinking turning around behind his onyx eyes, dull and sharp all at once. Harry stared back into them, a challenge. 

Finally, he spoke. “It is my responsibility to ensure you are safe,” Snape said, made of ice. 

“Why?” Harry asked, still planted to the warming concrete beneath his pyjama pants as the sun continued to rise. “If you hate it so much, just… don’t.”

“Again, it is my responsibility,” he stated coldly. “I am your teacher.”  

“So is Professor Pomfrey,” Harry pointed out. “You don’t see her here.” 

“That is because I am the one who found you loitering along the Manor.”

“Technically that was Malfoy who found me,” Harry corrected. “But I appreciate you apparating me here. Couldn’t have done it without you, really.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed further as he stared down. Harry wondered briefly if he could see through his eyelashes like that or if he just did it for The Effect. 

Harry felt a beam of pride as Snape suddenly stood up a little straighter and un-narrowed his eyes, leaving Harry feeling like he won whatever battle the two of them had been in. So when Snape simply requested, “Inside, Potter,” Harry lifted his chin and his body from the stairs before he turned around, opening the door quietly, careful to not wake up the portrait. He was successful in that endeavor as he walked into the kitchen, out of earshot of the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone else up, and certainly not wanting to bother Ron in the room where he currently slept. Snape followed, silent. 

In the kitchen, Harry leaned against the counter, folding his arms, facing Snape. “I guess you can do your diagnostics thing now?”

Snape’s lips tightened, just slightly, but to Harry’s surprise, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he lifted his wand and passed it across Harry, reading those imaginary words that Harry was starting to resent heavily. Without a word, Snape reached into his pocket and pulled out five potions this time, handing them wordlessly to Harry, who took them in kind. 

“If you prefer another person to give you these potions,” said Snape coldly once Harry had taken them all and handed back the empty bottles, “then should I call Madam Pomfrey for her to begin your daily diagnostics?” 

Harry debated. He was no longer in the same position as before, beaten and bloodied with fractured bones and open wounds littered along his back. No, Harry was mostly healed. So he could see Madam Pomfrey without any suspicion, without her going to Dumbledore with discussions of bleeding backs and purple necks. 

“What kinds of things does the diagnostic spell look for?” Harry asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. 

Snape didn’t look at him. Instead, he turned and put a kettle of water on the stove, flickering the fire underneath, and then summoning a single cup. “Lots of things,” Snape said vaguely. “It tells you what you’re looking for.” 

Harry frowned. What did that mean? “Like…?” 

“It can tell you a lot,” Snape said, voice still soft and silky, like he was playing a game and knew he was winning. That pride that Harry had felt earlier was ebbing away with the realization that Harry had been playing checkers while Snape was playing chess. And Harry had never been too good at chess. “Usually it shows present injuries. For example, you currently have bruises in several spots, and are still malnourished and dehydrated, though it is not severe by any means.” 

His frown was heavy. “Usually?” 

Snape nodded. “Usually, yes.” 

Harry decided he wasn’t going to ask about the space outside of the usual. 

Snape decided to tell him anyway. “Other times, it can show past injuries,” he said, quieter. “If they are bad enough.”

Harry felt nauseous again. Which was annoying, because he hadn’t even had the chance to eat yet today. “Oh,” he said lightly. “Interesting.”

The tea kettle started to boil, steam escaping the little spout. “Interesting indeed,” Snape said, not facing Harry. He stared at the still silent water. “Mr. Potter, I have a question.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “Ask away.” 

He was free to ask, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d be getting any answers. 

“How were you expecting to kill The Dark Lord, exactly?” 

Ah. A question Harry wasn’t going to answer. 

Which he knew would annoy Snape. 

“I was gonna bite him,” Harry said, fighting off a weird laugh. “Really, really hard.” 

Snape didn’t turn around. “Right,” he said, just as dry. “Sarcasm aside, let’s review. Again. You went into the Manor, wandless, and truly believed you were going to succeed in killing the Dark Lord?”

“Yep.”

“To me,” Snape continued, “it sounds a lot like a desperate suicide mission. And as you are people’s precious trophy, I cannot allow that.” 

Harry’s body started buzzing. Like the boiling water in the kettle. 

As if on cue, the kettle began to scream as water boiled over. Harry found himself tense in the chair, hands feeling like fire as he glared at the back of Snape’s head.

As the kettle continued screaming. Harry’s voice rose over it. “It’s not that big of a deal. If you guys hadn’t gotten in my way, Voldemort would be dead by now.” 

Snape took off the boiling pot, the silence almost immediately following it. Feeling like some kind of warning. Slowly, he poured hot water into the mug in front of him, before steeping his tea bag. 

Harry was breathing heavily. Still, Snape didn’t turn around. 

But he spoke. 

“I’ll be sure to talk to Pomfrey, then, if you are so adamant it not be me who come here. She is the only other one I trust to not give improper diagnoses.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“And I’ll be sure to keep her updated on the—ah—Death Eater, who injured you in interestingly muggle ways. Did he also forget his wand? As you did?”

“He didn’t forget his wand,” Harry gritted out. “Everything you saw was a result of his curses.” 

Snape finally looked at him. Something under the surface, dark. Was it anger? Hatred? 

Harry wouldn’t ask. 

Snape would never offer the answer. 

Snape continued to look down at Harry, that dark expression stewing. Not like boiling water, but like lava, slowly calling down the side of the mountain. 

“There is no spell that leaves marks around necks like that, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry froze. 

Hands on neck. 

Breathing. Gone.

Pressure stopping. Vision darkening. 

Duley’s face leaning forward, close to his face.

Concern.  

Harry’s heart was in his throat, and he felt like he was choking on it. He blinked several times, trying to focus on one point in the room to remind him he was here and not there. 

Whatever Snape was thinking, it wasn’t that. Harry was sure of it. 

He wasn’t going to ask what he meant. What he thought. What he was insinuating. Questions like that tended to raise suspicion, and Harry had probably already asked more questions than he should. In moments like these, absolute ignorance was best.

“I don’t need you or Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said once he found his voice, jutting his jaw forward. 

Snape looked down at him with an eyebrow raised. He went to put the mug on his lips, but he paused before he did all the way, and looked down at Harry, before leaning with one arm against the counter. Again, something weirdly casual and human. Harry had never really imagined Snape in a place like a kitchen, though he supposed he probably had to at some point. If he wasn’t painfully angry, he might have commented on it. 

“How independent.”

Resentment at the mocking tone reared its ugly head in, and Harry immediately stood, fingers clenched. Itching to grab something to throw at Snape. Maybe to rile him up the way he’d riled up Vernon. Maybe to have an excuse to let out the anger that was boiling underneath the surface, the way the kettle had screamed for before being taken off the hot surface by Snape’s own hand. 

“What is your problem?” he gritted between teeth, glaring at the man who returned a stare with disinterest in his gaze. “If you want to hold some sort of power over my head because you think things that aren’t true, then you can just leave, sir.” 

Snape took a drink, unmoving. “So is this you telling me you’d prefer Pomfrey to come by?”

Harry’s eyebrows squeezed in closer as he narrowed his eyes. “I’m saying I’d prefer none of you coming by.” 

“I see,” Snape said. “And then how do you suppose you’ll get the potions you need to regain your health?”

“I’m not unhealthy,” Harry said, raising his voice and then his arms to the sides and then gesturing to himself. “I’m here, I’m breathing, I’m uninjured, I’m fine, and give it a week, and whatever malnourish-whatever you’re talking about will be fixed. I’m not going to keel over and die.” 

Snape stared at him, expression empty. “And you trying to escape this morning was…?”

“Merlin forbid I wanna go outside,” Harry snapped. “You know, it isn’t healthy for people to be locked up. If you’re so concerned about my health, maybe a bit of freedom would help.” 

“In any other circumstance, Mr. Potter, I would agree with you,” he said, and took one small sip of his tea. The first one. “But unfortunately, you have the tendency to use the freedom you do receive at times to make, ah, unfortunate decisions. Such as waltzing to the Dark Lord’s place of hiding without a wand.”

Harry continued glaring. 

“And,” Snape said, as he waved his wand, and a black device appeared out of nowhere and wrapped itself tight against Harry’s ankle. As Harry immediately dropped down to it, clawing at it to pull it off, Snape continued softly: “… I don’t trust you to not repeat your mistakes..” 

“What the hell is this?” Harry asked, as he looked for a button or loop to press to get it off of him. 

“Your lack of respect and remorse shows to me that you cannot be trusted to stay safe inside the walls of this home. If you choose to leave, I will be informed. And I will ensure you do not go beyond those front steps without an adult to accompany you.”  

Mouth hanging open in anger, Harry stared at the black piece of fabric. It finally clicked what it was. “Is this a fucking ankle bracelet?” 

Snape looked down at him, unrepentant. “You will be safe, and if that requires me to be the only one in this organization to ensure it, then so be it.” With the wave of his wand, his still-full mug flew to the sink and landed inside with a soft clank. “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Potter.” 

With that, Snape left, and Harry was still crouching down, clawing at the marks. He knew his fingers wouldn’t do anything, and Harry wished more than anything that he had his wand right now to blast it off his ankle. 

But he didn’t. 

It was still at Aunt Marge’s. Or maybe in some random river Vernon decided to throw his things into. Harry had been thinking about sneaking out to get it, but now? 

Now he didn’t even have a chance. 

Something like shame filled Harry’s chest. Sickening and hollow and red. Harry shoved his pyjama pants over the ankle, determined to not let anyone else know that he had some fucking… collar on his ankle right now. Like a fucking dog. 

Feeling trapped and angry and like he wanted to destroy something right now, Harry angrily grabbed a few pieces of bread before stomping upstairs, eating it angrily, before realizing he didn’t know where to go. He could continue exploring the house. But he’d already looked inside all the rooms that were safe to open. There was nowhere for him to go that wouldn’t bother anyone else. Angrily, he walked back down the stairs and started pacing in the living room until he calmed down enough to sit on the couch and stare out the window, something hollow and sad replacing the heat. 

The streets were empty. Grey and blues with accents of reds and yellows. Harry finally looked at his watch, only to find it was only 7 in the morning. Which meant Snape had come annoyingly early. Had he planned the bracelet? Knew he couldn’t get away with it if Sirius was in the room? 

He was a prick. 

A power-hungry prick who just wanted Harry on a fucking leash. 

Remorse temporarily entered his chest at that thought, remembering how Snape had found Harry with Malfoy. What he’d done afterwards. To protect him. To protect both of them. And how he stitched him up afterwards without a comment about being a burden. 

But the remorse was quickly swept away as he thought of the fucking ankle bracelet. 

Not long later, the sound of someone awake sounded through the hall upstairs. A door slowly opened, only the click of the latch forming giving Harry notice of it. And then whispers. 

He recognized Hermione’s voice immediately, and before he knew it, he found his way up the stairs, following the sound. He could go for one pleasant face this morning. Two, if she could get Ron to wake up. Before he opened the door, he schooled himself, trying to loosen the lines he knew were probably along his forehead and between his brows and along the corners of his downturned lips. 

Exhaling, he opened the door. 

Hermione was sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand on Ron’s shoulder. Ron was still asleep, mouth still wide open, the sun having moved over his closed eyes. Hermione twisted to Harry, offering him a smile, before something a little devious formed behind her smile made of perfect teeth, cheeks reaching her eyes. 

The corners of Harry’s lips also turned up as she mimed something to him, almost immediately removing his sour mood. He joined her evil plan by moving to the other side of Ron, careful to not jostle the bed too much—not yet, anyway. Harry moved his arms over Ron’s shoulders, gently moving him to lay on his back, and ready to hold him down. Hermione hovered her fingers like a piano player over his stomach. 

“Ready?” she whispered. 

He grinned. “Absolutely.” 

At almost the exact same time, Harry and Hermione pushed down onto Ron, Harry holding firm and Hermione moving like she was playing music. 

“WAKE UP!” Harry shouted as Hermione immediately began laughing. 

Ron’s eyes burst open wide, and he immediately started fighting against the four hands on him, laughing wildly, twisting against the torture they inflicted. 

“STOP!” he shouted, his mouth open wide and laughing. “Stop—this is—hahahahaha—YOU SUCK—hahah—I can’t breathe!”

Laughing, Harry and Hermione let go, and the three of them laughed harder when Ginny shouted down the hall, “SHUT UP!”

“I hate you guys,” Ron said as he pulled himself out of the bed. 

Harry grinned. “You love us.” 

Ron rolled his eyes, now on his feet and heading to the door. “Yeah, whatever, I guess I do.” 

Hermione grinned at Harry, who was reminded perfectly why he missed them so much. He was selfishly glad she was choosing to stay.

The three of them headed down to the kitchen, which was still empty. Harry felt a pang of irritation, remembering that he had a fucking ankle bracelet tied to Severus Snape on him right now, but he pushed it away when Ron sighed.

“I guess mum’s not back,” he said, opening a cabinet, his hand reaching high to grab the loaf of bread. He’d grown, somehow, even in the month that Harry hadn’t seen him, and in the movement, his shirt rode up a little, showing off a strip of pale skin. Harry looked away, feeling something weird in his stomach over having noticed it. 

Hermione was opening the fridge, unaware of Harry’s thoughts. “Do we have cereal?”

Ron paused, before turning to her with a half smile. “What’s cereal?” 

Hermione and Harry’s mouths dropped open at the same time, making Ron laugh. 

Harry put his two hands together in a cup shape. “It’s like… crunchy tiny pieces of toast you put in milk.” 

“Kind of,” Hermione said, lips twisting in a smile. “Good try at explaining, though.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Can we have your parents send us some?”

She nodded. “Absolutely.” 

Ron looked between the two with a disbelieving smile. “Can we just make eggs?”

They did. The three of them got to work breaking eggs and pulling out sausages and slicing bread and chopping potatoes. Hermione almost burned the bacon, so Harry took over the meats while Hermione set the plates in perfect placements along the table, and Ron finished up the eggs and potatoes. The mood was light as the three of them teased and laughed when Ron accidentally dropped an egg and Harry tripped over it.

Cooking next to people he liked was a lot more fun than cooking alone. 

Slowly, people came downstairs. The twins, and then Ginny, who promptly turned around and left when she saw the twins, and then Sirius. 

“Wow!” Sirius exclaimed when he came through. “I knew it smelled good, but I was expecting Molly down here! I didn’t know you three could cook!”

“I can’t,” said Hermione. 

“Of course I can,” said Ron. 

“I sliced the potatoes,” said Harry. 

Sirius got himself a heaping plate, just as Molly and Remus returned, with the screaming of Walburga Black interrupting their lighthearted breakfast. Molly came through the kitchen once Sirius calmed down the portrait, a surprised and proud expression on her face. 

“You cooked breakfast!” she exclaimed, before running straight to Ron, pulling his tall body down and giving him a large kiss on the top of his head, which he pulled away from with a groan. “You three are the best.” And then Molly turned to Harry and did the same, but Harry didn’t move into or against it, feeling a lump form in his chest as she did so. “What would I do without you?” And then she turned to Hermione and did the same, giving her a hug that included a lot of rocking to the sides. 

“Mum, stop,” Ron muttered, handing a full plate to her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” she asked, taking a bite and swallowing quickly. “This is amazing.”

Ron rolled his eyes and gave Harry a Look, but Harry was still trying to keep his flush down at the praise. Ron smiled, then, and took a few steps closer, handing Harry another full plate, and then handing him a cup of tea. Three sugars. Just the way Harry liked it. 

Harry looked at the food. The drink. Looked back at Ron, who was offering a lopsided smile under dark blue eyes. 

“Yeah, I guess it’s been a pretty great morning so far.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the pink on his cheeks didn’t disappear.