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Chapter Text

“You dare—” 

“Yes, I dare,” said Harry. His mind was racing, taking in the destruction all around them; the ruins of stone that buried blood and bodies beneath them. Despite the way his heart ached and burned in pain, he had entered a strange state of calm. This was the end. This was it. The final breath. “I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle,” he taunted. “I know lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?” 

Voldemort prowled in a circle, silent with black rage. Harry knew that he if he could keep at bay, temporarily mesmerised, held back by the faintest possibility that Harry might indeed know a final secret. . .

“So, it all comes down to this, doesn’t it?” said Harry quietly, eyes intent on his target. “Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does . . .” in this moment, Harry was weightless, unbound by fears death. “I am the true master of the Elder Wand.” 

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: 

“Avada Kedavra!” 

He would not fall to Voldemort again.

“Expelliarmus!” 

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell. 

One shivering second of silence, the shock of the moment suspended: and then–  

–the heavy air broke around Harry as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air. The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him, and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him. Then Ginny, Neville, and Luna were there, and then all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout, and Harry could not hear a word that anyone was shouting, nor tell whose hands were seizing him, pulling him, trying to hug some part of him, hundreds of them pressing in, all of them determined to touch the boy-who-lived, the reason it was over at last —

The sun continued to rise steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light. Harry was an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. They wanted him there with them, their leader and symbol, their saviour and their guide, and that he had not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic. . . . 

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had died fighting him. McGonagall had replaced the House tables, but nobody was sitting according to House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and people were throwing food into his laughing mouth.

Exhausted and emotionally drained, Harry let his feet lead him away from it all, giving a nod to Draco as he passed him. He nodded back.

Harry couldn’t blame him for leaving taking his parents and fleeing from battle – no, by that point it was almost over anyone. He had done his part, risking more than his life to supply inside information to the outside world from the very heart of Voldemort’s oppuration. Without, Harry was certain that he, Ron, Hermione and countless others would be dead – or worse. No, Harry did not (would not) blame Draco.

A minute or so later, he finally found himself outside once more.

His breath caught in his throat, heart beginning to race. A delayed swell of panic and loss rose like a tide in his chest, threatening to drown him. The overcast sky was streaked by brilliant orange, the sinking sun giving a new light to the ruined landscape. 

The castle, blackened by soot and stained forever by the death of so many of its students, still stood tall. As he stood in the morning glow, ash clinging to his skin, the ominous aura of pain and suffering that plaguing his home gave way to a sense of hope. Harry’s lips curved into a small smile, and he closed his eyes, face tilting towards to the sky. He breathed and something like peace settled in his bones.

It was over.

Chapter Text

Harry stood in the silence for. . . he had no idea how much time had passed actually. The world beyond his closed eyelids had darken, sun hiding behind the clouds once again, and he was starting to feel a chill creeping past his clothes.

He was grateful. He had left him to his silence.

He heaved a great breath, finally opening his eyes and–

what?

–within an instant, he was on high alert, hand lurching for his wand. He was surrounded by a thick, impenetrable darkness – a curse? Had someone gotten the jump on him and completely escaped his notice? – so he cast–

He cast–

He was going to scream. His wand was gone.

Fuck, he thought, trying desperately to maintain calm, it was over, it was over, it was over! please, just let it be over.

How had they gotten him – because someone must have gotten him – and where was he now? The air around him was stale, the musty scent of dust and ___ clogging his nose. Had he been captured? Though he didn’t understand how they could’ve done it, he could rule nothing out.

Fuck, did they take anyone else? Ron? Hermione? Dennis Creevey, whose brother–

Harry grit his teeth. Taking stock, he noted that he’d been changed out of his battle torn clothes into some kind of rags; a threadbare shirt and loose pants. No shoes or socks, and he no longer felt the icky cling of ash and grime. Tentatively reaching out his hands, Harry quickly found a wall (so he had been taken somewhere – how?) and began feeling out the perimeter of the ‘room’.

It was tiny. Barely bigger than a coat cupboard. So tiny he was surprised he even fit inside – although perhaps that was to point. Stick him somewhere cramped enough he won’t have any space to cause a nuisance – it certainly worked in the Dursley’s favour for the first eleven years of his life. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could also see a crack of light where one wall met the floor – must be the door then. Reaching his knees was a small cot (how considerate of his. . . captors?), crammed to fit into space. The ceiling slanted downwards, dramatically so, and affixed to one of the walls was a set of shelves, full of boxes and objects– no, not objects. . . knickknacks?

Carefully trying not to knock anything off, Harry ran his fingers over the shelf. There, on the shelf third from the floor, three small–

Harry’s eyes flew wide in incredulous confusion.

They couldn’t be. Why the fuck would. . .

barely bigger than a coat cupboard. . surprised he even fit inside. . . certainly worked in the Dursley’s favour for the first eleven years of his life.

The oppressive silence almost held a physical weight as Harry’s breathing stopped, a truly insane thought worming its ugly way through his mind. Apprehension rising, Harry reached up and carefully yanked on the chain he knew would be there. Light flooded the room and Harry stared down at the tiny green army soldier in his hand. His voice hitched as his body bit a scream of frustration, mind fizzing out to an almost pleasant blankness.

This wasn’t any cupboard.

It was his cupboard.

Complete with the dust and spiders galore.

Three sharp raps against the closet door sent Harry flinching back, body and mind still keyed towards survival and survival only.

"What are you knocking around for? Up! Get up! Now!"

Harry–

Harry couldn’t–

Harry couldn’t breath–

But there was no time for him to panic. His aunt – for only she could be the owner of such a shrill voice – rapped on the door again. They ripped the young man– boy– wizard violently from his world of silence and despair.

"Up!" she screeched. The viewing grate Uncle Vernon installed when Harry was seven slid open with an unfair smoothness. Aunt Petunia’s wide eyes peered at him in disdain. “And put that light out!” she demanded, before slamming the grate shut.

Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Despair sat heavily (and uncomfortably familiar) in his stomach. If he been uncertain before, there was no room for doubt now. He forced himself to take a deep breath, pinching the loose skin between his thumb and forefinger. He let the sharp sting become a brief distraction from his spiralling mind. 

His aunt was back outside the door. 

"Are you up yet?" she demanded. 

"Nearly," said Harry, voice catching. 

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn,” she warned. “I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

His aunts’ feet moved away and Harry stared unseeing at the door.

He, Harry quickly decided, was utterly fucked.

#

Harry took the next few hours to acclimatise.

Quite understandably, he spent a good number of those hours quietly freaked out about. . . everything. Somehow finding himself in 1991 of all years, in the body of his 11-year-old self no less. Realising that, if this wasn’t all just some sick nightmare or curse, he would soon be reliving the last increasingly traumatic years of his life. Concluding that, if he truly had to do it all again, he would not stand by idly and let Voldemort terrorise him and his family again.

Harry had (from his perspective) killed him once before.

He would just have to do it again.

Easy.

Now, it was only a question of how. He had next to no magical ability; or really, no way to use it. Embarrassingly, he’d fainted trying to perform wandless magic the other day – although he had the knowledge, his young body was nowhere near able to handle that level of magic. Not that seventeen-year-old Harry could do it either, but one could hope. So, as he was, physically eleven, with no resources and no friends allies, there was no way he go out and simply start collecting horcruxes. Thanks to Dudley (a sentence he never thought he’d say this genuinely), Harry knew change was possible. Despite the bubbling temptation, Harry ignored his cousin’s temper tantrum in the reptile house– and this time, the glass didn’t vanish. Thus, there was no mass panic, and Dudley’s birthday passed without any ‘unnatural’ drama.

And so, in between performing the majority of household chores, and fighting off night terrors in the dead of night, Harry spent the next four weeks to trying to plan. Many of his first ideas were quickly discarded, and notions about the far future were carefully shelved to leave space and time to think of the coming year.

He had to take things slowly, no more rushing in wand first.

Survive each year as they come.

By the morning of July 24^th, Harry felt. . . not exactly calmer, but more in control. Just in time to receive his Hogwarts letter upon being sent to check the mail.

Conscious of Uncle Vernon’s temporal good mood in the dining room behind him, Harry risked a few seconds to simply stare at the letter in the top of the stack. Before, he had years berating himself for not sliding the thick parchment envelope under the door of his cupboard to read later. Felt himself an idiot for not having the patience to simply wait a few hours to read something that was clearly so important.

Hindsight is 20/20, Harry thought wryly as he scanned the creepily specific address, everything exactly as he remembered it. Holding it felt just a surreal as it had seven years ago. He started walking back to the dinning room, where his relatives were waiting for him. He slid his letter under his cupboard door.

The rest of the day passed without incident.

Dudley’s second room remained his second room, and Harry retired to his closet after dinner.

Late that night, once he was sure his relatives were asleep, Harry spent some time rummaging in his closet, trying to find– there it is. He pulled out the dying torch he vaguely remembered sneaking from Dudley’s broken toy room all those years ago (but also only last week) and used it to write his reply.

       Dear Professor McGonagall,

Thank you for your letter and giving me the oppato opportunity to attend your school.

My family would appreciate it you could send a member of staff to help me get my supplies on the 31^st of this month. Thank you in advans advance.

       Sinserely,

       Harry J. Potter

Sufficiently satisfied with his ‘spelling mistakes’, Harry folded the letter up and placed it inside the Hogwarts envelope. Pointedly, he did not cross out the address on the front.

Let Professor McGonagall do with that what she will.

Unbending a wire coat hanger he snuck out after completing the laundry, Harry began the nerve-wracking task of sliding it through the seeing-grate to unhook the latch. It was a trick the Weasley twins had taught him at some point in fifth year, for this exact purpose, he suspected. It took some time (not an easy task to accomplish, even when not in the dead of night), but eventually, he was out– out of his closet and out the front door, snagging the delivery owl waiting diligently on their letterbox.

Vernon was particularly smug at breakfast, sending Harry nasty grins that the young boy promptly ignored. Harry imagined it was because he thought no one would be coming for him. Perhaps Aunt Petunia remembered that letters were sent the month before school started. Or maybe it was because of Harry’s new “obedience” streak this last month.

He didn’t particularly care. Whether they knew it or not, Harry had made his peace with his relatives. Uncle Vernon was a beast of a man, all rage and ego. Aunt Petunia let jealousy and spite poison her life. And one day, though a bully now, Dudley would wake up.

Harry owed them nothing: not his anger, not his forgiveness, and certainly not his help.

(Secretly, our accidental time traveller couldn’t wait for the look on his uncles’ face when the man realised that all his “corrective punishments” didn’t solve anything. Harry was as wizard as they come. The man-turned-boy looked forward to seeing him reach a nice deep crimson colour before he left to shop for school supplies next week.)

#

A week later, Harry found himself pleasantly surprised.

He’d been expecting a crimson level explosion from uncle upon the arrival of Hagrid (Hagrid!). It was probably due to the choice words about “a bloody broom closet!” the half-giant had near yelled in Vernon’s face, but the man managed to achieve a truly impressive maroon shade of rage (and fear) before the front door shut in Harry and Hagrid’s faces.

It was brilliant.

Of course, Hagrid –whom Harry was glad had been sent to pick him up– didn’t seem to think so. That probably had to do with the aforementioned yelling, screaming and threatening, but Harry thought it went quite well considering: no real difference to a typical day at the Dursley’s.

Hagrid had seemed even more furious after Harry told him that and spent a good few minutes grumbling things under his breath that were definitely not appropriate for young ears.

With a final grumble, Hagrid turned to Harry, staring down at him with a quickly softening expression. "Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school,” he gave a conspiring grin. “An’ maybe a few other things fer fun, I reckon.”

After walking for a few minutes, the two reached the main road and Harry flagged down a taxi. Hagrid, giving Harry a sideways look, gestured at the car with his umbrella. "If I was ter– er– make things a bit, yeh know, comfortable, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

"Of course not," said Harry, a fond feeling sweeping through him. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the car, and then simply. . . slid through the door, his large bulky form somehow squeezing easily inside the “strange metal contraption”.

Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could pay their fair and, once they eventually got to the train station, buy their tickets. 

Although Harry made sure to ask about all the things he remembered being baffled about the first time ‘round, his mind wandered.

Yes, he wanted to change the future. Merlin, there were so many things that Harry wanted to change and so many people he wanted to save– but he can’t do it all now, at least not outwardly. Many lectures from Hermione about the consequences of time travel had ensured that Harry fully understood what exactly he had gotten into. Logically, he knew he couldn’t change too much in the early years –no matter how much he wanted to– as it would mean the future would become too unrecognisable by the time anything important happens, and his foreknowledge would become redundant.

And Harry needed his foreknowledge to make things better.

But there was one thing he wanted to change very early on. The reason Harry had asked to be taken to Diagon Alley on his birthday. If asked, Harry would say it was a strategic move, something that would allow him to defeat Voldemort more easily when the time came. But he knew that it was a more selfish want than anything else.

Harry had always sort of regretted the day he met Draco Malfoy. Not in the way that he wish they had never met, but in the way that he thought the meeting could’ve gone so much better. Disorientated and self-conscious, Harry had mistaken the other boys’ attempt disguise his excitement as disinterest, thus deciding against asking the questions he desperately wanted answers to in fear of looking stupid, which led to other miscommunications and then that day on the train and–

. . . he really shouldn’t have rejected the other boys’ hand the way he did. He hadn’t seen it then, too preoccupied with gaining Ron’s gratitude and approval, but hindsight had made him realise exactly what he had done, and by that point it was too late to apologise. The hopeful gleam in the other boys’ eyes had given way to surprised hurt and devastation.

It had probably been the first time the Malfoy Heir had tried to make a friend without his parents hanging over his shoulder and scrutinising his every move.

That’s definitely top of the list for now, Harry thought, but first. . .

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" Hagrid asked as he sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. 

Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. 

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need. "

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the night before, and read:

       HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

       First-year students will require:

       1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
       2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
       3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
       4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

       Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

       All students should have a copy of each of the following:

       1. The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
       2. A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
       3. Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
       4. A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
       5. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
       6. Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
       7. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
       8. The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

       1 wand
       1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
       1 set of glass or crystal phials
       1 telescope set
       1 brass scales

       Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

. . . but first, Gringotts.

#

Harry had forgotten just how. . . bright Diagon Alley was. When he had last seen it, the colourful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons had been lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them. Most of those sombre purple posters had carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over that summer, but others had borne moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange could be seen sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. Windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street.

Harry was ashamed to say he’d forgotten.

At least he didn’t have to fake the appearance of absolute wonder to his half-giant companion.

They passed by everything and in a colourful blur until –finally– they reached their first stop.

Gringotts.

Harry looked up at the big white building, remembering the nervousness that had filled at the sight of such and expensive and imposing looking place. Now, it was all he could do not to cringe, his last experience with the bank filling him with a different kind of nervousness.

Although he realised it wasn’t exactly a logical conclusion, Harry couldn’t help but expect that –any second now– a horde of goblins would pop out of nowhere and descend on him for daring to steal from them and destroy their beautiful building in the process.

"Like I said,” said Hagrid. “Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it,"

Harry cast a surreptitious glance around him, and shivered.

Hopefully this time he wouldn’t have to resort to anything as. . . dramatic.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors, and they were in the vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter. 

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

"You have his key, sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of mouldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. 

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key. 

The goblin looked at it closely. 

"That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully. 

"Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Norak!"

“You go ahead, Hagrid,” Harry said. “I’m sure the goblins can take me to my vault.”

Hagrid’s thick brows furrowed and he glanced uncertainly at the teller. “Are yeh sure ‘Arry? I don’ really think I’m supposed the leave yeh on yeh own down there. . .”

”It’s alright,” Harry reassured the bigger man. “I quite sure that getting that package for Dumbledore is more important than helping me get some money. Like I said, the goblins should be more than enough help.”

“Well, if yeh sure. . .” Hagrid seemed to look around uncertainly for a moment before clearing his throat. “I’ll see yeh a bit later Harry. Just out here.”

The moment Hagrids’ large form awkwardly disappeared behind closed doors, Harry turned to the goblin teller, a calculating gleam accidentally shining through in his Avada Kadavra eyes.

It's not that Harry didn't want to spend time with Hagrid, nor did he particularly mind taking longer to get to his vault.

He just didn't particularly feel like going along with Dumbledore’s little plan, no matter how good his intentions are - and there's no doubt that the Headmaster had been trying to entice Harry in the mystery of the stone already (after all, why would Hagrid have brought Harry along with him to pick up a supposed-to-be-a-secret object?). Harry was quite content to let the Headmaster think he had no interest whatsoever in puzzling out that mystery. Harry refused to let his friends be dragged along behind him if he started down that road - he'd ruined their lives once with his reckless need to prove himself of saving others.

He won't do it again.

Ignoring the fact that Harry had a massive internal panic attack at the sight of a very, very alive Griphook –something he felt would be a regular occurrence; a fact that had Harry dreading the 1^st of September for that exact reason– things progressed fairly normally from there on.

Griphook silently led him through a maze of corridors until the reach a familiar a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them, the two of them quickly climbing in and were off. 

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. No matter how many times Harry had been down the same route, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, he could never remember the way. After the-break-in-that-shall-not-be-mentioned, Harry had theorised to Hermione that there must be some sort of befuddlement charm in the cart its self, to confuse potential robbers when the tried to leave – after all, not everyone has a dragon at their disposal to make a dramatic exit. Hermione had agreed.

The look of surprised approval on her face had been quite insulting, actually.

Harry can be smart. . .

. . . just, most of the time, he chooses not to. Or is too busy trying to avoid

Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Finally, after they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor, the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall and Griphook unlocked the door.

A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts. 

Harry grinned.

He was starting to feel quite optimistic.

#

Harry stepped out into the sunlit square, blinking the brightness of suddenly being outside.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts. " He did still look a bit sick, so Harry –who’s heart was thumping– set off to Madam Malkin's shop alone. 

He had to cross his arms and tuck his hands under his armpits to stop them from shaking uncontrollably. This was the moment he’d been waiting for.

The Malfoy Heir was in that shop right now.

This was Harry’s chance to make things right.

His first big change in the course of this timeline.

Harry was going to make Draco Malfoy be his friend, even if he had to drag the spoilt boy by his precious blonde locks.

Emboldened by this thought, Harry entered.

Madam Malkin was just as he remembered, a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here –another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him – oh.fuck.ohfuckohfuck– slipped a long robe over his head and began to pin it to the right length. 

Harry tentatively glanced to his right, green eyes meeting grey with startling intensity and widening in shock.

Madam Malkin left the room to gather more material and the two boys stood frozen still. And then–

“Potter?” the blonde boy blurted disbelievingly.

Harry let out a strangled half choke half laugh. There was only one person he knew that could spit out his name the way this boy just did.

And that person Harry had last seen sooty and bloody, hugging his parents in the aftermath of the battle.

“Malfoy.” 

Chapter Text

The two boys had stared at each other in astonishment for a few moments, both as equally stunned, both boys’ plans thrown completely off centre by the appearance of the other. Almost simultaneously, the two started to speak in harsh low whispers;

“What are you doing–”

“I should be asking you!–”

“Well, I don’t know–”

“Oh, very typical Potter–”

“Oi! You can’ just automatically–”

“Isn’t everything usually your fault?”

“How is that even remotely–”

“Everything alright dears?”

The two boys jumped, having not notice Madame Malkin enter the room, silent as a wraith as she’d been –or perhaps Harry and Draco had just been too invested in their childish game of ‘point-the-blame’.

Probably the latter, but neither would ever admit it aloud.

“Yes, we’re quite fine,” Malfoy replied, clearing his throat and subtly leaning away from Harry, as they had both unconsciously moved closer during their totally-not-immature-and-actually-quite-grown-up argument.

It didn’t take long for the seamstress to finish with their measurements and garments, meaning the two boys quickly found themselves sitting at a table outside Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, a quite tension straining between them.

The two time-travellers were silent, both of them just watching people chatter and walk past, no sign of shadows in their eyes.

No sign of marionettes that shuffled through the day, people that were nothing but husks of their former selves, ghosts of war clinging to their skin like a Permanent Sticking charm.

“. . . sorry,” Harry said eventually, “about before in the shop. The– about snapping at you? I. . . I guess, I just–”

He didn’t continue.

He didn’t have to.

“It didn’t quite feel real, did it?” finished Malfoy softly. “Before. . . before it was just you, all on your own. And on your own, there was a small part of you that could pretend; Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe this is just me, going crazy. Maybe I’m dead. But now. . .”

He didn’t continue either.

He didn’t need to.

Now, Harry thought, it’s real because there’s someone else here; someone I definitely didn’t –couldn’t have– dreamt up. Now, feels real because it is real.

“Yeah,” he replied.

They went back to people watching for a few minutes before Draco broke the silence.

“We should probably talk more about this, shouldn’t we?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, not quite willing to let go of the calm that had descended around them. “Probably, yeah.”

A little kid dropped his ice cream and started bawling, until his mother waved her wand and the ice cream was back in his hands in pristine condition.

The child stopped crying immediately.

“. . . do you remember how you got here?”

“Not really. . . one minute I was there, next minute I was here.”

“Oh. . .” Harry said, “same.”

“. . . we kind of suck at this, don’t we?”

Draco’s satirical attempt at self-depreciation sounded downright hilarious coming from his eleven-year-old self, and Harry couldn’t help the sharp laugh that bubbled out of his chest. At the blonde boys’ annoyed look, Harry tried to bite his chuckles back, but couldn’t help the smile that stretched the corners of his mouth.

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffed out, “but yes, we really do at this.”

Draco sighed, “well, that’s just great, isn’t it?”

Harry hummed in agreement.

“Well,” Harry suddenly decided, “no point beating around the bush.”

“What do you–” The young – or was it teenage? – wizard seemed confused about the turned of phrase, but Harry ploughed on regardless in his usual Gryffindor fashion.

“I plan to change the future, and if you have a problem with that, you might as well take it up with me now, ‘cause I’m not changing my mind.”

Draco’s eyes snapped wide; alarm visible in every line of his body as he opened his mouth to argue.

“Change the future! Potter, do you have any idea how–”

“Yes, actually,” Harry cut off, “I’ve had many lectures from Hermione about the matter actually.”

“I don’t care what Granger has shoved down your throat, time travel isn’t something you can just bullhead your way through!”

“I’m not going to just ‘bullhead my way through’, I have a plan actu–”

“Oh, you have a plan do you. Thank Merlin, Harry Potter has a plan, we’re all saved.”

Harry scowled darkly at the other boy.

“Yes, I have a plan, a pretty fucking good plan at that too.”

“Oh, really? So, I can expect some madcap scheme to try and off the Dark Lord before Christmas while telling the world ‘Hello, I’m Harry Potter and I’ve been to the future! Take my word for it because I’m The-Boy-Who-Lived’? Or maybe you’ll prance off to Dumbledore and ask him to fix everything for you.”

“No! Fuck you Malfoy, I wouldn’t do something that stupid.”

“Prove it then; what exactly is your plan Potter?”

“I know I can’t change everything at once; any future knowledge would be made redundant by the point anything important happens. I’m not stupid. I can’t change too much in the early years, as it would mean the future would become too unrecognisable by the time anything important happens. I had actually planned let everything mostly run its course, keeping as much as I can the same on the surface, while mainly working in the background to make things better. And seeing as I was there for a majority of the time and as you would say, ‘everything revolved around me’, I pretty sure I’d have an easier fucking job at it than you.” Harry finished speaking with a glare and a huff, while Draco just sat there with a blank mask pulled carefully over his face.

He waited for the other boy to say something –anything– but Draco just sat there studying him.

“Huh.”

Harry’s glared intensified and practically growled out “What?”.

The other boy blinked, almost owlishly. “Oh, nothing, nothing, I just. . . didn’t expect that.”

“Expect what? For me to able to actually use my brain?” Harry snaked sarcastically.

He was used to the odd looks he got here and there when he said something they deemed to be ‘clever’ or ‘smart’. It was irritating and frankly insulting; Harry could be smart – Harry was smart – he just didn’t see the point in voicing it out all the time. Sometimes it was better to be underestimated.

. . . of course, there was probably some sort of hidden, unresolved psychological trauma behind this, mostly likely stemming from the good ole days of aunt Petunia beating it into Harry that he ‘had to get lower grades than Dudley and how dare Harry think he was better than her precious Dudders’ and whatnot.

But Harry preferred to just leave all of that emotional brain stuff to Hermione for her to theorise about.

Draco, in the meantime, seemed startled. “Wha– no, not like– well, I mean a little bit, but not–” He stopped, irritated that he couldn’t form proper sentences, so he started again. “I always figured you were somewhat smart –had to be, I suppose, to get into and out of all the things you do– and it’s slightly unexpected when you actually say something to prove that, but that’s not. . . I was surprised, because that was exactly what I had planned to do.”

Harry gaped at him, and the blonde boy shifted his gaze away from him uncomfortably.

“You know, minus a few things, seeing as I obviously don’t know the full story about. . . well, a lot of it, really.”

“. . . Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“. . . we really are shit at this.” Harry said, drawing a laugh out of the other boy. “We’re just too used to. . . hating each other, I guess.”

“You know, I never actually hated you,” Draco said after a moment of silence, shaking his head and finally looking at Harry again, “I was just– . . . you didn’t want to be my friend, and I was hurt and jealous and–”

“A brat?”

“Shut up Potter,” he said, but was smiling. “But yes, I was a massive brat.”

“And I was naïve and nervous and shouldn’t have been such a tosser to you.”

“Is this your way of saying we’re both at fault?”

“And if it is?”

Draco huffed.

“I suppose I’m not adverse to the idea of you taking part of the blame.”

“Ponce,” Harry insulted half-heartedly.

Draco grinned –it was strange being the receiving end of that– and checked the time, letting out a soft curse.

“We have to cut this short; I’m supposed to meet my mother at Ollivanders in a few minutes,” he said, getting up and gathering his shopping bags.

“Oh, okay.”

Draco rolled his eyes, tearing a strip off one of his recites and used one of his new quills –self-inking because of course he has one– to scribble something on it.

“Here, this is my address Potter,” he shoved the torn off recite at Harry, “Owl me. I need you catch me up on what really happened during your ridiculous first year adventures so we can make relevant plans. In the meantime, find some books on time travel or magically theory dealing with temporal energy and start researching. I’ll see what I can find on my end, and we’ll talk more at Hogwarts.”

Near giving him whiplash, Draco made to move off, and Harry made a split-second decision.

“Malfoy!” the boy turned around, slight irritation clear in the raising of his eyebrow, “do you recon it might be easier to do all this if it didn’t seem suspicious to see. . . a Potter and a Malfoy willingly talking?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Harry paused, frustrated with his own hesitation. “You know how people are with our families. Seeing the two of us together might seem strange. But, if people thought we were already. . . friends, they might not think seeing us together as. . . unusual, so to speak.”

Draco sucked in a breath.

“. . . you could be right.”

Both Harry and Draco knew that wasn’t the real reason behind Harry’s offer. Both just want to be friends and don’t know how to go about saying it outright.

“Okay then,” Harry cleared his throat, “friends.”

“Yeah.”

“See you later. . . Draco.”

The other boy startled, pausing for a second, before letting a small smile lift the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, see at Hogwarts. . . Harry.”

Just as Draco disappeared into the crowd, Hagrid appeared over Harry, towering the small boy by at least two more Harry’s.

"Alright there Harry?" said Hagrid. 

“I’m good.”

“Who was that?”

“Mm?” Harry pretended to appear causal. “Oh, said his name was Draco Malfoy. He was nice.”

Hagrid briefly dropped the topic when they stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a self-inking quill and bought it out of spite.

Ha, take that you privileged prat.

They may have a tentative friendship now, but that didn’t mean Harry was going to give up the chance to one up the boy whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"So, you two looked pretty chummy back there.” Hagrid asked when they had left the shop. “What was it yeh were talkin’ about?"

It was a clear –and poorly veiled– disguise for Hagrid fishing for information and Harry felt a slight twinge of annoyance. He’d seen the concerned shine in the half-giants’ eyes once he had seen exactly who Harry was talking to, and it irritated him. Hagrid may have the best of intentions in mind, but just because Draco had grown up in an environment with not-exactly-nice ideals, doesn’t mean the boy was going to turn out exactly like his father. Okay, yes, last time he definitely followed in his footsteps, but what choice was he given? From the moment he’d been born, expectation upon expectation had been placed upon him, and by the time Draco was old enough to form his own opinions it didn’t matter. His path was basically set in stone, just like Harry’s. Known only by how the people around them decide to see them.

Son of a Death Eater and Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Not any more.

"Time travel," said Harry. He was feeling quite brazen. “I asked him if time travel was possible, and if so, what moment would he use it to change in his life.”

“Oh,” Hagrid blinked in surprise. “Tha’s. . . interesting.”

Harry hummed in agreement.

“Yeah, he had some really fascinating views and ideas,” Harry said, “I thought he was really nice.”

“Well, yeh just got to be careful,” Hagrid said. “There are a lot o’ family out there who believe tha’ people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in–"

“Draco’s not like that,” Harry said firmly. “I can tell.”

Harry’s defiant stance on the matter clearly threw Hagrid for a loop, and the boy decided to have mercy and throw him a bone.

"Draco mentioned something, but I don’t actually know what it is. I think it was Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know –not knowin' about Quidditch!"

Clearly Hagrid was grateful the topic had changed to something he was a little more comfortable talking about, Harry let him go on explaining the sport to him, nodding in the right places and acting confused in others. Harry knew the half-giants’ explanation of the house was very basic and very bias, as who the fuck cared that Voldemort had come from Slytherin. Your house doesn’t define you; it doesn’t justify or give reason for any future actions outside of school. Just because the Sorting Hat decides that your strongest trait is ambition, doesn’t mean you can’t be brave. Snape was probably the bravest man Harry ever knew, Regulus Black had tried to destroy one of Voldemort’s horcruxes and Draco. . . Draco had turned against his friends in the Room of Requirement so that Harry and his friends could kill Voldemort once and for all.

Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, looking for objects he recognised from his one previous trip into the room. His breath was loud in his ears, and then his very soul seemed to shiver: There it was, right ahead, the blistered old cupboard in which he had hidden his old Potions book, and on top of it, the pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig and what looked like an ancient, discoloured tiara. 

He had already stretched out his hand, though he remained ten feet away, when a voice behind him said, “Hold it, Potter.” 

He skidded to a halt and turned around. Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him, shoulder to shoulder, wands pointing right at Harry. Through the small space between their jeering faces he saw Draco Malfoy. 

“That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,” said Malfoy, pointing his own through the gap between Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Not anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?” 

“My mother,” said Draco. 

Harry laughed, though there was nothing very humorous about the situation. He could not hear Ron or Hermione anymore. They seemed to have run out of earshot, searching for the diadem. 

“So how come you three aren’t with Voldemort?” asked Harry. 

Something passed across Draco’s face, a shadow of emotion that Harry couldn’t identify.

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” said Crabbe: His voice was surprisingly soft for such an enormous person; Harry had hardly ever heard him speak before. Crabbe was smiling like a small child promised a large bag of sweets. “We ’ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to bring you to ’im.” 

“Good plan,” said Harry in mock admiration. He could not believe that he was this close, and was going to be thwarted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He began edging slowly backward toward the place where the Horcrux sat lopsided upon the bust. If he could just get his hands on it before the fight broke out. . . 

“So how did you get in here?” he asked, trying to distract them. 

“I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year,” said Malfoy . Despite the brittleness his voice brittle Harry could hear a slight tremor in his voice. “I know how to get in.” 

“We was hiding in the corridor outside,” grunted Goyle. “We can do Diss-lusion Charms now! And then,” his face split into a gormless grin, “you turned up right in front of us and said you was looking for a die-dum! What’s a die-dum?” 

“Harry?” Ron’s voice echoed suddenly from the other side of the wall to Harry’s right. “Are you talking to someone?” 

With a whiplike movement, Crabbe pointed his wand at the fifty-foot mountain of old furniture, of broken trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable junk, and shouted, “Descendo!” 

The wall began to totter, then the top third crumbled into the aisle next door where Ron stood. 

“Ron!” Harry bellowed, as somewhere out of sight Hermione screamed, and Harry heard innumerable objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the destabilised wall: He pointed his wand at the rampart, cried, “Finite!” and it steadied. 

“No!” shouted Malfoy, staying Crabbe’s arm as the latter made to repeat his spell. “If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!” 

“What’s that matter?” said Crabbe, tugging himself free. “It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?” 

“Potter came in here to get it,” said Malfoy with what seemed ill-disguised impatience at the slow-wittedness of his colleagues. But something was wrong with that image. There was a tenseness in Malfoy that didn’t quite add up, “so that must mean—” 

“‘Must mean’?” Crabbe turned on Malfoy with undisguised ferocity. “Who cares what you think? I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your dad are finished.” 

“Harry?” shouted Ron again, from the other side of the junk wall. “What’s going on?” 

Harry wasn’t paying attention though –he was too busy watching Malfoy do something strange. He was purposely trying to catch Harry’s eye, and then glancing pointedly at the diadem.

Almost as if–

“Harry?” mimicked Crabbe. “What’s going —no, Potter! Crucio!” 

Harry had lunged for the tiara; Malfoy had shoved Crabbe and his curse missed Harry but hit the stone bust, which flew into the air; the diadem soared upward and then dropped out of sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had rested. 

“STOP!” Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing through the enormous room. “The Dark Lord wants him alive—” 

“So? I’m not killing him, am I?” yelled Crabbe, throwing off Malfoy’s restraining arm. “But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what’s the diff— ?” 

A jet of scarlet light shot past Harry by inches: Hermione had run around the corner behind him and sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe’s head. It only missed because Malfoy pulled him out of the way. 

“It’s that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!” 

Harry saw Hermione dive aside, and his fury that Crabbe had aimed to kill wiped all else from his mind. He shot a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurched out of the way, knocking Malfoy’s wand out of his hand; it rolled out of sight beneath a mountain of broken furniture and boxes. 

“Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Malfoy yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry: Their split second’s hesitation was all Harry needed. 

“Expelliarmus!” 

Goyle’s wand flew out of his hand and disappeared into the bulwark of objects beside him; Goyle leapt foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; Malfoy jumped out of range of Hermione’s second Stunning Spell, and Ron, appearing suddenly at the end of the aisle, shot a full Body-Bind Curse at Crabbe, which narrowly missed. 

Crabbe wheeled around and screamed, “Avada Kedavra!” again. Ron leapt out of sight to avoid the jet of green light. The wandless Malfoy scrambled behind a three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charged toward them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning Spell as she came. 

On a whim, seeing the blonde boys’ wand, reached for it and snatched it up.

“It’s somewhere here!” Harry yelled at Hermione, pointing at the pile of junk into which the old tiara had fallen. “Look for it while I go and help R—” 

“HARRY!” she screamed. 

A roaring, billowing noise behind him gave him a moment’s warning. He turned and saw both Ron and Crabbe running as hard as they could up the aisle toward them. 

“Like it hot, scum?” roared Crabbe as he ran. 

But he seemed to have no control over what he had done. Flames of abnormal size were pursuing them, licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which were crumbling to soot at their touch. 

“Aguamenti!” Harry bawled, but the jet of water that soared from the tip of his wand evaporated in the air. Suddenly, Malfoy was there and knocking him to the side, right out of the way of a furious tendril.

“RUN!” Malfoy yelled as he grabbed the unbalanced Harry and dragged him along; Crabbe outstripped all of them even as he dragged the Stunned Goyle, now looking terrified; Harry, Malfoy, Ron, and Hermione pelted along in their wake, and the fire pursued them.

It was not normal fire; Crabbe had used a curse of which Harry had no knowledge: As they turned a corner the flames chased them as though they were alive, sentient, intent upon killing them. Now the fire was mutating, forming a gigantic pack of fiery beasts: Flaming serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rose and fell and rose again, and the detritus of centuries on which they were feeding was thrown up in the air into their fanged mouths, tossed high on clawed feet, before being consumed by the inferno. 

Crabbe and Goyle had vanished from view: Harry, Malfoy, Ron, and Hermione stopped dead; the fiery monsters were circling them, drawing closer and closer, claws and horns and tails lashed, and the heat was solid as a wall around them. 

“What can we do?” Hermione screamed over the deafening roars of the fire. “What can we do?” 

“It’s Fiendfyre!” Malfoy yelled back. “There’s nothing we can do!”

“Shit! This is your fault Malfoy!”

“My fault? I was trying to defuse the situation, it’s not my fault you two came screaming in yelling curses!”

“Here!” 

Harry had ignored their fighting and seized a pair of heavy-looking broomsticks from the nearest pile of junk and threw one to Ron, who pulled Hermione onto it behind him. Just as Harry went to pull Malfoy on behind him, a horned beak of a flaming raptor swooped between them, snapping its jaws at them and forcing Harry to swing his leg over the second broom and, with a hard kicks to the ground, soar up into the air, leaving the other boy behind with no way to reach him. Harry wanted to turn around immediately, but the smoke and heat were becoming overwhelming: Below them the cursed fire was consuming the contraband of generations of hunted students, the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned experiments, the secrets of the countless souls who had sought refuge in the room. Harry could no longer see a trace of Malfoy, or Crabbeand Goyle anywhere: He swooped as low as he dared over the marauding monsters of flame to try to find them, but there was nothing but fire: What a terrible way to die. . . . He had never wanted this. . . . 

And Malfoy was right; he had been trying to save them just before everything went to shit. He could it in the other boys’ eyes, the despair at having to fight, the desire to just leave everything be.

His attempt at helping Harry get one of the last horcruxes.

“Harry, let’s get out, let’s get out!” bellowed Ron, though it was impossible to see where the door was through the black smoke. 

And then Harry heard a thin, piteous human scream from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of devouring flame. 

“It’s— too— dangerous— !” Ron yelled, but Harry wheeled in the air. His glasses giving his eyes some small protection from the smoke, he raked the firestorm below, seeking a sign of life, a limb or a face that was not yet charred like wood. . . . 

And he saw them: Malfoy with his arms around the unconscious Goyle, the pair of them perched on a fragile tower of charred desks, and Harry dived. Malfoy saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good: Goyle was too heavy and Malfoy’s hand, covered in sweat, slid instantly out of Harry’s— 

“IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY!” roared Ron’s voice, and, as a great flaming chimaera bore down upon them, he and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Malfoy clambered up behind Harry. 

“The door, get to the door, the door!” screamed Malfoy in Harry’s ear, and Harry sped up, following Ron, Hermione, and Goyle through the billowing black smoke, hardly able to breathe: and all around them the last few objects unburned by the devouring flames were flung into the air, as the creatures of the cursed fire cast them high in celebration: cups and shields, a sparkling necklace, and an old, discolored tiara— 

“Quickly, we have less than seconds before this places blows!” screamed Malfoy and Harry made a hairpin swerve and dived. The diadem seemed to fall in slow motion, turning and glittering as it dropped toward the maw of a yawning serpent, and then Malfoy reached out his hand and he had it, caught it around his pale wrist— 

Harry swerved again as the serpent lunged at him; he soared upward and straight toward the place where, he prayed, the door stood open: Ron, Hermione, and Goyle had vanished; Malfoy was yelling in pain and holding Harry so tightly it hurt. Then, through the smoke, Harry saw a rectangular patch on the wall and steered the broom at it, and moments later clean air filled his lungs and they collided with the wall in the corridor beyond. 

Malfoy fell off the broom and lay face down, gasping, coughing, and retching. Harry rolled over and sat up: Just as the door to the Room of Requirement was vanishing, Malfoy sat up and flung the diadem inside, sealing it in the curse fire.

Harry stared at him, one part exhaustion, one part diluted rage.

“Why–“

“Fiendfyre,” Malfoy interrupted. “I might not know exactly what dark magic that tiara really was, but I can guarantee you, whatever it was is dead –there’s nothing it this world that can survive an unrestrained Fiendfyre curse.”

Quickly after that, the trio had learned that Draco had long since known that Voldemort was wrong about mostly everything, but with his parents being fearful supporters, Draco had no other choice but to join. So, he did the only thing he could think of; he sold inside information where he could to the Order and helped others who were resisting avoid snatchers and death eaters.

Draco –though they didn’t know it at the time– was one of the sole reasons why Harry, Ron and Hermione had been able to make it out of Xenophilius Lovegoods’ house before other death eaters could capture them.

He’d gotten the alert and managed to create a minor distraction large enough to delay his fellow death eaters, but small enough to not seem suspicious.

He’d tried to disclaim Harry’s identity at Malfoy Manor, even though both he and his parents would have been punished.

Draco was the only reason Harry had been even remotely alive enough in the end to be able to kill Voldemort once and for all.

So yes, Draco Malfoy was probably one of the bravest people Harry had the honour of knowing, and he was as Slytherin as they come.

Honestly, Harry thought as Hagrid continued to outline a prejudice overview of the Hogwarts House, fuck house rivalry.

Harry was not going to stand for that childish bullshit anymore; not when there were more important things to life than what colour your fucking tie is.

Harry was still brimming with lowly simmering determination when they bought his first year books in Flourish and Blotts, where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all.

Harry snuck off and allowed Hagrid to get all the books he needed, in the meantime looking for Magical Theory books. His conversation with Draco made Harry realise that it would probably be a good idea to figure how exactly the two of them ended up in the past, in the younger bodies. Whilst there was most likely no way back –not that Harry would give up this chance– it might help them understand more about their situation; such as how it was possible for them to change future outcomes, how much exactly was safe to change and any potential magical backlash that might happen as a result.

Hagrid had given him a strange look when he added 4 books about advanced Magical Theory and one about time to the pile at the till. 

"Yeh sure yeh want those ones Harry? They seem a little. . ."

“Don’t worry Hagrid, I like reading,” Harry reassured him. “If anything confuses me, I’ll just make notes to ask teachers about it when I get to Hogwarts.”

"Well. . . if yer sure."

The next few shops passed by in a blur until–

"Just yer wand left –ah yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present. "

Even Harry knew it was coming and was prepared for it, he still felt himself go red. 

"You don't have to–"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at –an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'. "

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. His heart squeezed when he saw her again. He’d damn near cried and couldn’t stop petting her and praising her, much to her preening pleasure. His last memory of her had been horrific.

Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: Hagrid gave a yell and the motorbike rolled over. Harry lost any sense of where they were: Streetlights above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. Hedwig’s cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees— 

The last time he’d seen his beloved owl, she’d lain motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage.

He couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell. 

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now —only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand. "

A magic wand. . . Harry couldn’t decide if he was looking forward to it or dreading it.

On one hand, Harry was more than ready to have his holly wand back, as he had sorely missed it in the past month. Oh, and he would definitely be finding a way to remove the trace on him –he’d gotten very used to using magic whenever he needed it, and he refused to spend the next six years unable to use magic at home.

On the other hand, it was that very same wand that caused so many problems –being a brother wand, Harry would never be able to kill Voldemort with it. 

There was also the fact that Ollivander creeped Harry out whether he was 11 or 17.

They made it to the narrow and shabby shop, with its peeling gold letters over the door that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B. C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. 

Harry and Hagrid made quick work of buying his wand – as quick as they could at least.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as they made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said. 

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, yet the same as he remembered. 

It was like looking at a familiar painting while wearing one of those optical illusion glasses he remembered Dudley once breaking at a local art exhibit when they were younger.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid. 

Harry wasn't sure he could explain, even if had any intention to. While he’d come to terms with somehow being flung into the past, the appearance of his-time-Draco had smacked him in the face, leading to realise how real this all was. It was only nine –just nine– days ago that Harry had been fighting for his life and ready to put Voldemort behind him, and here was, reliving everything. Harry briefly spared a thought to wonder why he hadn’t broken down by now, but then elected to ignore said thought and just be glad for his apparent ability to shove traumatic experiences in box and not deal with them until he absolutely had to.

Ron had told him sometime in sixth year that ‘repression’ wasn’t exactly a healthy way to deal with life, but Harry elected to ignore him too.

Don’t get him wrong; he knew full well he was due a complete mental collapse and emotional breakdown any day now, but as long as he was able to keep his composure until there was no one around, Harry was more than happy to let his mind do whatever it thought necessary to keep him from going mad in the meantime. It that meant unhealthy coping mechanisms, then so be it.

Saying that, Hagrid was still waiting for an answer, so Harry gave him the same one that he remembered giving the half-giant the first time ‘round –or thereabout at least.

"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell,” Harry barely contained his shiver. He definitely needed to something about the DADA teacher, if only so he didn’t have to deal with headaches all year long. “Mr. Ollivander. . . but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol–, sorry –I mean, the night my parents died. "

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows, he wore a very kind and familiar smile. 

"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts -- I did -- still do, 'smatter of fact. "

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope. 

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " he said. "First o' September –King's Cross– it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me. . . See yeh soon, Harry. "

The train pulled out of the station. Harry didn’t wait to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; instead he rose from his seat and went about sorting through his shopping until he found the books he wanted.

Harry had plans to make. 

Chapter Text

Harry's last month with the Dursleys was actually quite boring. True, Harry did find it as funny as he had the first time, that Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do anything, or shout at him –in fact, they didn't speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while and very, very boring. 

Harry kept to his room, with Hedwig being his only company; and even that was sporadic at times, what with the owling back and forth between himself and Draco.

Oh, the sheer amount of owling.

Harry was completely convinced that if the Malfoy Heir hadn’t been brought up to believe in what he had, and if Hermione hadn’t been so desperate for validation, the two of them would have been thicker than thieves the first time ‘round.

Draco wanted to know everything.

At first it had just been a general overview of what had actually happened during Harrys’ first year escapade at the end of the year. Of course, that had then led to Draco asking why said escapade had even come to pass, which then led to more questions about the year, which led to trying to retrace all of Harrys’ footsteps, which then led to Draco interrogating Harry about how many times he had sneezed during that year, when, where and why.

. . . well, not that last one, obviously, but it may as well have been on the list. That boys’ thirst for knowledge put the entire house of Ravenclaw to shame.

Among other things that Harry had learned about the other boy –man?–, being quite a bit paranoid was definitely one –not that Harry could claim any better. The Malfoy Heir had insisted on creating codes, so in the situation of anyone accidentally overhearing them talk about their original timeline –“not that that’ll happen, will it Potter, because we wouldn’t be that stupid, would we Potter?”– they won’t be immediately suspicious, just confused. Harry would’ve teased Malfoy, but he was well aware of how paranoid he himself had become in the past year. He’d never admit to the other boy, but using code to disguise their ‘sensitive information’ made him feel ever-so-slightly more secure.

As such, anything like ‘blank happened in the original timeline’ became ‘blank happened Before’, and, and ‘Voldemort’ had for some reason become ‘Stanley’.

. . . Harry blamed that one on the insomnia.

It was hard to sleep when the dead kept intruding on his dreams.

Not dead. . . not this time.

#

In the meantime, Harry had also taken to refamiliarizing himself with the first-year schoolbooks. They weren’t terribly interesting to him –he was, after all, more used sixth year levels of content– but he rationalised that he didn’t want to seem like he already knew how to do the whole years’ worth of material and some. He was aiming for smart-enough-to-answer-questions-correctly-in-class and never-get-in-trouble-for-not-doing-homework, not Hermione Granger level of bow-down-to-me-you-inferior-brained-plebeians and you-will-never-reach-my-level-of-intellect-no-matter-how-hard-you-hope-and-dream.

Not that Hermione would ever think of saying or doing that, but there still stood the fact that she was –or is? tenses are starting to get confusing now– an insane level of clever.

He’d also gotten a start on the extra books he bought, although he was fairly sure most of it wasn’t helpful. The books on time travel only ever warned the reader of its danger, and how it shouldn’t be used with proper procedures and heavy regulation –obviously commissioned by the Ministry and completely full of not-so-subtle propaganda bullshit. The magical theory books seemed like they were more useful, but a lot of it went over Harry’s head. While not dumb, especially if he put his mind to something, but magical theory just did not make sense to him.

So, he lay on his bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased, sometimes with letters from Draco. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first. 

Fuck he was nervous.

On the last day of August he thought he'd better speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King's Cross station the next day. He contemplated the Knight bus, but he didn’t want to deal with the nausea, and no cab would take a small kid anywhere on their own, so he went down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the room. 

Harry bit back a smirk.

"Uncle Vernon?"

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening. 

"I need to be at King's Cross tomorrow to go to Hogwarts."

Uncle Vernon grunted again. 

"Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?"

Grunt. Vernon speak for yes. 

"Thank you."

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke. 

"Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?"

Harry didn't say anything, mentally rolling his eyes. He’d almost forgotten that he’d have to sit through the next few years of jabs and snide remarks about magic.

Here we go again.

"Where is this school, anyway?"

"Scotland," Harry said, voice flat and face blank. His uncle looked taken aback and Harry almost smiled in amusement.

Petunia wrinkled her nose and sneered.

“Scotland? That drab place?”

"Yes. Now, if that’s all. . .?" he asked. 

"Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to King's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother. "

"Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to stave away his boredom. 

"Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings."

Harry snickered and at the quick reddening of his uncles face, he turned and sprinted back up the stairs.

No matter how many times he remembered it, Hagrid spelling Dudley to sprout a pig tail is and always will be, one of Harry’s favourite memories.

Yes, he and Dudley had kind of reconciled towards the end, but 11 year-old Dudley was a little shit, and that was the first time Harry and ever seen real magic.

#

Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he knew better than to walk into the station in his wizard's robes –he'd change on the train like always. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up.

Today was the day. The day things would really start to change. Of course, Harry and Draco weren’t actually going to change much this year, only minor details, but it was the beginning. Like having to meet Draco –his time’s Draco– before being in the past really set in, Harry felt going to Hogwart would really set in the fact that things will be different this time. They would change things for the better.

And it was Hogwarts. Harry’s home. A home that he hadn’t seen in a year, only to return to it and have it destroyed and filled with scent of pain and death. He needed to see Hogwarts whole again.

He needed Hogwarts to be his home again.

Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off. 

They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry, knowing what to anticipate set his face into a blank mask. It was something he thought about from watching Draco do the same thing.

The Dursleys loved making Harry react. Be it anger, pain or sadness, it didn’t matter. They lived off making Harry miserable. So, when Harry refused to give them the reaction they wanted, and instead were met with the blank looks and bland tones Harry had started to adopt whenever faced by his relatives, it never failed to make them unnerved.

And right on que, Vernon’s face twisted, his discomfort clear. But still, he ploughed on. 

"Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine, platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?"

He was quite wrong, of course. Muggles like Harry’s uncle would never stop and think that maybe the entrance or method of getting to a magic school, would be hidden by magic so that only magic people could get to said magic school. 

"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry didn’t need to turn to see that the Dursleys had driven away. That all three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went rather dry. The Dursley’s behaviour towards him had stopped truly bothering him sometime around the end of Third Year, but that didn’t stop the instinctive hurt that blossomed like poison ivy in his chest. Was he not good enough? Were they right about Harry being unlovable? The teenager shoved away the old insecurities. 

Harry –despite this time knowing how to get to the platform– didn’t make his way through the barrier, and instead spotted a nearby bench and sat down. He was waiting for the Weasleys to appear and whisk him away.

He and Draco had easily come to agreement that they needed to keep events of the first year or two at Hogwarts as close to the original as possible –otherwise they wouldn’t know what they’ve changed and what else it pacts. Yes, they could probably tweak a few things – such as preventing a particularly explosive argument or collecting the Horcruxes in preparation to destroy them –but any more than that, Harry and Draco wouldn’t be able to kill Voldemort, because they wouldn’t know if he was where he was supposed to be. That was the main crux of the problem. There were only a few moments where Harry knew exactly where Voldemort would be; the first instance is this year, but that’s wasn’t very helpful because neither Harry nor Draco had had the time or magical ability to collect the Horcruxes. The after that time was the Graveyard –second year doesn’t count; that was a Horcrux– and that was four years away. That’s a lot of time to change something vital, leaving Harry and Draco stuck in the position of recreating everything in fear of fucking up their chance when it came.

If there was a chance that not getting help from the Weasleys meant that Ron wouldn’t feel as close a friend to Harry when he needed him to be, thus ruining certain events that needed that connection, thus ruining all of their plans, thus letting Voldemort win–

. . . call them paranoid, but they were not about to take that chance.

Neither could live through another war.

So, as the large clock over the arrivals board showed he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts, Harry took a deep breath and tried to get into the right mindset; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, a large owl and no idea how to get to Hogwarts. He was a normal muggle-raised eleven-year-old boy, confused and nervous, with no idea how to navigate the world thrust upon him, or his supposed fame for something he can’t remember.

He was ‘Just Harry’.

Draco had stressed to the raven-haired boy that to create a convincing act, you have to believe in it. It can no longer be an act to you –it’s the truth, as it’s always been. There is no other story. Just the truth. 

Deep breath in. . . and exhale.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying. 

"–packed with Muggles, of course–"

‘Just’ Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him.

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying. 

The Weasleys.

Harry’s heart nearly stopped as Mrs. Weasley called "Fred, you next", his mind shredding through all the buried memories of the Battle to reach the moment the tall red-head had been set flying by the explosion, glassy eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling, mouth still curved in a grin –as if he knew the universe was just a big joke the rest of the world didn’t understand.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said Fred. Once he'd actually spoken to the two trouble makers, that act had ceased to trick Harry. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear."

Harry took a deep breath and started forward, words falling from his lips, and suddenly he was looking behind him and seeing a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it.

He had done it. 

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced Neville who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my toad again."

"Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh. 

This was going to be a long day.

#

Harry had next to no recollection of getting on the train.

Well, that was strictly true; he remembered in an abstract way what he had seen –a scarlet steam engine waiting next to a platform packed with people, a sign overhead said Hogwarts' Express, eleven o'clock, smoke from the engine drifting over the heads of the chattering crowd, cats of every colour winding here and there between legs– but Harry mat as well have been blindfolded for all he could pay attention to his surroundings. He mourned the lost opportunity to see it all again with a fresh perspective, but Harry severely underestimated what the full impact of seeing it all again would have.

Diagon Alley had been hard, but manageable. Afterall, it was a place full of people he only vaguely remembered at best. So, difficult, but he been able to muscel through it.

This was different. He had already seen so many people he knew to be dead in his own timeline moving and bustling with life.

This was the moment it had first sunk into little Harry that he had finally found a place he belonged. The entry point to Hogwarts, his home.

A whistle sounded. 

"Hurry up!" Harry heard Molly Weasley say, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and Ginny began to cry. 

Harry could do this.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls. "

"We'll send you a Hogwarts' toilet seat. "

He had to do this.

"George!"

"Only joking, Mom."

He would do this.

The train began to move. Harry saw the Molly waving and Ginny, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved. 

Instead of watching the two until they disappeared, Harry fished around in his trunk for his potion book. He may have the knowledge and experience of a sixth year, but he refused to  . Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to -- but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind. 

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy came in. 

Harry sucked in a breath.

Ron.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full. "

Oh, Merlins’ tits.

Harry shook his head and Ron sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose. 

"Hey, Ron."

And the twins were back. 

Oh, Merlins’ saggy tits.

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train –Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there," said George.

"Right," mumbled Ron. 

"Harry," said Fred, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then. "

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them. 

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out. 

Oh, Harry was about three seconds away from hyperventilating, but he nodded nonetheless. 

"Oh– well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got –you know. . . "

He pointed at Harry's forehead. 

Harry reluctantly pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. 

"So that's where You-Know-Who–?"

"Yes," Harry interrupted, "but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly. 

Harry’s heart squeezed, "Look, Ron–” he stopped, and shook his head. He could bring himself to rebuke the other boy, not when he's just gotten him back. “I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realised what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again. 

Harry spent the few hours listening to Ron as he spoke of his family, the wizarding world and anything and everything in-between. His chest ached at the bright-eyed, innocent enthusiasm that the young wizard expressed with every word and motion, so vastly different to the tired and hardened man he left behind in his own time. Every minute strengthened his resolve– he would save them. He would make it so that they would never have to experience anything like the horrors they’d been exposed to Before.

He glanced outside, watching the Scotland landscape pass by in a blur of greens and browns and greys, and allowed a small smile to grace his lips.

Chapter Text

They were quiet for a time, Harry having pulled out his 4^th year Magical Theory book –he was slowly but surely making his way through the curriculum–, and Ron watching fields of cows and sheep and lanes flick past. 

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry, in a moment of childish nostalgia, leapt to his feet and went out into the corridor. 

He knew better than most how sensitive a subject money was for the Weasleys. He always hated how in the past, every attempt of Harrys’ to reduce their load had been firmly rebuffed.

He understood their want to earn the money they make; Harry always had and was always going to respect that.

It would hardly be his fault if, every-so-often, a mysterious sum of money appeared in their vault, or if a hidden stash of forgotten galleons would somehow find itself between two cushions on their favourite couch.

With that, Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never quite gotten ‘round to trying previously, got in to the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. 

"Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," said Harry with an wryly grin, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. 

The other boy had done that a lot, Ron thought. Smile –almost absently– with this faraway look in his eye, like he had thought of funny. It had a sort of fond glint to it. It happened quite a couple of times while Ron was talking –at first Ron had thought he was boring the other boy–, but it didn’t seem like he was internally making fun of him. It was almost like. . . almost like the other boy knew a secret about the universe that nobody else knew, and every-so-often he remembered he was the only one who knew it. It wasn’t smug in any way – in fact, at times it seemed more sad in a way.

Though, Ron has no idea what kind of secret would make a smile seem amused, fond, absent and sad at the same time, but then again, it wasn’t Ron’s job to wonder about these kinds of things.

Ron noticed. That’s what Ron does. He never really does anything about what he notices, but he notices all the same.

It was a strange sort of thing, Ron thought. Not strange weird, just strange. . . different. Mind made up, he decided that it suited the other boy.

It made sense that The-Boy-Who-Lived would know a secret about the universe.

But no, Ron thought, peering discreetly at the other boy. Somehow that didn’t quite fit.

He thought on it for a moment, and then decided it was not ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ who knew the secret. It was Harry.

The boy behind the title.

Just Harry.

Happy with his conclusion, Ron stopped thinking about it.

Unaware to Ron’s ponderings, Harry watched the other boy had take out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef. . "

"Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, insisting forcefully when the other boy started to protest. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten). 

It was something the two of them used to do a lot, but never quite had time for as the years went by. Always one crisis or another taking up their time.

Harry picked up a pack of Chocolate Frogs, lips twisting again. This, he remembered.

He unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore. 

"Hello Dumbledore." said Harry murmured. 

"Oh, got Dumbledore? I’ve got so many of him," said Ron. "Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa– thanks–"

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling. 

His lips twitched, and he placed the card safely in the breast pocket of his t-shirt. 

Ron stared at him curiously, to which Harry answered, "keeping it in a safe place. Might need it later."

Ha ha, Potter, said the suspiciously Draco sounding voice in the back of his mind, you’re hilarious. Want to drop any more obvious hints about our top-secret predicament?

"Well, okay then," said Ron, obviously confused with his seemingly strange behaviour, but not too bothered by it. "Well, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her. . . do you want it? You can start collecting."

Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped. 

"Help yourself," Harry said, then smirked. "Did you know, in the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos?"

"Do they? What, they don't move at all? Weird!" Ron was as amazed as Harry remembered him being, calling in that achingly familiar pang to hit his heart. He hated that it happened every time, but he supposed he would just have to grit his teeth and get over it.

#

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately. "

Harry's stomach lurched, and Ron looked pale under his freckles, though they were both mostly likely nervous for different reasons.

Harry hadn’t seen Draco on the train. Everything else had happen as it had the last time; Neville losing his toad –Harry had suggested he try the Prefects’ compartment or Lost and Found– Hermione had also stopped by –Harry had somehow managed to stop her and Ron from getting off on too bad a start. Don’t ask, he has no idea– but no Draco.

He knew it probably wasn’t cause for any concern – after all, Draco knew Harry was coming to Hogwarts, and therefore had no need to check if Harry Potter was supposedly on the train – but Harry couldn’t stop himself from worrying.

He blamed the countless attempts on his life.

They had turned him into a worrier.

Worrying was what he did.

Harry shook it off though.

He and Ron had already taken off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath them. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor. 

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads. 

"C'mon, follow me –any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark that Harry couldn’t even catch a glimpse of Draco’s pale hair. Still, no need to worse needlessly, Harry tried to tell himself.

His traitorous mind generously reminded him that he hadn’t seen Draco on the platform.

Fuck off, Harry told his mind.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of the great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, the vast castle with many turrets and towers. 

Hogwarts.

Home.

Harry’s heart lifted.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione. 

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then —FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood. 

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles. 

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them. 

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. 

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the oak front door. 

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired McGonagall in emerald-green robes stood there. She had her very stern face on, but Harry knew how to read her. While she was was not someone to cross, he also knew she was the closest thing to a maternal role model that Harry had ever had. 

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid. 

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. Harry almost fell to the ground then and there. The entrance hall was big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys' house in it; undamaged. The stone walls lit with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts; glowing warmly, the ceiling too high to make out; not missing chunks that show the outside, and the magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors; once again, magnificent. 

Harry numbly followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. He could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right –so full of sound and happiness and life– and Professor McGonagall showed the first years into the small, empty chamber off the hall. The other first years crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously. 

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room. 

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. 

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry didn’t even bother nervously trying to flatten his hair. It was a lost cause.

The secret to taming his hair was a mystery known to none, not even himself.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. 

It wasn’t that he was scared –even though he was– and it wasn’t that it was overwhelming –even though it really was. He didn’t know what it was actually, but whatever it was. . .

Harry felt a panic attack coming on.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" one of the other students asked Ron. 

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking.”

Their voices were muffled, under water, tension grew in his face and limbs, him mind repeating like a needle on a record. His breathing became more rapid, more shallow, salty tears welling up, threatening to spill, he couldn’t see Draco didn’t even know if he was here, what if something had happened, what if they weren’t as alone in this timeline as they thought, what if–

Colin Creevey, tiny in death, the world resolved into pain and semidarkness, air exploding, “No— no— no!” someone was shouting. “No! Fred! No!”, Fred’s eyes staring without seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face–

“Don’t be stupid. You look dumb enough already, you really don’t need the extra help.”

Draco’s harsh quip cut through the darkness like a blade of pure fire.

Oh, Harry thought dumbly, there he is.

Ron immediately whipped around, face flushing red. Just as quickly, ripped out of his head, Harry put his hand on the other boys’ shoulder, reflexively preventing him from leaping across and punching the blonde prat.

“Hello,” Harry greeted, heart jack-rabbiting inside his chest and hoping no one could hear the breathlessness in his response, feeling a bit embarrassed by his unnecessary panic. He was grateful for the well-timed distraction, not even caring that Draco was so rude straight off the bat. “Nice to see you too. Do you think you could refrain from insulting people as a form of greeting?”

. . . okay, maybe he cared a little bit.

He didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic –Harry really was extremely thankful for the other boys’ unwitting help in dragging him out of his own waking nightmare–, but it was almost habit for him. If Draco was the King of Snobbery, then Harry was the King of Sarcasm.

The pale boy looked at Harry, the starting’s of a sneer curling the corners of his lips. But Harry could see the concern glinting in his eyes, and it hit him. Draco must have seen Harry starting to panic and decided to intervene.

Huh, he thought, maybe not so ‘unwitting help’ after all.

Harry’s shoulders untensed, and his mouth twitched into a soft blink-you’ll-miss-it smile.

The blonde boy caught it, and the glint changed from concerned to satisfied. "Ah, so it’s true?" he drawled, sharp yet subtle sarcasm lining his tone. "An inside source has been telling me that Harry Potter was supposedly coming to Hogwarts this year. So, it's you, is it?"

Harry could feel Ron bristle at the blatant dismissal, and could see those around him uncomfortably –yet eagerly– watching the scene, clearly getting excited at the prospect of watching a potential fight.

Harry merely rolled his eyes with a slight grin.

Thankfully he hadn’t actually started crying, and the tears had mostly dispersed now.

"Inside source? Really, Malfoy?" asked Harry with a pointed look. The other boy didn’t even look sheepish. In fact, he started to grin too –a sharp and wicked thing. People around them were frowning in confusion, wondering at the raven boys’ strange reaction. “Are we really going down this road again?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Draco’s smile relaxed, his posture loosening –but not too much, the pureblood ponce– and head tilting to the side with a shrug. "I live to make your life hell, Potter. I couldn’t resist such a perfect opportunity."

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. He knew the other boy had been trying to recreating their first proper meeting, though why he would want to, Harry didn’t understand –though, he could guess it was probably part strange nostalgia, part trying to distract himself, and part trying to show a weird brand of solidarity to Harry that only really made sense to the boy himself. Harry appreciated it though –strangely enough, it did bring him a source of comfort.

"I’m sure you couldn’t." Everyone else around them had stopped paying attention, probably sensing that nothing was going to happen. Ron’s laser gaze of confusion was burning into the side of Harry’s face, but Harry ignored him for the time being. “And really, inside source?”

“What about them?”

“I am your inside source.”

“So?”

Harry shook his head and smiled. While not entirely surprising, yet still enough to be pleasant, Harry had been excited to realise that Draco’s preferred humour –while sometimes a tad darker than Harry was used to– was just as sarcastic as his own. Harry was just a bit sad about how well the two of them actually got along once not actively finding ways to make the other’s life hell – they could’ve had this the first time, had Harry been more understanding or if Draco had not been so bratty. It’s probably why the two of them had clashed so violently –they were very similar.

Ron gave a slight cough, probably trying to remind them he was still there. Draco looked at him. “Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there.”

Ron’s face started turning as red as his hair and Harry shot a look at the other boy. “Malfoy, play nice.” We talked about this, remember?

The unspoken message travelled between them and Harry saw Draco reign in a sigh.

“Just joking,” he said lightly. “Like I said, couldn’t resist.” Old habits die hard, Potter.

Ron glared suspiciously at the other boy, but before he could potentially retaliate, several people behind him even screamed. 

"What the—?" Ron gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. Arguing a topic Harry had overheard many times but the time he reached end of first year alone. "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance–"

With everyone else –including Ron– sufficiently distracted, Draco took the opportunity to move closer to Harry. They watched the other students become enraptured with the ghosts.

“Enjoy the rest of the holidays?”

Are you better now?

"Eh," Harry said with a hand gesture. “Could’ve been better. Got in a lot of reading. You?”

Mostly, as much as I can be.

"Positively boring."

Same.

Harry hummed. They left the topic there.

“That reminds me,” Draco said reaching into the pockets of his robes. “I’ve been meaning to owl this to you but kept forgetting.”

Harry took the offered book, reading the title.

 Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, by Emeric Switch

Harry side-eyed the other boy curiously, a clear question in his gaze. Draco, of course, ignored that and nodded at the book.

“Open it.”

Knowing he wouldn’t get a verbal answer out of the boy, Harry sighed and complied, deciding to scan the index. He vaguely remembered the book, having seen Hermione with it occasionally in sixth year, but he couldn’t guess why Draco would be giving it to him. It had nothing to do with time travel, magical theory or eve–

There, two thirds of the way down the list, underlined in green –of course– ink.

34. Anamagi: what is it and what are the dangers?

Harry stared in disbelief. “You want us to—?”

The pale boy looked particularly smug with himself. “Yes.”

Before Harry could do anything more than gape, a sharp voice said, "Move along now, the Sorting Ceremony's about to start." Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years, "and follow me."

“We are talking about this later,” Harry muttered at Draco. All he wanted to do now was get the feast over with and start reading.

The prick just smirked and said “Happy Birthday, by the way.”

Harry could’ve strangled him.

Nevertheless, feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall. 

By the end of it all, Harry had never even imagined this strange and splendid place whole again. Thousands and thousands of candles lit everything in a warm glow, floating in midair over four long tables where the rest of the students were sitting. The tables laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. The High Table at the top of the hall actually filled with smiling faces. Professor McGonagall led the first years up there, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes —that would never not feel strange and awkward— Harry looked upward at velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. On que, he heard Hermione whisper, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History."

Harry always found it hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens. 

He looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put the familiar patched, frayed and extremely dirty pointed wizard's hat.

Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house. 

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me. 

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all. 

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be. 

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends. 

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again. 

"So, we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Harry. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry smiled, but felt slightly weak inside.

Please, no more talking about dead Fred’s. My sanity can’t take it.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. 

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause-

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat. 

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at her. 

And on it went.

Bored —he already knew where all of his year mates would end up– Harry grinned and leaned forward to whisper in discretely in Draco’s ear.

“I just had a thought,” he murmured, keeping an eye on McGonagoll. The last thing he wanted was to be caught out before the term had really even started.

“What?” Draco muttered back.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

“We’re a bit different compared to Before, don’t you think?” Harry said, lowering his voice even further. “I mean, we’ve been through a bit. Be kind of hard not letting those things influence us. You know, shift our personalities.”

Draco shot him a look, suspicious. “I suppose,” he agreed slowly. “Your point?”

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them. 

Harry fought valiantly to keep the grin off his face, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Oh, no reason in particular,” he raised then his voice slightly, just enough for some around them to overhear, but not enough to be noticed by any professors. “I just couldn’t help but think that you’d make an excellent Gryffindor.”

Harry could only just see Draco’s eyes widen out of the corner of his eye, pretending to ignore the curious gazes of the other first years’. Draco, now cottoning on to what Harry was trying to do, hissed, “Oh, and how did you come to that conclusion, Potter?”

“Brown, Lavender!"

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Fred and George catcalling. 

“Arrogant, competitive, stubborn,” Harry listed, “I think you’d do well there.”

Draco glared at the Sorting Hat.

“Yes, well I think Slytherin would quite suit you, Potter.”

"Bulstrode, Millicent!”

"SLYTHERIN!"

People were definitely listening to them now. From what Harry could see, Ron was looking confused and vaguely betrayed.

“Oh, how do you figure?”

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

“Sneaky, ambitious, rule bender,” Draco shot him a sharp grin, “Makes sense to me.”

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head. 

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. Ron groaned. 

Harry’s grin matched Draco’s.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

With that he stepped back to Ron’s side, telling the red-haired boy with his eyes that they’d he’d explain later.

Neville was called and put into "GRYFFINDOR!". He ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to Professor McGonagoll.

And then

“Malfoy, Draco!”

The blonde swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Draco went to join Crabbe and Goyle, looking extremely pleased with himself. He shot Harry a smug look, as if to say Ha, loser, take that. 

Harry maturely stuck his tongue out.

(Later on, in a fit of childish indulgence and nostalgia, Draco did in fact boast to Harry about how sorting superior, to which Harry replied “I could’ve sworn Before took less time though. Are sure it didn’t consider you for Gryffindor” much Draco’s panic and denial –“take that back, take that back!”)

“Looks like you were wrong,” a voice whispered to Harry. “Your friend didn’t get Gryffindor.”

He turned his head –oh, its Dean– gave the boy a shrug and waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, I was just teasing him,” Harry whispered back with an (almost proud) grin. “Knew he’d get Slytherin, the slimy git.”

There weren't many people left now. "Moon". . . , "Nott". . . , "Parkinson". . . , then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil". . . , then "Perks, Sally-Anne". . . , and then, at last-

"Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly breaking out like little hissing fires all over the hall. 

Harry winced.

He really did hate this part.

"Potter, did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited. 

"Oh," said a small voice in his ear. "Oh dear. Difficult. Very difficult indeed.”

Harry bit back a slightly hysterical grin.

You recon? Harry thought to the hat.

“Well, from what I see, you certainly don’t to things by half, do you Mr. Potter. And dragging your friend back with you – I can just tell there will be no shortage of trouble in the coming years.”

Yeah, Harry winced, sorry in advance about that.

“No, no, don’t be,” the hat sighed, “more entertainment for me, I guess. It’s not overly exciting to live on a shelf, only to be used once every year.”

Well, when you put it like that. . .

“Quite exactly, Mr. Potter. I suppose I better carry on with your actual sorting?”

Probably a good idea.

“Yes, well, plenty of courage, I see. That’s fairly obvious. Not a bad mind either. Have to be smart to get out of the predicaments you get into. There's talent, my goodness, yes –and a considerable amount of ambition, now that's interesting. . . So where shall I put you?"

Harry thought, Not Slytherin. 

"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? It could help your goals, you know, it's all here in your head, and you’d be able to interact with your friend without the judgement of others, no doubt about that –no? Well, if you're sure –better be GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the hat and walked confidently toward the Gryffindor table. This time around, he definitely noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" Harry sat down opposite Sir Nicholas. The ghost patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into a bucket of ice-cold water. 

Harry caught Draco’s eye, and made a pleading face. Make it stop, please, this is so embarrassing.

Draco, the git, just shrugged in a oh-no-what-can-you-do-so-sorry-i-cant-help-you kind of way and Harry scowled at him.

Harry could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back fondly. And there, in the centre of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore.

Harry watched him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He wasn’t exactly sure what his opinion on the older was. After all, his relationship with the man was. . . complicated at best.

Harry had of course been sad when he had died, which was something he had Draco had talked extensively about – they both agreed that there were certain topics that needed to be addressed, lest they be left to fester and ruin their goals. In fact, Harry had been devastated when Dumbledore had tumble of the side of the Astronomy tower.

But for the first time in a long time, by being back in this time, Harry had been given the opportunity to actually think, and what he’d thought about didn’t quite make him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Boiled down to the basics, Dumbledore knew Harry was going to have to die eventually. Yes, he wasn’t exactly sure that Harry was a Horcrux in the beginning, and yes, he knew Harry might be able to bounce back from it because of the Horcrux but ultimately, it was a totally untested theory because it had never been done before. Harry can understand this when he was a child. No 11-year-old, not even one as mature as he’d been forced to become, is going to take that well. But Harry knew he had matured quicker than any child –ever– because of what he’d been through –some of which from even before Hogwarts– and as such, there was absolutely no good reason to keep lying to him.

Dumbledore had left Harry with the Dursley’s and his reasons were nothing but excuses really. He said that Harry was only safe under the roof of a blood relative and that they were his only blood relatives left.

The thing was, though, Harry had admitted, he wasn’t safe. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Yes, Voldemort couldn’t hurt him under their roof, but Harry had went wandering off on his own so many times because he hated that house, and Voldemort could have easily snatched him off the street at some point.

. . . It was only a week or so prior that had Harry told Draco the truth of his home situation. How he was neglected and abused until he left that house, and for the first 11 years of his life, he had felt completely strange and unwanted. 

That. . . Draco had sent a Howler telling Harry firmly that Dumbledore was lucky Harry cared as much as he did about the family and friends he made, or all of his plans to defeat Voldemort would have been dashed.

Luckily, Harry had been at the park that day, so the Dursley’s didn’t witness the event.

Or his tears.

Despite all that. . . Harry just couldn’t quite hate the man. Once again, there was probably some deeply entrenched psychological reason why, but Harry just couldn’t bring himself to. Privately, Harry thought he was just too damn tired to hate anyone anymore.

He even pitied Voldemort more than he hated him.

Either way, both Harry and Draco agreed that if at some point they needed to tell someone of their situation, they definitely wouldn’t be going to the Headmaster. He may have the best intention at heart, but sometimes that wasn’t enough to trust someone. The ‘greater good’ didn’t always mean ‘good’.

Dumbledore was just too unpredictable.

And now there were only three people left to be sorted. Dean joined Harry at the Gryffindor table, "Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron's turn. He was pale green by now.

A second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him. 

"Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away. 

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago. 

Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. 

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Most didn't know whether to laugh or not. 

"Is he— a bit mad?" Seamus asked Percy uncertainly. 

Yep, better get used to it now, ‘cause its only going to get worse.

"Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had forgotten what it was like to see so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs. 

The Dursleys had never completely starved Harry, just barely keeping him off the side malnourished, but leaving him always on the side of starving but not being able to hold down food. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. It had gotten better when he started going to Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione always made sure to send supplies of food. This past month, Draco had ended up taking over that responsibility, something that Harry hadn’t even noticed him doing until week of him doing had passed.

Harry hadn’t even realised the other boy had noticed.

The fact that he had and had decided to take matters into his own hands him feel. . . well, he didn’t know exactly, but it was a nice feeling.

Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious. 

"That does look good," said Sir Nicholas sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak. 

"Yeah," Harry said sympathetically. “It is.”

"I haven't eaten for nearly five hundred years," said Sir Nicholas wistfully. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."

"I know who you are!" said Ron suddenly. "My brothers told me about you –you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

"I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy–" the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted. 

"Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't going at all the way he wanted. 

"Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on everyone’s faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said, "So –new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron's becoming almost unbearable –he's the Slytherin ghost."

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He was right next to Draco who, Harry was pleased to see, wore an impeccable mask of indifference to the outside world, but to Harry, looked none too pleased with the seating arrangements despite previously spending 7 with the ghost as his house mascot. 

Some things never change.

"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest. 

"I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately. 

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavour you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding. . . 

Harry grinned, feeling giddy, and helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk around him turning to their families. 

"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him."

The others laughed. 

"What about you, Neville?" said Ron. 

"Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Neville, "but the family thought I was all-Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me –he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned– but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came ‘round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced –all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here –they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad."

Harry frowned and told Neville that was horrible.

“It shouldn’t matter whether you were a squib or not. That doesn’t excuse the things he did.”

The younger boy blushed and assured the raven that it wasn’t as bad as it probably sounded, but Harry wasn’t convinced.

He’d definitely being doing some digging there. Neville was one of the kindest, fiercest people Harry knew and he was going to make sure the boy knew it.

On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult– "; "You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing– "). 

"So, you've met Malfoy before?"

Harry turned his head to Ron in confusion. It took a few moments – Harry blamed the food, it was starting to feel warm and sleepy – before he realised what the boy meant.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “We’re good friends.”

“How’d that happen?”

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley –the redacted and slightly embellished version, of course. 

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side."

Harry could see other around him nodding in agreement and frowned deeply. Once he had thought the same, acted the same.

He wouldn’t allow them to make his same mistake.

“So?”

Ron looked confused, so Harry clarified.

“I don’t care what his dad may or may not have done. Draco is Draco, not his dad, and I’m going to treat Draco like Draco, and not like his dad,” he looked at the others pointedly. “I prefer to judge people after I’ve actually gotten to know them, not before.”

He knew his firm declaration confused majority of the half and purebloods, and made them feel vaguely chastised, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t their fault exactly, Harry knew that, but it didn’t mean he was going to let them off the hooks. They needed to learn these things early on.

He looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with familiar greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. 

It happened very suddenly. He knew it would happen, but it still took him off guard. For the briefest second, Quirrell shifted, head turning so that Harry was looking at the back of the turban –and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. 

Well used to the pain –and much worse for that matter– Harry shoved his initial reaction away and caught Draco’s eye from across the room, where he’d been waiting. The boy titled his head to the High Table, just enough to seem natural.

Harry nodded slowly.

Their first real confirmation.

Quirrel was being possessed by Voldemort.

Their gaze broke, and at last, the desserts too disappeared, and Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. 

"Ahem –just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.”

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins. 

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. 

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. 

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Another thing about Dumbledore – when Harry thought about it, he seemed strangely willing to put the lives of his students at risk. The Philosophers stone, the basilisk, the dementors, escaped ‘murderer’ and the werewolf –not that he holds it against Remus–, the entirety of fourth year, Umbridge. . . and that’s excluding Harry’s sixth year and seventh-year-that-technically-never-was.

A few people laughed at what they thought was a joke.

Harry laughed for an entirely different reason. 

"He's not serious?" Ron muttered to Percy. 

"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere –the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed. 

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. 

"Everyone pick their favourite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees, Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot, just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot."

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only Fred and George were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, Harry was one of those who clapped loudest. 

He even saw Draco roll his eyes in good humour and reluctantly clap.

"Ah, music," Dumbledore said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry's legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. But he wasn’t too sleepy to not smile at the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or to fondly grin as Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry felt content. 

Chapter Text

Morning was hell.

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

After almost a year on the run, two months with the Dursleys, and clever disguises donned when traveling to Diagon Alley, Harry had almost forgotten how uncomfortable and irritating all the attention was. Whispers followed him from the moment he left his dormitory. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate pretending like he didn’t already know his way around the castle.

Other first years had already taken to following him to their classes because his feet were just a bit too sure of themselves.

Fun Fact: there were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember – if you hadn’t already spent six years living at the castle – where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot.

And when most of the time you don’t give much thought to these kinds of things, this had led to some very strange theories as to how exactly Harry always seemed to know where they were going.

His favourite so far had been he was actually a reincarnation of Godric Gryffindor himself, which explained how he’d been able to defeat Voldemort at such a young age. Obviously, he used ancient and long forgotten magic, which he’d been able to access through the magic in the core of Godric’s spirit. Or something of the like. Honestly, Harry had found it hard to follow along with the logic, but hey, he’s not exactly one to talk.

He did – as the hat so eloquently put – unknowingly and accidently get himself sent backwards in time, dragging another with him, with all of their memories somehow intact.

Harry was pretty sure somewhere in the universe, that was a least seven cardinal rules alone that they’d violated.

Once Harry had managed remember not to lead the way, there were the classes themselves. As Harry quickly found out, first year magic –while incredibly easy and reassuring– was so incredibly, mind-numbingly boring.

Astronomy every Wednesday at midnight was a good time to unwind and just watch the stars. The three times a week they went out to the greenhouses for Herbology, was only good for ‘getting to know’ Neville (read: forcing friendship upon him because I left it too late the first time and that boy deserves so much better). History of Magic was even more boring than Before, which Harry hadn’t really thought was possible, but there you go.

Charms was also – unfortunately – fairly boring. Much to Harry’s eternal embarrassment, when Flickwick took the roll call during their first class, he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight once he reached Harry's name.

He had enjoyed the class in a general sense, but while it may have been one of the more exciting classes for an 11-year-old who’d never know about magic before, as a 17-year-old who’d only two months ago been using more complicated magic than most his age and above were used to? Re-learning how to cast Lumos was not exactly attention engaging.

On the bright side, he’d earned 10 house points for casting it on the first go.

He may have also accidentally blinded the class.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Professor McGonagall was again different. Eleven-year-old Harry had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave the first years a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

Harry had to fight the grin off his face.

He’d missed her sternness. It was refreshing to hear when it was no longer drenched in worry and distress.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. The other first years were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. Harry in particular, was devastated for a different reason.

He’d – not that he’d admit it to Draco – spent almost the entire night reading the Animagus section of the Advanced Transfiguration book, back to front and over again. It had been a half-conceived dream of his since Third Year to complete the process. Originally because he’d thought it’d cool, then as a link to his dad, and then as a link to- . . to Sirius. Now, it was a combination of all three, plus the fact that it would probably be dead useful for their plans.

But Draco had probably already figured all that out.

Either way, Harry could not fucking wait.

Speaking of Draco, they haven’t been able to meet up since a brief ‘hi-how-are-you?’ at breakfast the morning after Sorting. After that, it’d been failed attempt after failed attempt, and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d’ve sworn that their respective Houses were purposefully conspiring to make sure that the two of them can never meet up. Afterall, a Griffin and a Snake being friends just can’t work.

. . . but that’s probably just the paranoia talking, right?

Anyways, Harry had been holding out hope that they’d be able to have more than a thirty second conversation before their first Potions class. It wasn’t like it was urgent – nothing of importance really happens until Halloween really, and even then, if Harry can prevent Hermione from ever wanting to be in that bathroom, then he’s doing it.

Harry just. . . well, he missed Draco.

Even though he had Ron, and Neville and kind of Hermione, Harry was lonely. He missed their daily letters, which had slowly progressed from discussing strategies and plans, to anecdotes about their day and just. . . getting to know each other. It was hard being surrounded by close friends and youngers students and not be able to. . to. . .

To be free, he guesses.

It was exhausting having to watch everything he says and does, especially around people he knew and – Before – knew him.

“Mr. Potter, if you would kindly take your head out of the clouds and preform the spell, that would be greatly appreciated.”

Tittering of the other first years, Harry so did love McGonagoll’s certain brand of sarcasm.

On the plus side, said tittering ceased once he changed his matchstick perfectly into a needle, which, by the end of the lesson, only Hermione had made any difference to her match; it had gone all silver and pointy.

Was it mean of him to enjoy the proud, yet miffed expression on the Professor’s face as she awarded him 10 points?

Probably.

Quirrell's lessons were. . . strange. While on one hand, they were even more of a joke than Before, on the other hand – now that he knew exactly what was hiding under that turban – Harry spent every class contemplating how on earth Voldemort was patient enough to deal with blundering children day in and day out. Harry knew better than most how intense the dark wizard’s willpower and determination was, but even then, it honestly baffled Harry how such a prideful man could stand to be thought a weak idiot.

Other than that, Harry started getting headaches every lesson, which was not helped by the classroom smelling strongly of garlic. No matter how many Pain Relief potions Madame Pomfrey shoved down his throat, they wouldn’t go away.

Harry thought it was most defiantly because of the Horcrux.

Which is a topic he didn’t want to touch with a 10-metre stick until he was at least 40.

It was something he hadn’t had time to process all that much before he went to die – fuck, Harry had actually died – or in the final aftermath of the battle. Draco had been forced to drag the event of that day out Harry’s teeth, and then spent about 20 inches of parchment cursing out Dumbledore. He’d then sent Harry a supply of Dreamless Sleep, no letter attached. Harry understood. Talking about it all was the road to recovery, but that didn’t stop the nightmares.

At the time, Dumbledore’s betrayal had been almost nothing. Of course, there had been a bigger plan; Harry had simply been too foolish to see it, he’d thought. After all, he had never questioned his own assumption that Dumbledore wanted him alive.

His life span had always been determined by how long it took to eliminate all the Horcruxes. And it still was.

But at least now, it was on his own terms.

#

Friday was an important day for Neville and Ron. They finally managed to find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.

"Congratulations," Harry teased them as he poured sugar on his porridge. “Took you long enough.”

Ron’s face instantly pinked and he spluttered, “Took us-! It’s not our fault. We’re the normal ones! You’re the one who has a weird sixth sense of direction in this bloody place!”

Harry grinned into his goblet and shrugged, pushing a plate of bacon closer to Neville and receiving a grateful smile. “What have we got today?” He asked.

Instantly, the grateful smile dropped.

"D-double Potions with the Slytherins," said Neville, his face paling already. "S-snape's Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favours them – this is going to be terrible."

"Double Potions?" said Harry with an even bigger grin. “Excellent.” Harry had known already, of course, but it didn’t stop him from getting excited. A chance to talk with Draco and a chance to show Snape that he wasn’t a complete ‘dunderhead’?

Like Christmas had come early.

“Excellent?” Ron asked incredulously.

Just then, the mail arrived. Hedwig had only brought Harry book orders so far. She sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls. Harry treasured those mornings. She was his little darling, his beautiful girl. Her proud preening and intelligent eyes gave him a comfort unlike any other.

This morning, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry's plate. Harry, calmly open it, ignoring the incredulous stares of Ron, Neville and quite a few other Gryffindors – someone was excited for Potions, Snape, or class with Slytherins? Blasphemy. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:

        Dear Harry,

        I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?

        I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.

        Hagrid

Harry used his self-inking quill – oh, how he loved that thing –, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.

The Potions lesson turned out to be the best thing that had happened to him so far.

Harry knew for fact that Snape disliked him. Having witnessed the man’s memories, he now knew it was a little more complicated than simply because he hated Harry’s father, but he figured it was a good place to start. By the end of the first Potions lesson, Harry had been determined to prove to Snape he was wrong, that Harry wasn’t his father. Snape wouldn’t dislike Harry – at worst, Harry wanted him to tolerate him.

A big order for the first lesson, but Harry was stubborn.

By the end of it, Snape would at the very least tolerate him, childhood grudges be damned.

Harry was practically bouncing off the walls on the way down to the dungeons, much to the bafflement of his housemates. He was buzzing in his skin, blood running hot despite the fact the dungeons were colder than the rest of the castle.

The moment the classroom was in sight, Harry sped forward, walking as fast as he could without rushing. When he entered, he was greeted with one of the best things he’d seen all week.

Draco, sitting at an empty desk right down the in middle of the room, on the line of what will be the divide of Gryffindor from Slytherin, determinately looking in the opposite direction of the doorway.

He and Draco knew that if they were to succeed in this – frankly – insane endeavour, it would be extremely beneficial to have the Potion’s Master on their side – or at least on Draco’s side and therefore on the we-don’t-hate-Harry side.

Step One in Harry Gaining Snape’s Approval: being seen in close proximity with a respected Slytherin, getting along.

Even though it was part of the plan, it still made him feel happy to see Draco saving him a seat.

It was the little things.

Harry grinned and weave through desks of curious classmates until he made it, ignoring the creepy pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls as he messily dumped his bag on the table and slid into his seat.

For a few moments, Harry just grinned to the side of Draco’s slowly pinkening face. Then-

“Aw, you saved me a s-”

“Shut up, Potter, I sw-”

“-so sweet!”

“Shut up!” Draco hissed.

The smile hiding at the corners of his mouth ruined the affect.

They didn’t get time to say anymore as Snape swooped into the classroom, but Harry was content. Harry caught the moment the Potions Master noticed the odd pairing, but only because was looking for it. A brief pause, a quick flicker of suspicious eyes, and back to normal. Harry was in awe of his control.

Snape started the class by taking the roll call, and of course, he paused at Harry's name.

Step Two in Harry Gaining Snape’s Approval: don’t, in any way, shape or form, react negatively to the antagonistic probing.

"Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity."

Harry’s expression didn’t change.

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands, but one sharp look from Draco made them stop. Snape’s cold black eyes glinted, and he finished calling the names.

Truthfully, seeing Snape up close was like a shot to the chest, and judging by Draco’s tight grip on his chair, he wasn’t alone in the feeling.

Too little, too late, Harry had come to appreciate, and then admire the man. Of course, there would always be a small part of Harry that resented the man for making his classes hell, but Harry knew now there was so much more too it.

Snape danced with death throughout the entirety of Harry’s school years,

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word – like Professor McGonagall, Snape had always had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Oh, Harry thought, a bit subdued, ignoring how Hermione's hand had shot into the air.

He swallowed thickly.

He’d learned when studying up on Herbology – according to Victorian Flower Language – asphodel is a type of lily meaning 'My regrets follow you to the grave' and wormwood means 'absence' and also typically symbolised bitter sorrow.

If combined, it translates to 'I bitterly regret Lily's death'.

Which means, the first thing Snape ever said to Harry, was an apology.

Draco boy knocked his knee against Harry’s as he ducked his head to hide the water gathering in his eyes, feeling the blonde boy’s concerned gaze eye him from the side.

"Sleeping potion, sir," said he said quietly, “so powerful it’s known as the Draught of Living Death, sir.”

Snape's lips curled into a sneer, but there was something else, something indiscernible in his eyes.

Step Three in Harry Gaining Snape’s Approval: not seeming like a complete and utter dunderhead.

"And here would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

He ignored Hermione's hand.

“Stomach of a goat, sir.”

"Tut, tut – any toddler could’ve told me that," the man said, probing.

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't pay her the slightest attention. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

“If ingested, it will save you from most poisons.”

It came out as more of a question, but evidently it was enough, because Snape moved on.

"I see you seemed to have at least opened a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He knew it had been a good idea to reread his books after the Dursleys' – he would never remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi otherwise.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.

"Same plant," said Harry quietly. "Also goes by the name of aconite. Sir."

A few people muttered; clearly, most people had not bothered to do the reading. Snape, for the first time since Harry had seen him die, seemed almost, dare he think it, proud.

"Sit down," he nonetheless snapped at Hermione. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be given to Gryffindor House for your doing the assigned reading, Potter."

Harry grinned at Draco.

He rolled his eyes.

Things only improved for Harry as the Potions lesson continued. Snape told them all to get into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils, a more than easy task for two N.E.W.T level students. Because of this, Draco and Harry found time to converse quietly between the stages, filling each other in on their days and just. . . talking. Harry could feel the tension bleeding from his shoulders, his grin coming easier.

Snape swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Draco – and Harry by proxy, to his obvious displeasure. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Draco – the preening prick – had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon.

Draco and Harry looked at each other.

Shit, Harry thought, they’d forgotten about this.

Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose. Harry winced.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he rounded on Ron, who had been working with Neville.

"You – Weasley – why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's a point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Everyone knew it was unfair, but when Ron went to open his mouth to argue, but Harry kicked the leg of his chair.

"Don't push it," he muttered, "Professor Snape can turn very nasty."

Draco gave Ron a look when it seemed like he was going to argue anyway, and the red-haired boy deflated.

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco smirked smugly at the cauldron.

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind was calm and his spirits were high. He and Draco pulled off a flawless potion and had spent the rest of the lesson spent doodling an animated cartoon series on some spare parchment – though they’d been quick to hide it from Snape’s wandering gaze when he passed by. No matter how much the man liked Draco, Harry doubted he’d let their various creative depictions of torturing Umbridge slide by unnoticed.

On the plus side, steps one, two and three of Gain Snape’s Approval seemed to have worked.

. . . or, at least, the man didn’t seem to think he was completely incompetent, which was definitely a step in the right direction.

Harry and Draco had parted ways with an agreement to meet every morning for breakfast, and in the meantime, they’d both work on getting their classmates to stop trying to break up their friendship and just accept it as it is.

Another tall order.

Harry’s going to be exhausted by the time October comes around.

“What’s the deal with you and Malfoy, anyway?” Seamus asked as the raven parted ways with the blonde. The other Gryffindors feigned disinterest but leaned in to listen anyway.

"We’re friends," said Harry with an eye roll, "Why is that so hard to understand?"

“Because he’s a git?”

Harry, much to their confusion, just smiled and said, “yeah, he is, isn’t he?”, before walking off to their next class.

They all exchanged a glance.

The Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t what they had been expecting.

He was far stranger.

But, they could admit to themselves, they kind of thought it probably better that way.

#

At five to three, Harry found Draco and dragged him along as he and Ron left the castle and made their way across the grounds – much to both boy’s displeasure. Draco had complained until Harry had given him a heavy look, and he’d relented.

“Why does he have to come too?” said a glaring Ron.

At that, Harry elbowed the boy while Draco barely granted him a glance.

“Maybe because Potter didn’t want to be stuck dealing with your presence on his own?”

When Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open, Draco was still rubbing the back of his sore head.

Harry was proud to say he’d learned that one from Snape, as many times as that’s been happen to himself.

"Hang on," Hagrid said. "Back, Fang."

Harry made the introductions and got started on pleasant conversations. The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their teeth, but Harry been smart enough this time to bring some tarts, so at Draco’s glare, he, Ron and Harry nibbled discretely on those as they told Hagrid all about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry's knee and drooled all over his robes.

Ron and Draco – “you know, that giant might not be so bad after all” – were both delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch "that old git."

"An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her – Filch puts her up to it."

Harry watched Draco slowly seem to unwind.

As much as he’d protested coming, Harry knew that he’d secretly appreciated it. With the exception of Ron, and not even then, there was no need to keep up pretences. Hagrid, as much as Harry loved the half-giant, was hardly going pick up that Harry and Draco don’t quite act their age, or that they had a strange talent for knowing things they really fucking shouldn’t.

It was frankly depressing that they couldn’t act like friends without their respective Houses jumping down their throats with questions. Maybe it was just because of who they were, or maybe it was because of their personalities, but Harry refused to let House fucking Rivalry ruin their already indefinite friendship.

He vowed to break down the stupid fucking wall separating the Houses.

Don’t get him wrong, Harry still liked the houses. But he realised halfway through Fifth year that it’s not that easy to tag people as just Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs – people are more complex than that. People are not just brave or smart or kind; they are many things mixed together, and as you get to see different sides of them and get to know them better, your opinion of them changes.

And not to mention, the rivalry between the houses is – simply – fucking moronic.

What does it matter, really? The moment you leave Hogwarts, the houses should become redundant, but people still judge other based on what their personalities were at 11-years-old. The concept of being forced to enter one house when you’re still eleven years old has begun to bother him quite a lot. It’s not just the small fact that they make you sit in front of a crowd of strangers, most of them older, with a huge talking hat sitting on your heads reading your every thought during your very first day at your new school.

The houses students are sorted in don’t really let them be themselves. If you’re sorted into Ravenclaw, you’re expected to be smart and get good grades. What’s the point of being in Ravenclaw if you find grades pointless? If you see no meaning in a Dreadful or an Exceeds Expectations? In Harry’s time, Neville used to be so insecure because Gryffindors have to be brave, and he felt he wasn’t brave enough. He was, and in the end,  he always had been, but it caused him so much psychological baggage to start with, that it took him far longer to find himself than it should have.

Gryffindors are reckless because they feel a need to prove that they’re brave when in reality, they feel far from it. Ravenclaws obsess about studying, because they’re afraid of what others will say if they don’t get good marks. Hufflepuffs let themselves get pushed aside and walked over, because they think that always kind equals always spineless. And Slytherins isolated themselves from the rest, because what’s the point of being friendly with them if all your friends think you’re doomed to be a dark wizard.

It’s exactly that mentality that drives people down the paths they go down.

Harry doesn’t even think being a dark wizard is a bad thing – in his mind, there’s a big difference between dark and Dark.

But that’s a whole other can of worms.

Harry was shaken from his downward spiral by an elbow nudging his side. Looking up from his teacup, Harry flushed when he noticed the others looking at him with expectation (Ron and Hagrid) and slight concern (Draco).

He cleared his throat. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout it,” waved off Hagrid. “How's yer brother Charlie?" he instead asked Ron. "I liked him a lot – great with animals."

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cosy. It was a cutting from the Daily Prophet:

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

Harry sighed and showed the clipping to Draco. The other boy read it and then looked up at Harry with a resigned expression.

Already? His eyes seemed to ask.

Yeah, already, the grim line of Harry’s mouth replied.

Harry didn’t bring it up with Hagrid this time. No need to make the man aware that they’d be investigating and thus report it to Dumbledore – which is definitely what must’ve happened the first time.

While there was no doubt about their plans, Draco had insisted – a small part of Harry suspects to save his pride – that they don’t do everything the exact same. There was no need to visit Fluffy before absolutely necessary, they didn’t need to alert half the castle that they were investigating the goings-on and they could both certainly do without the midnight detention into the Forbidden Forest. Harry joked that their motto was, ‘Stick closely to the timeline, but if possible, avoid the embarrassing/monotonous events’.

. . . it was a work in progress.

As they walked back to the castle for dinner, Harry stopped and told Ron to go ahead. The boy stared suspiciously at Draco – who’d also stopped – but after a moment, he slowly acquiesced.

“See you in a bit?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Harry.

Draco waited until the second youngest Weasley had disappeared from view before speaking, still looking up at the castle.

“So, this is it? The start of it all?”

Harry shoved hands in his pocket and looked up at the castle as well.

It truly was a stunning sight, especially at night.

“Yeah,” he sighed.

Draco breathed in a shuddering breath, held it, and then let it go in a big huff. A quick glance told Harry that his cheeks were gaining pink splotches.

It was getting cold.

“How do you want to do this?”

Harry contemplated it for a few minutes. It felt strange that Draco seemed to be deferring to Harry for this, but he supposed in a weird way it made sense. For the most part, this was his life they were following, and objectively, he knew it the most intimately. And for all the plans they’d made, being there in the moment was a different experience entirely. Do they follow the plan to a T, or do they use it as a guideline? After all, who knows what kinds of things have already changed since they got here? They may try to avoid one thing and end up having to do it anyway. . . or something even worse. They could make a million plans, but there were just too many unknown variables to be certain of the outcome.

Harry bit his lip.

“Follow the plan,” he decided, tilting his head up to watch the stars twinkle. “Be discrete, don’t deviate from the timeline unless we need to, and if we do, make sure the other knows so that we can make plans from there.”

He heard a hum of agreement from Draco, and for a while all he could hear was the wind in the trees and the occasional noise of various woodland creatures talking to each other. Then-

“It’ll be okay, Harry.”

He smiled to the spaces of inky black between the innumerable freckles of light.

Yeah, he thought, following Draco as he led them back to the castle.

They’ll be alright.

Chapter Text

Harry had never realised just how conflict free first year would’ve been if he and Draco hadn’t been at each other’s throats every other day. True, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so Harry didn't actually have to put up with the boy much Before, but still. It was honestly ridiculous. When Harry spotted the notice announcing their first flying lesson with Slytherins pinned up in the Gryffindor common room, he ignored his groaning housemates and thought. Already, they’d stopped the less than stellar meeting at Diagon Alley, the confrontation on the train, the antagonization of various classmates and the disaster that was their first Potion’s class – minus Neville’s mishap, of course. And if today went well, they could tick the Rememberall incident off the list as well.

Not bad, if Harry does say so himself.

"Typical," said Ron darkly. "Just what I always wanted. To watch Malfoy, making us all look like idiot by going ahead and using a broomstick perfectly, bragging the whole while."

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else.

"Oh, come off it Ron," said Harry with an eye roll. "Trust me, I know Draco’s always going to be a bit of a prick, but he’s honestly not as bad as you all make him out to be. And to be fair, kind of does have reason to brag."

That was even more true than Before, seeing as Draco was actually a 17-year-old inside an 11-year-old’s body. Much like with how they underestimated how subconscious their knowledge of Hogwart’s layout was, Harry and Draco had also underestimated how difficult it would be to tone down their knowledge and magical prowess. During the last month-or-so before term, along with refreshing their first-year knowledge, the two had set about practicing bouts of wandless magic.

Well, at this point it was still more accidental magic, but it’s the principle – magic done without a wand, magic untraceable by the ministry.

Both Harry and Draco wanted to make sure that when the time came to defeat Voldemort – because mark their words, they would – they would be more prepared than last time. Which meant more research than last time – can never be too sure – and more magical training – Draco had been particularly furious when Harry revealed he’d never really received much special training in preparation of defeating Voldemort.

So, as Harry had discovered on that first day, not only did they retain their memories when they got sent back, they also retained their magical cores. But there was a big problem. Unfortunately, the strain of trying to access that magic was too much for their young bodies. This meant, in order to be able to access the full majority of their cores – as they’d been able to when they were 17 – they’d have to build these bodies. . . magic muscels, so to speak.

While they were nowhere near the level they wanted to be, they were still leaps and bounds ahead of regular first years, which had led to some truly interesting classes.

Harry was a source of great pride and entertainment for Professor Flickwick  and from what Draco had told him, the blonde boy was being hailed as the Transfiguration King, much to Hermione’s consternation.

“Not as bad as he seems?” asked Ron sarcastically, “Right, I’ll believe it when I see it, thanks.”

Harry turned and frowned heavily at him, looking in irritation between the Weasley boy and Neville – who looked was uncomfortable being caught in the crosshair. He understood that it was hard to change one’s ingrained beliefs, especially if it was something, you’d been taught your whole life, but honestly, not even Harry was that stubborn.

“Look,” he said, “Draco is my friend, alright? I’m not saying he doesn’t have bad qualities – trust me, I knowhe does – but that doesn’t mean you get to shun him for it.” Harry shook his head and sighed. “All I’m asking, is that you give him a chance. One chance, that’s all.”

Neville could tell Harry was annoyed that he had to physically ask. It was quite obviously, actually, that it had been building up for a while. Ever since day one, everyone had been questioning them, even – and especially – the other first year Gryffindors. Neville himself even questioned it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to actually ask aloud – that would be rude, and quite frankly, seem like he was undermining Harry’s judgement. And Neville didn’t want to do that, especially now that he was actually friends with Harry.

Friends with Harry.

Becoming friends with Harry, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was completely unexpected.

Oh, Neville knew that the other boy was coming to Hogwarts this year – his Gran had told him that many times – but never in a million years did Neville think that the boy would ever want to be friends with the likes of him. He couldn’t believe it when the raven-haired boy invited him – him, Neville Longbottom – to sit in his compartment until they reached Hogwarts, that special gleam in his green, green eyes that Neville had come to associate as Harry’s I-have-an-idea-and-you-can’t-stop-me gleam.

Even Neville’s Gran hadn’t believed he was friends with The-Boy-Who-Lived, and it had taken a letter from Harry himself before she did – of course, Neville had no idea what Harry had actually written to his Gran, but he heavily suspects seeing as the next letter from the woman was much kinder than Neville had ever received.

But no matter what anyone else might’ve thought, it seemed that Harry Potter was determined to be friends with Neville. And Neville was oh so very glad. He’d been so afraid coming to Hogwarts that no one would want to be his friend, or that he wouldn’t be brave enough to get into Gryffindor (he’d been absolutely convinced he’d get into Hufflepuff, but when he tentatively admitted that to the two other boys on the train, Harry had once again gotten that look in his eye. That one that was terrifying, but in a good way) and so many other matters of anxiety, but Harry and Harry’s gleaming green eyes made it like they never existed.

Yes, Neville understood the importance of what friendship meant, especially if said friendship was an unexpected or unconventional pairing. So, for the most part, Neville just let it be. While the Malfoy boy scared Neville, he didn’t do anything mean to Neville. Or anyone else really. A few snarky comments, but it wasn’t even that bad honestly. Obviously, something must’ve happened in the Malfoy boy’s life to make him act the way he does, and while it doesn’t excuse him, until Neville knows at least part of that reason, he’s willing to hold out judgement on the blonde boy.

Afterall, Malfoy clearly meant a lot to Harry – for whatever reason – so he couldn’t be all that bad. Of course, Neville didn’t pretend to understand how Harry and Malfoy had even become friends – Neville refrained from pretending to understand anything about Harry to be honest, because that boy was kind of strange – but nonetheless, Neville had come to trust Harry judgement.

Especially when he gave directions on how to get to quicker and easier. Neville had no idea how the other boy knew those routes, but Neville certainly wasn’t going to question it, especially when it meant he didn’t get lost or arrive late for class.

So, for Harry’s sake, even though the blonde boy kind of terrified him – there was something hidden about him –, Neville would do as Harry asked.

“Okay,” he softly agreed, with a nervous and shaky smile. He nudged Ron, and he grumbled an agreement as well.

Harry’s answering grin of pure happiness was more than worth it.

#

It was only as they were walking down to the pitch, that Harry remember Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him near one. Privately – and not-so-privately – Harry felt she was wrong to do so, because even though Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground, it could only be made worse by trying to wrap him in bubble-wrap or make him feel too incompetent.

But Harry had already had a long argu– cough, discussion with Augusta Longbottom about the treatment of her grandson through one strongly worded letter, so he wasn’t too worried about anything like that occurring in the future. At least Augusta’s actions were borne somewhat partially from love and concern.

Though, he’d be sure to monitor closely.

You can never trust those I-come-from-old-money pureblood types.

Breakfast that morning, Draco arrived at the Gryffindor table and sat down next to Harry, coolly ignoring the shocked expressions of its occupants. It was almost as if the entire Hall had stopped to look, not that the two boys paid any attention to them. They shared a brief glance of amused resignation.

“Draco, fancy seeing you here,” Harry joked with a large grin.

“Yes, fancy that,” he replied dryly with an eye roll, reaching for the pancakes. “It’s not like you strong-armed me into agreeing to alternate tables every morning.”

Harry adopted a faux-wise expression, which was ruined by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Of course not, whoever would think such a thing?”

“No idea,” Draco drawled, ignoring Ron who was steadily watching him with suspicion.

Seeing this, Neville kicked his leg under the table and looed pointedly at him. The ginger scowled, but got the message.

“So,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat and looking at Draco’s left eyebrow. “Malfoy, right?”

“What will the other Slytherins say?” Neville asked. “Wont they be. . . you know. . .?”

Draco shrugged and added strawberries to his already elaborate pancake creation. “I already a discussion with them about it last night. It won’t be a problem.”

“Oo, a discussion,” said Harry, shifting so that he could face Draco as straddled the bench, putting his elbow on the table and propping his head up with his hand. “Tell me, was it a discussion, or was it a discussion?”

“You are so irritating.”

Harry pouted, “Aw, come on, tell me! Was it a discussion, a discussion?”

“They’re the same thing Potter, there is no difference.”

“Trust me, there’s a difference. There is a big difference.”

Draco levelled Harry with a dead look and Harry just grinned in response. He could hear some of the older students snickering softly, some of the older Hufflepuff girls on the table over even giggling “look how well they get along” and “aren’t they adorable?”

Harry didn’t exactly apricate being called adorable – he was 17 damn it – but if it endeared the Malfoy Heir to them, then so be it. Afterall, Hufflepuffs were a good place to start if you want to get someone well-liked by the rest of school.

The owls descended on the Hall, bringing Draco’s eagle owl to their table, packages of sweets from home clasped in its claws, one of which were for Harry.

An unexpected development, but according to Narcissa, she was ‘pleased that [her] Draco had found such a good friend’ in Harry.

Apparently, Draco had told his parents about him.

A lot.

As Harry grinned at the little note from Narcissa – ‘hope you are handling classes well. That you were raised by muggles of all people is a travesty’ – a barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed them a familiar glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things – this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red – oh. . ." His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, ". . .you've forgotten something. . ."

Everyone tried to help Neville – was glumly staring at the little ball – remember when Draco, seemingly taking pity on him, spoke.

“Your outer robes?” he suggested.

Neville looked down at his body and flushed in embarrassment, mumbling a thank you that Draco waved off. “You would’ve gotten there. . . eventually.”

Ron watched Harry positively beam at the Slytherin boy, trying to ignore the burning in his gut. Harry never looked at Ron like that.

No, he thought, shaking his head. He knew he had a problem with getting irrationally jealous, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it. All his brothers had something special, and now Ron had something special, but it was being taken away from him. He shook his head again. Stop it, don’t do this Ron.

He’d promised Harry he’d give Malfoy a chance – one chance – so he’d do exactly that. Besides, Neville was going to, and anything Neville can do, so can Ron.

A table over, two Hufflepuffs saw the Malfoy boy rolled his eyes at Harry Potter as he attempted to eat his syrup drenched pancakes without making a mess everywhere. Somehow, the syrup had dribbled all over his chin and the two girls just wanted go over there and coo at the small raven boy, but before they could, the Malfoy boy forcefully grabbed Harry Potter’s face and started cleaning for him, the annoyed expression on his face fooling no one who could see the fondly amused look in his eye.

Draco and Harry – and the rest of the Hall – looked at the Hufflepuff table as two girls let squeals so high-pitched, it was a wonder their humans ears picked it up.

Harry side-eyed Draco: what do you think that was about?

He shrugged: no idea.

#

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, Neville and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins – and Draco somehow – were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. The moment Harry arrived, Draco motioned him over, and once separated from the others he said;

“Just to warn you, if the Neville’s incident still happens, and he drops his rememberall, I’m pulling the same stunt as last time.”

And just like that, went to re-join his housemates. Alarmed, as reached out a stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

“You can’t just. . walk away after that,” Harry told him incredulously. “Why? Why are you. . .?”

Draco looked at him like he was slow. “So you get on the quidditch team.”

Harry stared at him.

“I thought we agreed that was one of the things that probably didn’t need to happen?”

“Probably didn’t need,” Draco pointed out. “Besides, you like Quidditch. You. .  you deserve to do something you like after all the shit you’ve been through.”

Draco was, once again, looking away from Harry as he said that, trying to seem nonchalant, but failing miserably.

Harry was touched, he really was, but he had just gotten the others to agree to giving the boy the chance he deserved, so he smiled gratefully but said no.

Draco turned his head and looked at Harry in confusion, “What do you mean, ‘no’? If I don’t throw that ball, you wo-”

“Draco,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to let you make a prick yourself, just so I can get on the quidditch team quicker than everyone else.”

“But-” Draco still didn’t understand.

“Draco,” said Harry again, this time more firmly. He nudged the other boy’s shoulder, looking him directly in the eye. “I can deal with not playing quidditch for a year, easily. What I can’t deal with for a year, is my friendship with you being criticised because of that one time you proved yourself to be a real dick.”

Almost instantly, Draco moved his gaze away from Harry’s, looking his shoulder instead, but it did nothing to hide the grateful look in his eyes, or the faint flushing of his cheeks.

Harry paused, and then added mischievously;

“It was a sweet offer, though. I’m very touched you cared that much about me-”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, shut up.”

#

Quickly after that, Madam Hooch arrived.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!'"

"UP" everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once and was one of the few that did. Hermione’s had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Harry had once likened brooms to horses, in that they could tell when you were afraid; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. Harry tried to comfort the boy, definitely not wanting a repeat of the original first flying class incident, but the boy was inconsolable.

Madam Hooch then showed the rest of the first years how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Their classmates – within their respective houses – were both simultaneously delighted and exasperated when Harry and Draco were awared 10 points each for having “the best handle grips she’d seen first years have since 1956.”

They shared secret grins.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

So much for changing that, Harry thought glumly, resigning himself as he nodded in confirmation to a waiting Draco. Looks like this one is unavoidable.

It wasn’t terribly important in the scheme of it all, but Harry had really just wanted to save Neville to pain.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle – twelve feet – twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and–

Wham – a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay face down on the grass in a heap. Harry winced. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's all right, up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are, or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Draco sighed.

“Well, that went well.”

Ron rounded on him and spat, “Shut up, Malfoy.”

All the Slytherin’s visibly bristled, but Draco threw a look over his shoulder and then narrowed his at the ginger boy.

“I wasn’t saying it to be cruel, Weasley.”

Ron flushed angrily, but looked slightly abashed, so Harry wasn’t terribly worried about a blow-up. What he was worried about, was the casual way Draco bent down to scoop something out of the grass.

Oh no, Harry thought at the considering gleam in Draco’s eye, oh please no.

"Look," said the boy, the Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up. "It's the thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

Harry eye him warningly, “Draco, don’t. . .”

The boy smirked.

“Say, Potter, you any good at catch?”

"No!" shouted Hermione, catching on quickly. Harry spared a thought to be proud – his Hermione had always been a quick one. "Madam Hooch told us not to move – you'll get us all into trouble."

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Granger. I’m not planning on moving a muscle.”

"Draco," Harry warned again, but Draco simply tossed the ball into the air, caught it, and then suddenly, his arm snapped forward and the ball went flying.

"Go on, Potter, go get it."

Harry, fighting his smile – he really shouldn’t be smiling – grabbed his broom. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him – and in a rush of fierce joy he realised much he’d missed flying.

On the ground, Ron rounded on Draco.

“Why would you do that!? Harry’s never flown before, he doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

Draco rolled his eyes and motioned vaguely at the speeding Harry, “does it look he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Ron glanced uncertainly at the sky.

“You didn’t know that though.”

“Believe it or not Weasley, yes I did. See, I knew, because Harry and I have been friends since before term started.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Look, I know what this is actually about,” Draco interrupted, rightly irritated, “this is about you not liking the fact that I’m Harry’s too. Well, guess what Weasley? Unless for some reason Harry doesn’t want me around, I’m here to stay, and if a time comes when Harry doesn’t want me around,” Draco took a breath, struggling to regain his composure, “if that happens, then I guarantee I won’t fight because it would probably be for a bloody good reason.”

Ron, sufficiently rebuked, almost missed it when Harry caught the ball seconds from the ground.

Harry leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down, grasping it tightly with both hands. He shot toward the ball like a javelin, trying to reach it before it smashed against the ground, gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball – wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching – he stretched out his hand – a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry’s heart was jack-rabbiting out of his chest, unable to contain his even as Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling with adrenaline.

"Never – in all my time at Hogwarts–"

Harry glanced at Draco who was standing there, arms crossed and expression satisfied. Harry tried to tamper down his grin, but it only caused the other boy to look more satisfied.

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "– how dare you– might have broken your neck–"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor–"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil–"

"But Malfoy–"

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."

Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Before he disappeared into the castle, Harry turned around and shouted at the smug Draco “We’ll be having words later, Malfoy, mark my words!”, but admittedly, he was kind of grinning.

McGonagall side-eyed him.

“Care to explain Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up at her, tilted his head and thought for a moment, then; “No, not really Professor. I’m good.”

“Really,” she said dryly.

Uh oh, Harry thought, she does not sound amused.

Harry then let the next hour or so wash over him, going through the motions of following McGonagall, retrieving Wood, meeting Wood, talking with Wood, being talked at by Wood, trying to escape Wood’s enthusiastic grasp, having Quidditch plans shoved down his throat by Wood, until finally – finally – McGonagall let him go have dinner.

Although Harry was by that point, quite tired, he still dutifully regaled the events to Ron and Neville. Ron had a piece of steak and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he'd forgotten all about it and Neville was nursing his sore wrist in what looked to be phantom-pain.

"Seeker?" Ron said. "But first years never – you must be the youngest house player in about–"

"–a century," said Harry, carefully measuring his portions. He always felt starving these days – thank you Dursleys – but his stomach still wasn’t up to handling large amounts of food, ever with the extra help he’d received from Draco before the school year started. "Wood told me."

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry. Neville on the other hand, looked uncertain and worried.

“I don’t know, Harry, there’s probably a good reason for having that first-year rule in place.”

"I’ll be fine. We start training next week," said Harry with a reassuring smile. "Only don't tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret."

Right on cue, Fred – fuck – and George came into the hall, spotting Harry, and hurried over.

He knew the two boys had noticed Harry somewhat avoiding them – how could they not when on the second day, Harry had taken one look at Fred, chocked on air and high-talied like a rogue bludger was chasing him down. But until now, the two hadn’t been able find a valid enough reason to approach Harry, knowing with 100 percent certainty that Harry wouldn’t bolt.

And now they’d found their opening.

"Well done," said George in a low voice. "Wood told us. We're on the team too – Beaters."

"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year," said Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us."

“Though first, we’ll have to deal with your little habit of pulling a vanishing act whenever we’re around. After all, we can’t have our team divided like that – it would ruin our chances.”

They gave Harry a significant look, and he flushed, determinately looking down at his plate.

Harry couldn’t explain very eloquently why he let Fred’s death get to him so much. Why should it matter so much to Harry that the older boy had died? Harry’s back in time now, and Fred’s alive – it’s not like Harry was going to let him die again.

Logically, Harry knew all this. But that didn’t stop-. . . it was . . . it was just-. . .

Harry took a shuddering breath.

Fred and George had been like surrogate older brothers to Harry. It was more than that, really, but that was the best he knew how to explain it.

They had been some of the first people Harry had really interacted with. They helped him load his trunk onto the Hogwarts Express in his – original – first year. They were the ones who broke Harry out from the Dursley’s in second year. They gave him the Marauders Map in his third. They were the ones that Harry gave his winnings to from the tournament. And who could forget their masterful departure at the end of Harry’s firth year?

They had been part of the team the helped Harry escape to the burrow.

To-. . . . .to have one of those two be. . . be ripped away from him so suddenly, and having no time to process it until a only month ago. . . it killed Harry inside.

Seeing Fred only just reunite with Percy and then watch the life be torn away from him, was like the happiness and laughter being torn out of the world. Leaving his George without him when they had never been apart for a second. Knowing Molly would lose a son after losing her brothers in the first war.

Harry remembered him saying at Bill and Fleur's wedding, "When I get married, I won't be bothering with this nonsense," 

. . . Fred had never expected to die. He had hopes and dreams and aspirations. He was going to live. And then he’d died.

He died, and he died laughing. For such a happy person to have such a miserable ending. . . Harry couldn’t deal with it.

Harry swallowed weakly, stomach churning with what little food he’d ate.

But he had to. He had to deal with it.

He couldn’t afford to not be able to deal with it.

Stuck in his thoughts, Harry didn’t notice the concerned glance Fred and George exchanged. If they hadn’t been sold on investigation before, they were fully invested now. Clearly, something much more serious than they thought was going on, especially if such an innocuous discussion, turned the boy paler than a vampire in quicker time than it took to say the word.

"Anyway,” said Fred with false cheer, “we've got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school."

"Bet, it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you."

And just like that, Fred and George disappeared.

Harry no longer felt sick – he just felt bone tired. He got up from the table suddenly, mumbling an excuse he couldn’t care to remember under his breath. He could feel Draco staring at him with concealed worry, so he chucked him what was supposed to be a reassuring smile but didn’t waste any time doing more than that.

Just like that, Harry had high-tailed himself out of the Hall, making a beeline to the Gryffindor tower.

He needed to fall asleep and stay like that for the next million fucking years.

Chapter Text

The wind was cold, slicing through the air and biting savagely at any who dare to venture out at this time of night.

Harry felt a raindrop fall against his skin, followed by several others, but he didn't have the heart to move from his position. He was sat at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, legs through the railings and hanging over, arms resting on the cold metal, head rested on his arms to observe the remaining constellations uncovered from the clouds. The moon was nowhere to be seen, allowing Harry to see an eclipse of blazing stars, stars that were now being obscured by thin clouds. The incoming rain chilled his bones, the water making his eyelids heavy. Harry slowly closing his eyes, a rattled sigh passing through his parted lips as he did so, causing his breath to fog up in front of him as he his mind wander.

. . . okay, so he hadn’t exactly made true and gone to sleep after leaving dinner, but in his defence he did try.

It’s not his fault there were too many dead people waking behind his closed eyelids.

Harry had actually laid awake until much later listening to Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus falling asleep. Eventually he’d pulled on his bathrobe, picked up his wands, and crept across the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs into hunched black shadows. He’d stayed there, hoping the ambience would lull him to sleep but it didn’t even make him sleepy.

His mind was too loud.

So, he snuck out of the tower and let his feet guide him as he wandered the castle, ducking out of Filch and Peeves’ paths, until after about an hour, he found himself climbing the spiral steps up to the Astronomy Tower.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but enough time had passed since the rain had started that Harry was now soaked to the bone.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Harry had never had the chance to experience his grief this bad before. It all started when he lost Sirius, his world and his hero. It sneaked up on him quietly and took him under its arms in an instant. Every memory played like a song in Harry head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. Every minute brought fresh waves of people he’d failed and who had paid the price for trying to keep him alive. For the longest time, he was lost mostly because he had lost a big part of him. He couldn't get that part back and he wanted it so bad as him life depended on it but it had been all gone, vanished in thin air. But now he has it all back and he doesn’t know what to do with it.  

The rain stopped hitting his skin and Harry lifted open his eyelids, green orbs instantly searching for the answer.

Draco stared back at him, wand pointed to the sky, an umbrella charm shimmering above them.

Harry didn’t remember if he asked, made a sound or just stared at the boy, but Draco seemed to understand either way.

“Of course I was looking for you,” he said softly, “You were a mess, Potter. I was fucking worried about you.”

And it was like the flood gates exploded.

The grief surged up with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by Harry’s gasping intakes of the sharp, cold night air. Tears began to spill from his helpless eyes, indiscernible from the rainwater dripping from his hair onto his face. His hand flexed helplessly and he tried to subdue his sobs, eyes squeezing shut, trying to calm his shuddering breaths.

Warm arms reached around him, pulling him into a warmer embrace.

Harry stiffened for a moment, still trying to supress his sobs, and then let go.

By the time Harry had calmed down enough to raise his head from Draco’s shoulder, the rain had stopped and the clouds had receded, the stars shining like sugar spilt over black marble, glistening pinpricks of light. Draco still held him; his own clothes now damp from being pressed against Harry.

They stayed silent for an age, until Harry eventually moved away, embarrassed, and Draco decided to speak.

“Harry,” he said, incredibly soft, “you can’t keep it bottled up.”

“I know,”

Draco shifted, biting his lip and then dragging a hand through his hair.

“. . . when I first got back here, I had a panic attack so bad my mother wanted to take me Saint Mundo’s because they didn’t know caused it or how to help me.”

Harry looked over at Draco, the other boy now the one looking at the stars.

“No matter what they tried, I just wouldn’t calm down. Eventually, they got there, but the panic attacks kept coming, so I had to start seeing a mind healer. They kept asking me why I knew what was triggering me, kept asking me to tell them what happened to make me have panic attacks in the first place. . . I couldn’t tell them the truth, obviously, but I had to tell them something.” Draco then huffed. “They probably think I have some sort of latent Seer ability,” he mused flatly, “because I ended up telling them I was having nightmares about the Battle. In vivid detail, mind you. Detail no 11-year-old should know.”

Harry stayed silent while the other boy paused.

Draco shook his head and sighed.

“They wanted me to talk about the nightmares, describe what was happening, figure out what exactly was causing them. Most of what they told me didn’t do anything to help me, because they thought I was just a scared little boy, anxious about leaving home and starting his first years at Hogwarts. Most of the sessions were mind-numbingly boring actually. It was quite degrading to be spoken to like that.”

Harry’s lips twitched and Draco glanced at him, his lips twitching as well, before he heaved another sigh, his brows turning down into a frown.

“My point is, even though most of their advice didn’t apply, talking it out, laying it down for someone else to see. . . I felt so much lighter for it.”

Harry bit his lip.

He knew Draco was right. Frankly, it wasn’t safe to keep it bottle up inside, but Harry didn’t know if he could do it. It was one thing to write it out and send it off for someone else to read – he could pretend that the other person had never seen it. But to say it. . . out loud. . . for the wind and stars to hear?

Draco spoke again.

“You want to know why my mother likes you so much, despite never meeting you?”

Harry, confused, nodded his head once.

“Because she could see how I got so much better after that day in Diagon Alley. Because she could see, with every letter we exchanged, exactly who was helping me get so much better.”

“But. . . but I didn’t do anything,” said Harry, feeling slightly alarmed. “W-why. . .?”

“Harry,” Draco said, finally looking at the raven boy, “it doesn’t matter that you didn’t physically do anything. You were there. . . . you were there for me when that’s all I needed.” Harry could feel the tears welling up again, and furiously wiped them away.

Draco took one of Harry’s hands away from his face and held it in his own. “You were there for me when I needed it, so can bet all the gold in the Malfoy vault that I’m going to be there for you.”

“Thank you,” harry whispered.

Draco watched as the other boy stared up at him with the most fragile expression he’d ever seen on his face.

It didn’t seem right.

He was so used to seeing Harry all manners of angry, happy, stubborn, snarky, mulish and defiant – and merlin, if that last one hadn’t been his secret favourite during fourth and fifth year. Seeing those green eyes weighed down and despondent with sadness and grief. . . it just wasn’t right.

Draco would be the first to admit he wasn’t exactly the most moral person. The fact of the matter was, if Draco didn’t know you, or if Draco didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t lift a finger if it meant to go out of his way in order to help. Becoming a hidden spy during the war had been a different matter altogether – the Dark Lord had threatened his parents, and Draco wasn’t so apathetic as to think that what the Dark Lord was right. And Draco, as much as he hated them sometimes, could hardly let his classmates – the people he’d lived with for year – be killed, all just to fulfil one man’s psychotic dreams.

And Harry. . . Harry had done nothing to deserve the torture he’d been put through, except for being born on one stupid, particular day.

He was torn from his thoughts when Harry rested his forehead on his shoulder again, breaths shuddering lightly. Draco, without quite knowing why, reached up his hand and brushed it through the raven mess. He expected it to get his fingers stuck in the knots, but it was surprisingly soft. The action running his hand through Harry’s hair was almost addicting – he just wanted to keep repeating the calming motion.

He paused, thinking.

He didn’t really know when Harry had become ‘Harry’ and not ‘Potter’. His friendship with the other boy was a strange thing, completely unexpected in a way. In the beginning of their. . . truce, partnership, what have you call it, Draco had never imagined that Harry would understand him. By fifth year, when a large part of him actually wanted to reconcile with the boy, he dismissed the silly notion because he thought that 11-year old him had ruined any chances of that.

Oh, how he was embarrassed of 11-year old him.

That Draco had been sure that Harry, having grown up with muggles, would hate all of their kind and in turn also detest muggle-borns, just as that Draco had been taught to. But he hadn’t, and it confused the Malfoy Heir.

In the simplest of terms, Draco had been jealous of Harry. Yes, Harry’s parents were killed and the only family he had were – though Draco hadn’t known it at the time – abusive fuckheads. But Harry was a hero, a celebrity in the wizarding world, credited with bringing down the most-evil-wizard-of-all-time, even if baby Harry didn’t know he was doing it. He also had amazingly loyal, real friends in Ron and Hermione, something Draco never had in his life of riches and status.

. . . he had been hurt, resentful that Harry had not taken a liking to him at the very beginning of their schooling. Draco, on the other hand, had been a rich, spoiled boy who had been told all his life he was special, but never became a capable enough wizard to really make a splash in that community, or any community. Everything Harry and his friends faced, Draco knew he would have wilted in front of. And once his father’s wealth and connections stopped carrying him, Draco had been forced to look in the mirror and see what he really was.

All while Harry just kept growing and becoming more successful as a wizard and a person.

By the start of sixth year, Draco had just been done. He was done taking it out on Harry. He didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t care about good vs. evil – he just wanted it to stop.

And now, he had a chance to right all of his wrongs, even his ones against Harry.

He refused to squander it.

Harry breathing finally calmed again, and he mumbled something into Draco’s shoulder.

“What was that?” asked Draco, fondly bemused.

Harry sat up, and Draco had to force the air to stay in his lungs.

Avada green eyes bored into his, the determination and fire that Draco had so come to admire burning like Fiendfyre.

“I want to start the process to become an Animagus. This year. This term. Now. Right now.”

Draco, feeling slightly whip-lashed, asked what brought this on.

“The book you gave me.”

“I only gave it to as an idea for later,” Draco spluttered. “I didn’t expect you to want to try it until at least third year.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “well that was dumb of you.”

Draco elected to ignore the jab.

“Why though?” he pressed, sensing that it wasn’t a random request. His suspiciousness was proven correct when Harry shifted nervously and deflected with; “No reason in particular, just want something more challenging to do instead of all this first year stuff.”

“Harry,” Draco said warningly, hating the way he seemed to curl in on himself. “I won’t help you unless you tell me.”

The raven scanned Draco’s face, searching for something and then – seemingly finding it – deflated.

“Sirius once told me the only reason he survived Azkaban with his sanity intact, was because he used his Animagus form when things got really bad,” Harry bit his lip. “He said it helped fight against the dementors effects, because animals’ emotions are less complex.”

Draco felt uneasy. Harry wanted to become an animal quicker so that can escape the pain.

As if he’d read his thoughts, Harry shifted to fully face Draco, his expression earnest. “I know, I know, its not a long-term solution. It’s not meant to be a long-term solution. And technically it’s repression, and repression is bad, but please. . .”

“Harry, I don’t know–”

“Draco, please. I just. . .” Harry took a deep breath. “I’ve never. . . I’ve never had the option to- to-. . . speak, to anyone about. . . anything, really. I’m so used to dealing with everything on my own, and I promise, I’m going to try to change that, but. . . just. . . every so often, I just need that option escape, Draco, or I’ll go mad. Please, just. . help me by giving me this.”

And how could Draco say no to that?

“. . . okay,” he agreed softly, smiling slightly when Harry’s face lit up. “We’ll start it soon, but it’ll take a while. It’s a long process, and it’ll take a while to even find the recipe, and from what I’ve read it’s very complicated. We’ll have to be careful. One mistake and we start all over.”

“Thank you.”

#

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice three evenings a week – he’d been so surprisingly ecstatic when he’d gotten his broom over breakfast – on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it when he realised that he'd already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than it ever had. His lessons could be more interesting, but he and Draco were compensating by reading up on Animagi.

The Transfiguration book Draco had given Harry didn’t actually have much information about the process of becoming an Animagus, but it did discuss the theory and explain the dangers behind becoming one. It stressed that, even though the outcome was achieved through a potion “Becoming an Animagus requires a witch or wizard to be skilled in both Potions and Transfiguration in order to stand a chance of achieving such a complex transformation.”

So, their first step was to practice and improve their capabilities, and in the meantime, study the theory and find a book that actually told them how to make the potion.

On a slightly unrelated note, Harry had gone to the library to begin some research the morning after his Astronomy Tower breakdown and found Hermione buried under the tomes. Much to Harry’s confusion, the bushy haired girl had been refusing to speak to Ron and by extension, Harry and Neville for at least a month. When he’d attempted to greet her – as he always made sure to do – he got glared at and otherwise ignored.

He’d learned off Neville later that Ron had called her “a bossy know-it-all” sometime after Harry had left – cough, fled – the Hall at dinner the night before.

Great, Harry had thought, ignoring Ron as he squawked in indignation, now desperately trying to stop his hair from shedding right off his head. Now I’ll have to work double time in trying to get her to trust me.

He’d received two heavy slaps on the back from Fred and George for the hair-loss curse against their younger brother, and he was proud to say he only slightly flinched.

Baby steps, baby steps.

Harry woke up on Halloween morning feeling strange. Halloween had always been a weird day for him.

People always think Harry hated Halloween because it was the same day his parents died, but they were wrong. Harry didn’t hate Halloween. Given the Dursleys' dislike of answering questions, or even conversing with Harry in general, they never bothered to mention the date Harry's parents died. So, in reality, Harry only found out later in life that he became an orphan on Halloween, but by that point it was more just a weird fact without much emotional significance. He loved his parents and what they had done for him, but it was hard to feel a strong connection with people you’d never met.

No, the reason Harry felt weird waking up was because something always seemed to happen on Halloween. Ignoring the fact that Harry knew something would happen today because of time travel, in the past Harry had learned to be downright wary of Halloween, because every year, without fail, something. went. wrong.

First year? Harry, Ron and Hermione had found themselves embroiled in a fight against an unleashed troll.

Second year, Harry had made the mistake of going to the Deathday of Nearly Headless Nick, and that night, the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. If ‘ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE’ hadn’t been horrible enough, there had also been the shocking sight of Argus Filch’s cat horrifically frozen and hanging by her tail.

Halloween third year was the day Sirius – who, to be fair, Harry had at the time thought to be a mass murderer intent on killing him – broke into Hogwarts and left ominous slash marks in the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Halloween fourth year was the day Harry was picked to be a Triwizard champion. It was

supposed to be a fun, relaxed one for Harry, where he could watch the picking of the three school champions as a humble observer. Finally, a year where he wasn’t the centre of attention. Or so it was for about five minutes before the universe said nope.

Harry could go on and on, but he’s made his point clear.

Nothing good ever happened on Halloween.

So, Harry walked around the entire day with hunched shoulders and suspicious eyes, convinced that something else on top of the troll would spontaneously appear to ruin his day.

He distractedly listened as Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something the other first years had all been dying to try since they'd seen him make Neville's toad zoom around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to practice. Harry's partner was Seamus Finnigan – which was a pain, because Ron got paired to work with Hermione. It was hard to tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about it. The animosity between them was even stronger than it had been Before, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure even he could make things better, even with his cheatsy shortcut of already knowing them better than they knew themselves.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too – never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

Harry – of course – got it first go, but for the rest of the class, it was very difficult. He politely smiled at the ecstatic Flitwick – “never before have I had a student quite as proficient as you, Mr Potter!” – and gave a few pointers to Seamus as swished and flicked, but most of his attention was focused on the table next to him.

Ron, at the next table, wasn't having much more luck.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

"You're saying it wrong," Harry heard Hermione snap. "It's Wing- gar -dium Levi- o -sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

"You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.

Seamus got so impatient that he prodded his with his wand and set fire to it – Harry put it out with a sneaky Aguamenti.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping, not having seen Harry display thank Merlin. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it as well!"

Harry was dismayed.

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class.

"It's no wonder no one can-," he started to say Harry and Neville as they pushed their way into the crowded corridor, but Harry hit him at the back of his head. "Ow! What was that for?"

“Don’t,” Harry warned.

Someone brushed by his shoulder as they hurried past. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face – and was pleased to see that it was tear free.

Neville – Harry was so proud, already coming out of his shell – levelled a pointed look at the ginger boy. "She was only trying to help you. You shouldn’t be so mean."

"So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She doesn’t have to be so bossy about it."

“And you don’t have be so ungrateful about it.”

Harry grinned at Neville and the boy flushed in embarrassment.

Harry should’ve known the pleasant turn of events wouldn’t last.

During lunch, Draco had once again joined Harry at the Gryffindor table, the two glad that in the last two months the rest of the castle seemed to have gotten used to – or resigned themselves in the case of their respective houses – seeing both boys together. It made sitting with each other at mealtime – and general everyday life – much more hassle free.

A few older students had tried to protest against the invasion of the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, something about ‘breaking tradition’, but the teachers were so impressed with the inter-house cooperation that was catching between the first years due to Harry and Draco’s strong-arming that they waved off their concerns and let the two boys be.

Why, just the other day Professor Sprout had seen young Neville Longbottom point out the right Herbology book to a Slytherin boy – something Zambini – in the Library. She simply couldn’t contain herself when she’d told Minerva and Severus that evening.

“What those two boys have done is extraordinary,” she’d said, the other Professors agreeing with her.

“Gryffindor and Slytherin students have always loathed each other on principle, no matter what we do," Minerva McGonagoll agreed, somewhat reluctantly, “but it seems as if Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy are determined to ignore a rivalry that likely goes back to the days of the Founders themselves.”

“And let’s not forget how phenomenally they both perform in classes,” squeaked Fillius Flitwick, practically gushing like a schoolgirl. There was an even louder murmur of agreement at that. “Never before have I seen a pair of first year students break all the unofficial records for both theory and practical. It’s like they know exactly how to do all the work before I’ve even taught them about it.”

“Isn’t that simply amazing, Severus?” Pomona asked.

The Potions Mater’s calculating eyes glinted. “Indeed,” he murmured, “indeed it is.”

All this, of course, happened unknown to the two boys, who were currently arguing over the amount of food on Harry’s plate.

“You need to eat more.”

“I’ve already told you, Draco,” Harry said with an eye roll, “I may be better than I was before, but I takes a long time to recover from things like this. Even if my stomach can handle it, if I don’t eat the right foods in the right portions, my body won’t absorb the nutrients – it’ll just shoot through my body.”

Draco looked confused. “Nutrients? What do you mean ‘shoot through your body’?”

Harry sighed. Right, he’d forgotten. Don’t use muggle words in conversation with Purebloods and expect them to understand.

“If I just eat willy nilly, I’ll end up shitting and pissing it out without it helping my body, and I won’t get any better.”

Draco made a face. 

“Okay, okay, did you have to be so vulgar?”

Harry laughed, but a sharp stab in his scar had him rubbing his forehead in irritation. Draco immediately cotton on and, feeling helpless and knowing that nothing could help with the headaches, started watching as Quirrell entered the Hall and made his way to the High Table.

He stared at the back of his turban with thinly disguised disgust, remarking “I don’t know why my father ever decided to follow him voluntarily. If he hadn’t threatened my parents, I would never have. . .”

“I imagine he was a lot more charismatic and a lot less. . . visibly insane back then.” 

Draco glared at the man some more and then asked; “so, what was the first obstacle again?” 

Harry ruined his scar with a final wince and replied.
“Fluffy, r‘member?” 

Draco looks at him warily. “The three headed dog right?” At Harry’s nod his face soured. “I hate dogs.”

Bang! Harry and Draco near jump out of their skin when Ron slammed his hand on the table as he suddenly joined them, an intensely excited look in his eyes.

“You’ve seen it too!” 

Oh no, Harry thought, exchanging a glance with Draco. Oh please, no.

“Seen what?” He asked cautiously.

“The three dog,” Neville said lowly, jointing them in a much quieter manner. “We heard you.”

Ron evidently couldn’t wait, and launched into an explanation right away. Ron has apparently woken upon in the middle of the night the night of Harry’s Astronomy Tower breakdown, and noticed Harry was gone. He immediately went to go out and look for him, but he accidentally woke up Neville, and Hermione had been getting a glass of water, so when her left the tower the two ended up following him. Turns out, due to Peeves and Filch, they had to hid, and had happened upon the third-floor. According to Neville, that was the real reason Hermione was mad at them and refused to speak to them.

“Never mind that though,” said Ron impatiently. “It doesn’t matter when we could be – should be – out there investigating!”

“I hope you're pleased with yourselves,” said a voice before Harry or Draco could reply. Harry jumped as Hermione appeared behind them, obviously having the conversation as well. “We could all have been killed – or worse, expelled.” 

"For Merlin’s sake" hissed Ron furiously. "You need to sort out your priorities. Go away!"

"I almost told your brother," Hermione snapped, "Percy – he's a prefect, and if you insist on. . on investigating, I’ll get him to put a stop to this."

Harry caught Draco’s alarmed expression and couldn't believe everything was escalating so quickly.

Actually, he could.

It was bloody fucking Halloween, of course everything was going wrong.

"Come on," he weakly said to them both. “Why don’t we just–”

Hermione wasn't going to give up that easily. She spoke over Harry, hair flying wilder in her anger, laser vision eyes trained on Ron.

"Don't you care about Gryffindor? Or do you only care about yourselves? I don't want Slytherin to win the house cup – no offence Malfoy – and you'll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells."

"Oh yeah? Well Harry can just get them all back easy by doing the spell work first go. And we wouldn’t get caught investigating, so go away."

"All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow, you're so–"

"Merlin, it's no wonder you don’t have friends," he snapped, "you’re a nightmare, honestly."

Immediately, Harry’s stomach dropped, and Hermione’s eyes filled with instant tears.

“Hermione,” he tried to say, reaching out for her but she sped away, barrelling through a groups fifth years coming into the Hall and disappearing.

Harry goes to follow – he could here Neville chewing into Ron for his harsh words – but Draco caught his arm before he could.

“Draco, let me go. I’ve got to–”

“Let her cool off,” he said, “find her later. She won’t listen to you in this state.”

Harry knew he was right, but it was the significant look in his eye that made him sit back down. As much as he hate it – loathed it – Harry knew that there was nothing he could do until the feast. Now, the only way that Harry could get Hermione back as a friend and forgive Ron for being a prick, was to go after the troll with Ron – and Neville now he supposes, because the boy wouldn’t let himself get left behind – and save her. It may be incredibly selfish of him, wanting Ron and Hermione to be a good a friends as they were Before so that he could have the both of them as his friends, but he didn’t care. Surely, by this point he deserved to be a little selfish every once in a while. And it’s not like its harming anyone.

Harry just. . . he’s not about to lose either of them. Even though he wouldn’t be able to tell them about the time travel, they had always and will always be two of his closest friends – no, not friends. They were as good as a brother and sister to him. They were a part of his recovery mechanism. He needed them close, he needed to know they were alright at all times. And if he had to cheat a little to get there, then so be it.

Harry heard Ron try to defend himself against Neville berating and sent him an icy look. The boy flinched, the raven’s green eyes cutting into him – distantly, they reminded Ron of a gemstone his aunt had found in northern Burma and obsessed over. Maw Sit Sit or something. It was impossible to look away from their swirling depths.

“I hope you’re happy with yourself, Ronald. I really do.”

Headache still pounding through his head, Harry rested his arms and head on the table, closing his eyes, his entire body slumping pathetically as he pouted.

“I hate Halloween,” he moaned softly.

Draco just patted his back.

#

As predicted, Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Neville had been giving Ron – who looked still more awkward at this – the silent treatment and was glaring at the boy.

Harry didn’t really see any of the decorations or the food, not bothering to fill up his plate – something he was sure Draco would nag him about later.

He waited and waited until finally, Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face as he gasped, "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know,” and then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

Here we go, Harry thought, amusing and distracting himself with the thought of just ripping the turban off Quirrell’s head then and there for all of Hogwarts to see.

Time to fight a troll.

(the gem that Ron was talking about. isn't it mesmerising? so pwetty)

(and this is the original thought process behind this chapter, for all those interested, enjoy reading the absolute mess my brain is. let me know what you think, haha)

Chapter Text

There was an uproar and, in the chaos, Harry and Draco’s eyes met and a message passed between them. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Percy was in his element.

"Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

"How could a troll get in?" Neville asked as they climbed the stairs.

"Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said Ron. "Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke."

Harry wasn’t paying attention. They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions and as they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry ducked into an alcove, dragging Ron and Neville by their robes.

“What are you-?”

Harry waited until the last person had left the corridor and said, “we’re going to fix you’re mistake.”

Ron looked startled. “What mistake?”

"Hermione."

"What about her?" asked Neville, concerned in that sweet way of his.

"She doesn't know about the troll."

Ron paled, and he and Neville exchanged looks of pure horror.

"Okay," he said shakily. "But don’t let Percy see us."

Ducking out, they waited until they could join the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls' bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them.

"Prefect!" hissed Neville, pulling Harry and Ron behind a large stone griffin.

Peering around it, however, they saw Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view. Neville was quivering.

"What's he doing?" Ron whispered. "Why isn't he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?"

"Doesn’t matter," Harry dismissed, hoping that he wouldn’t have to deal with we-suspect-Snape-is-behind-every-wrong-in-the-world after this. “Let’s just get going.

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Snape's fading footsteps.

Neville held up his hand.

"C-can you smell something?"

Harry sniffed and a familiar foul stench reached his nostrils, the mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean.

And then they heard it – a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed – at the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

It was as horrible a sight as the first time. Twelve feet tall, skin a dull, granite grey, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.

"The keys in the lock," Ron muttered. "We could lock it in."

"Good idea," said Neville nervously.

“Nope,” Harry said, grabbing the backs of their robes before the two could leap forward, slam the door, and lock it. “Bad idea, very bad idea.”

"Why?" Ron asked, scared and frustrated. Suddenly, he heard something that made their hearts stop – a high, petrified scream – and it was coming from the chamber they'd just been about to chain up. "Oh, no," said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.

"It's the girls' bathroom," Harry answered needlessly.

"Hermione!" Ron and Neville said together.

It was obviously the last thing the two wanted to do, but what choice did they have? Pulling them up, Harry took the lead as they sprinted to the door and turned the handle, fumbling in their panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran inside.

Hermione was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

"Confuse it!" Harry ordered Ron, and, seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

Meanwhile, Draco was grouchily cursing the incompetence of the entire Hogwarts staff.

“Return your Houses back to the dormitories,” Draco mocked under his breath, peering around the corner to check for errant students or patrolling professors. “Fucking Dumbledore.”

Sure, he thought, it’s true that the Dungeons are simply massive. And while the Slytherin common room is in the dungeons, it isn't the entire dungeon. Several other rooms and corridors are down there, including – but not limited to – the Potions Classroom, Professor Snape's office and many other unoccupied rooms that presumably once held purpose. Most likely, the Headmaster had assumed the Slytherin prefects would take students via the quickest possible route to their common room, while maintaining caution there was a troll on the loose in the vicinity. And while it might have been safer to keep the students in the Great Hall, Dumbledore may have felt that there was little chance the Slytherins would actually run into the troll if they just went straight to their common room.

But for all intents and purposes, Dumbledore had just sent an entire House of children to the exact area a troll had been sighted in, and Merlin damn it if Draco wouldn’t take every opportunity to curse out the elder wizard.

Draco paused, listening intently for the murmur of voices, or the sound of rushing footsteps, trying to determine which direction he should be heading. He wished Quirrell had been more specific than just “Troll – in the dungeon!”. That way he might know where the bloody hell the professors would be searching.

If you’re wondering what Draco is currently doing, that’s bloody good question.

No, Draco wasn’t looking for the troll. As much as he worried – and yes, he did worry – for Harry’s well-being, he knew the other boy would have the situation under control. He’d faced the same thing at 11 the first time, and since then had faced much more frightening things, so Draco was confident that he wouldn’t die at the least.

No, Draco was currently looking for the teachers who were looking for the troll.

Why?

“We’ve got to stop Quirrell from getting to the third-floor corridor,” Harry had said lowly, dropping in on Draco and ignoring the disgruntled looks from the rest of the Slytherins. They tolerated him, but they were still wary of the Gryffindor ‘Saviour’.

“What?” Draco hissed, looking around in alarm for – well, he didn’t know exactly, because he couldn’t see anything out of order. “What’s happened, what do you mean?”

Harry rolled his eyes like Draco was being ridiculous. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong. I just mean Halloween – we need to stop Quirrell from getting to the third-floor.”

“Why? I thought Professor Snape headed him off the first time – has something changed?”

“No,” the raven said, and continued before Draco could relax, “and that’s the problem.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to stare at Harry like he was being ridiculous.

“And how, exactly, do you figure that,” he said slowly.

Harry shifted, swinging a leg over the bench so that he could face Draco as he straddled it, a position, Draco noted, that seemed to be becoming the other boy’s fast favourite.

“You’d be right. Exempting you and me, nothing’s changed since last time – apart from Neville joining our group of course. But Draco, the problem with nothing changing is that after tonight, Ron, Hermione – and Neville I suppose – will all be determined to crack the mystery of what’s actually going on. You know why that’s now a problem?”

Draco had no idea what Harry was going on about.

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s a problem, because after tonight, all three of them will become convinced that Snape is the one after the stone, and we don’t want that. We don’t want three children running around thinking and accusing one of their teachers of trying to kill them – yes, I know, one of our teachers are actually trying to kill us, that’s not the point. The point is, we want Snape on the side of Not-Hating-Harry, remember? The whole accusing thing would definitely put a stop to that.”

“So, your solution,” said Draco slowly, having allowed himself a few moments of silence to sort through Harry convoluted explanation, “is to. . .?”

“Stop Quirrellmort before he gets to the third-floor so that Snape doesn’t have to head him off and subsequently get attacked by Fluffy.”

The following silence lasted for a solid minute.

“. . . I’m sorry, did you just say . . Quirrellmort?”

“Ugh,” Harry had whined, “so not the point.”

“Did you seriously just refer to the Dark Lord as Quirrellmort? . . . . what is wrong with you?”

“Shut up!”

And so, according to Harry, in order to make Professor less suspicious, Draco needed to stop Snape from getting injured by Fluffy, which meant he needed to stop Quirrellmor. . . . . Quirrell, before he could disappear and make sure Snape knew that Quirrell wasn’t sneaking off so that he didn’t go and try to head him off and get needlessly injured.

Draco sighed.

Harry couldn’t explain something succinctly if his life depended on it.

The Malfoy Heir stopped just outside of the Great Hall when heard voices arguing inside and sighed again.

Time to put on a show.

Draco backed up, counted a few seconds, and then burst into the Hall, panting and holding a ‘stitch’ in his side. The professors – yes! Quirrell was still there, now siting pathetically on a bench – all visibly startled.

“Professors!” he gasped. “You’ve got to – the troll – it’s –”

“Mr. Malfoy, what are you doing here?” said firmly, “you are to go back to your dormitory at once!”

“No – you don’t – understand,” he rasped, “there was – scream – troll – not in dungeons!”

He took great pleasure as he surged forward, grasped the arm of Quirrell’s robe and started dragging him along, infusing just enough magic into his hand to make sure the other man couldn’t shuck off his grip as he led the man out of the Hall.

The other professors looked at each other, and then hurried to follow, calling after Draco to explain.

Draco hid a smirk as he glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the pure anger lit up in Quirrell’s eyes.

Too easy.

He led the group – Quirrell still being dragged by the arm – through the corridors and to the place where he ‘heard the scream’.

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the Harry and his three other companions to look up. They hadn't realised what a racket they had been making, but of course, Harry knew Draco would be bringing so ‘help’. A moment later, the Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell and a smugly smirking Draco bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Harry had to give credit to the man – there was playing a role, and then there was playing a role.

Harry looked at Draco in hopeful question and the boy’s rolled his eyes, his smirk widening. Harry quickly looked back at the troll, giddiness rising in his chest.

Snape bent over the troll. Harry casually glanced down at the Potions Master’s leg.

No wounds.

He had to fight with all his might to contain his grin.

Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron, Neville and Harry. Harry had only seen her look so angry on a few occasions. Her lips were white. All thoughts of smiling were quickly wiped from his mind.

No matter how old he got, the Transfiguration professor would always slightly terrify him.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at his companions, who all had debris and dust and water marring their appearances. He probably didn’t look any better. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry carefully avoided direct eye-contact. No need to give the man extra leverage than he needed.

A small voice came out of the shadows.

"Please, Professor McGonagall – they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.

"I–," Hermione started, preparing to downright lie to a teacher in gratitude. Ron near dropped his wand, the gratitude and guilt bubbling in his chest.

"We were looking for Hermione because we knew she didn’t know about the troll,” Harry interrupted. He was glad his old – new? Fucking tenses and their paradoxical nature – friend was willing to take one for the team, but he wasn’t about to let her. He was serious when he’d said that he’d protect them. “I’d been trying to help her with the Siphoning Spell earlier today, as she’d been having a little trouble, but I’m afraid I phrased something in a way that upset her. We heard from one of the girls that she’d been in the bathroom all day, and when Professor Quirrell came into the Hall shouting about a troll, we knew we couldn’t leave her.”

Neville and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn't new to them.

“Neville jumped on it and stuck his wand up its nose, and I levitated its club out of its hand. Harry shot some kind of spell at it at that knocked it out,” Ron said, and Harry winced, “We didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish her off when we arrived."

“If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now.” Hermione added.

"Well – in that case. . ." said Professor McGonagall, staring at the four of them. She turned to Draco, "I suppose, Mr. Malfoy, you too have a lucky explanation for your fortunately timed whereabouts?"

Draco looked at her with eyes just wide enough with residue worry to appear plausibly innocent. Harry was very impressed. “Well, Professor, we were walking back to our dorms, my friends and I, and we were – admittedly – lagging behind a little when we heard a scream. I’m the fastest runner, you see, so I told the others to go tell our Prefects, and then I ran to get you. I knew roughly where the troll was, so I wasn’t worried about running into it, which meant I was just concentrating on getting someone capable of handling the troll as quick as possible.”

Of course, that was all complete dragon dung – he’d ditched his friends as soon as he could, so they wouldn’t know, but they’d backup his story just the same as any other good Slytherin.

Snape, by the way he was examining Harry and Draco specifically, probably knew they were lying, but either did nothing because he had no proof or because he didn’t particularly care for the specifics.

"Well," said McGonagall, visibly flustered and wanting to put blame on someone but not knowing who. "Miss Granger, I’m very glad that you appear to have escaped such an ordeal due to the bravery of your fellow students. If you’re not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses."

Hermione reluctantly left, glancing behind her at the three boys that had saved her life. She didn’t know what to think of them

Professor McGonagall turned to Harry, Draco, Ron and Neville.

"Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Mr. Malfoy, five points to Slytherin for immediately coming to get us. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go."

Draco got escorted back to his dorms by Snape, and the three other boys hurried out of the chamber and didn't speak at all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else.

"I can’t believe that just happened," said Ron, dazed.

Neville was rapidly turning pale, adrenaline leaving his body. "What was I thinking?" he whispered in horror. “Jumping on its back like that? My Gran’s going to kill me.”

“You were thinking ‘someone’s in trouble, and I have to capacity to help them’,” Harry said firmly, “there’s nothing wrong with that, Nev.”

"Tell you what though, bloody good spell of yours that knocked it out," Ron said gratefully. "What one was that?"

"Dunno," Harry deflected, highly uncomfortable. “I wasn’t really thinking, just pointed my wand and thought ‘we’ve got to knock it out’.”

“Sounds a bit like accidentally magic to me,” Neville mused.

He was glad when they left it at that, dropping it as they had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and entered. He’d been even more glad when the professors – minus Snape, of bloody course – had seemed to gloss past it as well in favour of rushing them off to bed.

It wasn’t like he’d wanted to lie to them, but how else would explain that he’d actually sent a Stunner – a fourth year spell and one of his specialties – at the troll, having planned on distracting and disorientating it a bit, not knocking it flat-out unconscious. Harry had shown himself to be good, but certainly not that good.

While definitely not as notoriously as a dragon to subdue, Mountain trolls especially usually took two or three good hits before they were down and out for the count, not one slightly overpowered shot from an 11-year-old boy. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, however, it showed that Harry really needed to figure out how to find the balance between how much power he puts into his spells, and how much he actually needs to put in. The shift between 17 and 11 was still throwing his off magic wise, and it really shouldn’t be by this point. Draco had gotten control of it an age ago, and Harry was still the source of great entertainment for Professor Flitwick – whether he got the spell work in one go, or accidentally blew up a desk.

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione, however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them. There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of them looking at each other, they all said "Thanks," and hurried off to get plates. Harry swallowed an amused smile and did the same.

They were such. . . kids.

Of course, the next day Harry got the two to sit down and talk it out. He’d ignored Draco watching with barely concealed amusement as he told Ron that he needed to think before he speaks, and that Hermione wasn’t trying to undermine his talents or intelligence – “because you are talented Ron, once you put your mind to it”. Once again paying no mind to the snickering of Draco, he turned to Hermione and told her that she didn’t need to try so hard to prove herself, because if people refused to see how brilliant she is, then their opinions don’t matter. The two first years shyly looked at each other, stuttering out their respectively, sincere apologies.

Harry had stood there, hands on hips with self-satisfied expression.

Hermione then became part of their little rag-tag group. As Harry had well learned by now, there are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

And, apparently, Harry thought as his mind wandered to Draco, travelling back in time to save the future is one of them too.

. . . well, he thought that right up until Draco snarked something about Harry being “such a mother.” Harry had immediately squawked and started chasing him, yelling insults at him.

The other three just watched after them, wondering at the sight, flushing in second-hand embarrassment as older students stared at the two duking it out.

“Harry’s kind of. . .” Hermione started hesitantly.

“Strange?” Neville suggested.

“Bonkers?” said Ron, not unkindly.

“Different,” Hermione decided. They watched as Draco had to duck out of the way of a flying shoe and harry yell “training for the ballet?” – which the three could tell was a reference to something else due to the way Draco became instantly indignant and outraged.

“How on earth did those two even become friends?” Hermione asked, to which Ron admitted, “No idea.”

Neville sighed with a wise and slightly exasperated expression, which looked quite out of place on his 11-year-old face. “I’ve given up trying to understand anything when it comes to those to. I learned early on it was better to just pretend and roll with it.”

The two boys fighting boys paused, panting and looking at each other with narrowed eyes.

“Twitchy little ferret” Harry hissed, and everyone sucked in a breath, waiting for the Malfoy Heir’s reaction.

“Lazy entitled scarhead.” Draco replied in kind. It was like they were a tennis match, the way onlookers’ heads turned from Harry to Draco to Harry and back to Draco.

Much to their bafflement however, the two were fighting grins and then Harry began to laugh, causing Draco to roll his eyes, but still smile nonetheless. Seeing this, Neville, Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

“You know, Neville, you may just be onto something.”

#

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy grey and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverkin boots.

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in his first match – in over a year – after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the house championship.

Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow – Harry blamed Draco, the sneaky git – and Harry didn't know which was more amusing – people trying to reassure him he'd be brilliant or people telling him they'd be running around underneath him holding a mattress.

It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He may be more than smart enough to get through all his homework without her, but between all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do and the separate Animagus research he and Draco where doing, he would never have found the time to complete it. She had also helped him convince Madame Pince to allow him to get a book from the restricted section, a feat he will forever be mystified about.

Harry had actually been hoping to find more information about the Animagus potion, but had become distracted by all the other – morbidly – fascinating potions. Many of them were dangerous and arcane, requiring advanced skills and knowledge in potion-making to brew. Antidote to Uncommon Poisons, Noxious Potion, Laxative Potion – that one had some fairly horrifying diagrams –, Garrotting Gas, even some unnamed recipes with all manners of gruesome description. . .

There were a surprising number of controversial recipes in its pages. They weren’t quite black, but some of them were definitely not dark enough to almost be. Harry was highly surprised that Dumbledore would allow such a borderline book within Hogwarts, but he supposed the old man couldn’t control everything – Madame Pince was a force to be reckoned with.

Harry fondly traced a finger over the is a picture of a woman with a grotesquely large spider on her head, almost worn like an ornament. His lips twitched. Unfortunately, with Draco on their side, there would be no need for Polyjuice next year.

He hadn’t actually told Draco about that part when he gave him the general overview of his years at Hogwarts. He had kind of just. . . glossed over it.

What Draco didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, Harry thought, . . . or more accurately hurt me when he hits me with a Jelly-Leg jinx.

Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry, Neville and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match the three of them were out in the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape's eye. He limped over. He hadn't seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway.

"And what have you got there, Potter?"

It was Moste Potente Potions. Harry reluctantly showed him. The Potions Master read the title, and his eyebrows lifted in barely concealed surprise.

"This is a book I know for fact belongs in the Restricted Section, Mr. Potter," said Snape. “Most curious that a student of your incompetence is in possession of it.”

“Madame Pince gave me permission,” Harry replied quickly, glad he didn’t need to lie.

This time.

"A fact of which I will be sure to validify. Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."

"Bloody hell, I’m not incompetent. I could totally brew any of the potions," Harry whined as Snape stalked away, ignoring Hermione as she muttered that most of the potions in that book were N.E.W.T level. "Why doesn’t he like me, Draco? I’ve tried everything. Everything I say, everything, and he still refuses to even tolerate me. I thought we were making progress!"

"Haven’t the foggiest," said Draco dryly, glaring down in irritation at the boy who had decided to starfish himself across Draco’s lap. Harry stared up at him sheepishly, but unrepentant. Ron mumbled something about Harry being crazy for wanting Snape to like him in the first place and Neville shivered in agreement from where he had been doing his homework.

Neville had actually received a new wand the week before, much to his astonishment, and the difference was clear. If he was doing okay before with his father’s uncooperative wand, he was doing so much better with one that suited him, even in Potions. In fact, under Harry and Hermione’s tutelage, the boy come leaps and bounds in all his classes, but Harry suspected no matter how well he did in his class, Snape would probably always terrify the shy boy.

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Ron and Neville's Charms homework for them. She would never let any of them copy – "How will you learn?" “Thank you, Hermione!” – but by asking her to read it through, they got the right answers anyway.

Harry felt restless. He wanted Moste Potente Potions back, to take his mind off. . . well, stuff. Besides, now that they’d taken away solid proof that Quirrell was a truly shady character, Draco said they needed to give Snape another reason to suspect the stuttering mess. Time for Plan Voldemort-Is-Going-To-Regret-Ever-Giving-Me-My-Scar. VIGTREMMS, for short.

. . . it was a work in progress.

Getting up, he told Ron, Neville and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if he could get his book back.

"Better you than me," they all said together, and Harry had to fight a shudder. Okay, that was only slightlyterrifying.

Harry made his way down to the Dungeons, the to Snape’s office ingrained into his muscle memory from how many times he had made his way there in fifth year. There was no answer. Harry steeled himself and knocked again. This time–

Snape opened the door, surly face glaring at whoever dared disturb him – when he realised who exactly it was, his expression suspiciously blanked.

Great, Harry thought, he despises me so much this time around that he can’t even muster the energy to properly express it. Fan-tastic.

“Mr. Potter,” the man drawled, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Behind the Potions Mater, Harry could see the familiar shadowy room lined with shelves bearing hundreds of glass jars in which floated slimy bits of animals and plants, suspended in variously coloured potions. In a corner stood the cupboard full of ingredients that Snape had once accused Harry – not without reason – of robbing.

. . . a shallow stone basin engraved with runes and symbols that lay in a pool of candlelight, moments passing behind his eyelids, flashing blinding pain–

"Mr. Potter," Snape snapped. "If you continue to insist on wasting my time, you will find yourself cleaning cauldrons until Christmas. Why are you here?"

Harry startled, and stuttered, caught up in the memories. “S-sorry sir, I just– that is– I was just wondering if– if I might have. . my. . book. . . back?”

Snape's face was twisted with irritation as he scrutinised the raven.

Harry gulped.

If Severus was to be completely honest with himself, he had no idea what to make of the boy.

He knew more than half of his students hated him. He was more than aware of the fact actually, but he saw no reason to rectify or feel remorse for their reasons. Yes, he was harsh, yes, he was cruel, but he wasn’t about to mollycoddle anyone when it came to such an exact art as Potions. Say he doesn’t care, but Severus would rather be hated and have a zero-fatality record than to be as well-liked and incompetent his own Hogwarts potions professor, Horace Slughorn. While undoubtably talented, the man had been a terrible professor, focused only on those he deemed “star material” and leaving the rest of his students to squander. Severus’s classes had their fair share of accidents, but none so bad that he wasn’t able to fix the problem before it caused any lethal or life-altering aliments.

No, Severus was under no illusions. He was callous, spiteful and extremely short-tempered. By no means did he go out of his way to help anyone struggling, but his policy had always been; if the student doesn’t have the initiative to ask for help, or the drive to do extra study, then they would have no future in Potions and therefore weren’t worth the wasted effort, especially when there were other students who had the passion and went the extra mile.

There was a distinct correlation. The more a student failed his class, the more they hated him in particular – as though they were blaming him for their short-comings.

So, when Severus realised this was the year that the Potter spawn would be starting his first year, he’d been filled with nothing but frustration and dread. Surely, the boy would be just as spoiled as his father; brought up being led to believe he is the height of human evolution, the pinnacle of good, the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’. Surely, he would be brought up on stories how great and just his father was, and how Severus was just a “slimy, evil snake”. He’d hate Severus on site, surely, and as such, would be just as lazy as his father.

He’d certainly been prepared to hate the boy on principle alone, but when he saw the raven haired – he even had his father’s untameable locks – boy sitting there in his classroom, his first thought had been–

–small. Why does he look so. . . small?

The boy’s face had seemed so thin, almost gaunt. He looked like a hollow shell of a once plump and vibrant child. The coruscating gleam in his eyes – Lily’s green eyes – and teasing grin on his lips contrasted so sharply the rest of him that it threw Severus quite badly. Then of course, he’d registered who exactly the boy had been teasing and it only made things worse – and oh how he secretly burned to know how the two had even come in contact, much less become friends.

Admittedly, he hadn’t handled the situation very well. Annoyed that the Potter child had almost made him break his façade, angry that he could see James Potter, grief-stricken by the sight of Lily, and so terribly suspicious about the exact nature of the child’s homelife – surely Albus would not allow for such things to occur? – Severus had snapped.

There was no other way of saying it – he’d attacked the boy.

He’d asked him questions he thought for sure the boy wouldn’t know – but he had. He tried to justify it to himself, saying he was just apologising for what he’d done and – oh Merlin he hoped to everything he was wrong – everything the boy had subsequently put through.

It wasn’t a good excuse, but Severus could’ve sworn the indignant and irritated look in the boy’s eyes had become sombre, subdued, for just moment, and Severus had let himself hope, that somewhere out there, he was forgiven. It was a silly fantasy, but even men like Severus could dream.

At the very least, Severus was just glad it would seem he didn’t have to anticipate many – if hopefully, any – mishaps in the classroom by the boy’s hand.

From then on, the boy continued to exceed expectations – both literally and in his coursework. He was powerful – more powerful than Severus had ever actually seen a first year – and he was smart – that was immediately evident. His friendship with the Malfoy Heir was also the strangest phenomenon Hogwarts had seen in a very long time. The two acted as if they’d known each other for years, but that was simply impossible – Luscious would’ve been bragging to every paper he could find that he was in favour with the Boy-Who-Lived. And other days, they could act as if they were worst enemies, then smile fondly, laugh at it and move on.

Draco was just as much of a calamity to Severus. A far cry from the brat he had been, he was more subdued, yet at the same time, so much livelier and freer with his. . . sentiments. Severus wasn’t even going to touch the other changes he’d seen in Draco since seemingly becoming friends with the Potter child – the apparent shift in magical capability and his rise academic prowess, among other things. Not exactly negative occurrences, but thought-provoking, nonetheless.

Severus came back to himself, staring at the nervously waiting for an answer.

And there was another mystery.

However smart – and Severus was not so proud as to deny the fact – and talented the boy may have been, that still didn’t explain what in Merlin’s name he was doing with a seventh-year advance potions book.

"Sir?"

Severus silently closed the door, retrieved the book from his desk, and opened his door again, ignoring how the boy’s face went from dejected to pleasantly surprised.

Severus was curious – he wanted to know what would come if he allowed the boy to have and study the book.

Besides, the boy hadn’t been lying – he really had convinced Madame Pince really to give him permission, though how exactly, continued elude the Potions Master.

"Oh," the Potter brat said, before smiling widely at the professor as he accepted to offered book. “Thank you, sir.”

Severus resented the fact that he couldn’t find it in himself to truly hate the boy.

"Now, leave."

But the boy hesitated, and Severus raised an eyebrow, wondering what the boy wanted now. It wasn’t often that Severus came across a student voluntarily willing to spend more time in his presence than necessary.

“Yes, Mr. Potter. Unlike lazy individuals such as yourself, I have important things to do.”

The boy startled, unoccupied hand reaching up as if to rub his forehead, only to change direction and card his fingers through his messy black hair.

“Sorry, sir, I just– I don’t quite know to–” he tried to articulate, his hair paying the price for his frustration. “I–I’ve been having these headaches and–”

“Then you should be walking to the Hospital Wing, not squandering my time.”

“I did!” the boy said loudly, instantly flushing and looking abashed. He continued, quieter; “I mean, I went, but none of the potions Madame Pomfrey gave me worked, and she suggest I ask you because you’re a really accomplished Potions Master and you might know. . another. . . potion?”

Like a switch, Severus’ mind started working in over-drive and he became tenfold more interested in the conversation. He motioned for the boy to continue, and he did, becoming more confident.

“I– I’ve been getting them on and off since I got here, actually. I– I don’t know what’s actually causing them, but they happen pretty often during some of my classes, like in Defence, when Professor Quirrell has been talking for a long time? So, I thought that maybe it had something to do with. . .”

The boy kept talking, but Severus wasn’t paying attention.

The boy startled, unoccupied hand reaching up as if to rub his forehead, only to change direction and card his fingers through his messy black hair.

. . . as if to rub his forehead. . .

. . . his forehead. . .

The boy’s fringe was parted slightly, giving Severus view of one of the most famous symbols in the entire Wizarding World. The lightning bolt scar. The very one given to him by the Dark Lord the night he was ‘vanquished’.

Severus froze.

The very one given to him by the Dark Lord.

The boy made another nervous, aborted gesture up to his forehead and into his hair, tousling the atrocious mess even more.

. . . on and off since I got here. . . happen pretty often. . . Defence. . . whenever Professor Quirrell. . .

“What kind of headaches?” he questioned, successfully disguising the urgency he felt, for the first time in his life praying that he was just jumping to conclusions. “Where do you feel them most?”

“Um,” the boy fumbled, hands twitching up. “Mainly in like, the front of my head? Like, the area behind my eyes will start to throb after a will, and my scar gets kind of itchy?”

His scar.

The Dark Lord.

Quirrell.

Severus persed his lips, letting nothing of his inner thoughts show on his face.

“I will see what I can find, Mr. Potter. Now, this time, if you would please, leave.”

The boy once again smiled brightly at the professor.

“Thank you, sir!”

Harry didn’t glance back as he left, book clutched in his hands. He was feeling optimistic. Not only had Harry gotten his book back, he might actually be getting a potion to help with his Quirrell-induced headaches.

And, he thought smugly, the seed has been sown. Quite expertly, if I does say so myself.

"Did you get it?" Ron asked as he joined them.

Harry it up for them to see.

“Yep,” he smiled, “no problems. Absolutely no problems at all.”

He ignored the weird and slightly frightened looks the trio gave him.

He was feeling quite optimistic indeed.

Chapter Text

Harry groaned, gingerly lowering aching body into his favourite squishy armchair.

Today had been a nightmare.

The morning had dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match.

"You've got to eat some breakfast."

"I don't want anything."

"Just a bit of toast," wheedled Hermione.

"I'm not hungry."

Harry felt terrible. No, like actually terrible. It wasn’t because in an hour's time he'd be walking onto the field.

Harry just felt terrible. The thought of eating made him feel sick.

"Harry, you need your strength," said Seamus Finnigan. "Seekers are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Thanks, Seamus," said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his sausages.

A bowl of food with a pale hand attached was placed in front of him, hot steam carrying an unfamiliar – but stomach growling – scent.

“Egg and Miso soup,” Draco said without prompting, a sarcastic and irritated tone colouring his words, “Light, easy and healthy. Now, eat.”

Harry winced, knowing he would be getting more than a lecture from the boy about keeping to his eating schedule – the one Harry had made – but he leaned away, nonetheless.

He was familiar with Miso, having had to use it in some recipes Petunia wanted him to make back when she was briefly obsessed with all things healthy – of course, when he said, “back when”, Harry had meant fifth year. He thought it helped supply several vitamins and was good to have when with a cold. All he knew definitively was that it did something to aid with digestion – the main reason Petunia had wanted it, for her “precious Dudders.”

Harry sneaked a glance at the Slytherin table, where it seemed people were either staring with calculating eyes or looking like they wanted glare at the Malfoy Heir but knowing it would be more trouble than it was worth.

Malfoy, after all, was a prominent name in the Wizarding World. It was certainly how younger Draco had gotten away with all his antics.

Admittedly, the soup did look very appealing, but he still tried to push it away.

“Draco. .” he said when the boy just pushed it back towards his.

“No, we don’t want Gryffindors whining that Slytherin only won because our Seeker actually ate breakfast.”

Harry smiled weakly but still shook his head. “Can’t Draco, don’t feel well.”

The pale boy’s ice grey eyes sharpening in concern, brows pinching ever-so-slightly. Harry was touched but he was fine really. He just didn’t feel up to–

“Scared Potter?” Harry took a moment to register what had been said, and then his head whipped towards the boy, mouth gaping wide at the smirk that greeted him. “Scared you’ll be no match against our team?”

His housemates bristled. They may have agreed to tolerate the “slimy snake” for the raven’s sake, but they were not about to let the insult slide.

They stopped when Harry let out a sharp “Ha!” with an – almost wild – grin.

“You. Wish,” he emphasised the two words with a competitive passion that completely contradicted his suddenly elated expression. “You fucking wish.”

Ignoring Hermione’s scandalised squawk of “language, Harry!”, he picked up a spoon and got started, still grinning. Maybe he could stomach a little bit.

As Draco sauntered off smugly, and the Gryffindors decided then and there to never again try to understand how the friendship – or the individuals – function.

It wasn’t worth the overworked brain cells.

By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.

Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashed different colours.

#

Whatever good mood Harry may have gained from that morning had evaporated well and truly by the end of the game. Harry thought that with his now superior knowledge of how to ride a broom, he’d be able to handle the jinx far better than last time.

Unfortunately, he didn’t take into account that the more time Harry didn’t spend falling to his death, the more power behind the jinx Voldemort would get Quirrell to put in.

A dumb oversight of his, but Harry was more focused on not dying via gravity rather than beating himself over the head with self-deprecation.

So, as his broom was vibrating, zaps of harsh, biting electricity now shocking him in steadily growing bursts of voltage – that’s knew, he thought – Harry prayed for Hermione to hurry up. Well, really, he was wishing for Draco’s help, but it wasn’t possible. As much as the Slytherins’ tolerated their strange friendship, they were still wary; disappearing their stands in the middle of their first game – against Gryffindor nonetheless – for seemingly no reason would not be received well.

The first and second years weren’t actually so bad – they’d mostly just tolerate the fact and mostly moved on, occasionally stopping and pausing to glare at Harry only to remember themselves. The main trouble were the older years – the prejudice just ran too long and too deep for them to be any more accepting. It was only really Draco’s standing as a Malfoy that kept him on their good side – That, and his considerably wealthy knowledge of how to play them the Slytherin way without them realising.

It was slow going, but necessary.

So, Draco was stuck under the watchful eyes of Slytherin and Harry just had to hold out hope that Hermione would distract Quirrell before his hands become blackened and burnt husks of their former selves. He also had to hope she’d seen Quirrell mumbling to jinx instead of immediately zoning in on Snape

Oh fuck, Harry thought, vision swimming as Fred and George flew up to try and pull him safely onto one of their brooms. They stopped when the broom would jump higher still, and they could see the running flashes of electricity. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone noticing.

Harry must’ve lost consciousness, or at least blanked out for a moment, because he suddenly the electricity stopped, and he was able to freely move his broom.

Body tingling, hands searing, anger burning in his gut, Harry immediately dove, shooting past an alarmed Fred and George sped toward the ground, only pulling up at the last second and slipping off his broom to land feet first in one perfect, controlled moment. Glaring defiantly up at the crowd, he lifted his hand to his mouth, coughed and something gold fell into his hand.

"Thank you," he shouted bitingly, lowering into a mocking bow, and the game ended in complete confusion.

Fred and George were the first to reach him, having followed his tail the moment he dived. Immediately they frantically – yet gently – grabbed his arms, trying to examine the damage, but Harry pulled away and shook his head.

“No,” Harry muttered as they went to protest. “This wasn’t some Slytherin cheating tactic, too maliciously. If I go to Madame Pomfrey now, everyone will panic and start pointing blame. I’ll go see Hagrid – he probably has something or other in the meantime.”

They frowned at him, heavily, but as people started crowding the field, getting closer and closer, they looked at each other and seemed to come to agreement.

heard none of this, though. He was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, with Draco, Ron, Neville and Hermione.

“You stupid, reckless, idiotic, self-sacrificing, thrill-seeking meathead!” Draco seethed, carefully smearing Hagrid’s burn ointment over Harry’s hands. “I could kill you. I could kill you and no one would ever find the bloody body Potter, you– you–”

“Well, at least I didn’t fall off my broom. That would’ve been embarrassing.” Harry tried to joke weakly. Draco glared at him, and Harry winced.

“Draco,” he said as the boy passive-aggressively started to wrap his hands in cloth, “I’m fine. It was just a broom jinx.”

“J-just a broom jinx?” Neville repeated with wide eyes, “H-harry, look at your hands!”

Harry aimed – what he hoped was – a reassuring smile at the other boy. “It’s fine, I’ve had worse.” Four sets of incredulous eyes stared at him in shock and harry winced.

“Good job, Potter,” Draco sniped under his breath as they all started to ask questions, “way to put them at ease.”

“Shut up,” Harry hissed, then turned to the others, “Guys, don’t worry, okay? I was joking. Besides, you’re all acting like I was chased by a dragon.”

“No, because a jinxed broom that starts to fry your hands when it can’t throw you to your death is so much better.” Draco drawled, tucking in the ends of the bandages.

"It was Snape," Ron said, "He did it. Hermione, Neville and I saw him. He was cursing Harry’s broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off him."

Draco gave Harry a particularly incredulous side-eye; Oh, for fuck sake, there was literally no reason for them to suspect him in the first place, it seemed to say.

Harry bit his lip to restrain a groan; I don’t know, maybe if Snape wasn’t so bloody suspicious looking, we wouldn’t being having this problem?

Draco levelled him in a deadpan manner; maybe if your friends weren’t so quick to draw conclusions, we wouldn’t being having this problem.

Harry had no comeback.

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had gone on next to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"

Neville, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, obviously wondering what to tell him. Draco decided on damage control.

"Hagrid’s right," he told the three first years, much to everyone’s visible surprise. He scowled. “What reason would Professor Snape have to try and kill Harry off?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said hotly, “But I know what I saw, and what I saw was incredibly suspicious.”

“Yeah, but it could’ve been anyone else too ‘Mione.” Harry argued. “Maybe Snape was trying to save me – maybe he was muttering a counter-jinx.”

Actively defending Snape? Oh, Harry’s eleven-year old self would hex him if could see him now.

Ron slapped his hand on his leg, "I bet he let in that three-headed dog on Halloween, like a distraction! Oh! What if he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding!"

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

Draco sighed loudly.

Harry dropped his head on to the table.

"How do you know about Fluffy?" he said.

"Fluffy?"

"Yeah – he's mine; bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year. I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the–"

"Yes?" said Ron eagerly.

"Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top secret, that is."

"But Snape's trying to steal it."

"Rubbish," said Hagrid again. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort."

“Besides,” Harry argued, “even if the troll was let in as a distraction, it couldn’t have been Snape. He had ample opportunity to steal the s– whatever it is while everyone was distracted, and he didn’t.”

Well, ample opportunity was a little bit of a stretch, especially with Draco’s involvement, but that was neither here nor there.

"So why did he just try and kill you Harry?" cried Hermione.

Draco was about seven inches close to strangling the girl. For all his hard work on Halloween, the afternoon's events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about Snape.

"I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw him!"

"Malfoy an’ Harry are right; I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh – yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel--"

"Aha!" said Hermione, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

Harry despaired.

“I don’t even understand,” he whined to Draco later, “how is it, he does nothing suspicious, and they still jump on the Blame-Snape bandwagon? Were we always this bad?”

If only Snape wasn’t such a hateable professor; maybe then it wouldn’t be so hard to prove that he wasn’t trying to kill one of his students.

#

Harry was relieved Christmas was coming.

He loved Hogwarts, he really did, and he loved the people in, trust him, he did. It was just. . . Harry was exhausted.

Perhaps it was because Ron, Neville and Hermione were hell bent on proving Snape guilty or maybe it was the fact Harry and Draco had finally found the potion book with the Animagus instructions, read it eagerly, only to realise the first step is to mandrake leaf in mouth for a month – meaning they’ll have to wait until next year during the holidays so they won’t draw suspicion. Whatever the reason, Harry had found himself falling flat. Harry. . . he couldn’t describe it very well. It was like, one moment he was excited, inspired even and then. . . just, nothing. The excitement had nowhere to go, and therefore burnt out, and no matter what he tried, the inspired sensation wouldn’t go away. He’d tried everything, but nothing he did got rid of it, and while in theory, it sounded not so bad, in practice it frustrated him to no end. In a way, it was a strange mix of inspired but unmotivated. He wanted to do something but couldn’t find it in himself to do anything.

And now he just felt flat, and he needed to stop, pull himself back from the world, regroup and re-order his thoughts, then come back. A near-empty magic castle at Christmas time sounded like the perfect solution. Maybe he’d be able to get rid of the sluggishness in his mind – and body actually; he’d been feeling quite lethargic as well.

He didn’t like it for two reasons:

One; it was unpleasant by principle

Two; it scared him.

There was something so addicting about the sluggishness, and he almost couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

It was enough to snap him out of it a little bit, but he still couldn’t wait for the break.

One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and Fred and George were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. Harry and Draco had been told off for cackling so hard they had to lean on each other for support, but it was useless. The slightest glimpse of his purple turban was enough to set them off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the draughty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were the potions classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

"It’s such a shame," said Draco, one Potions class, "that I have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; my parents are visiting family out of country and can’t take me along.”

He was pointedly looking away from Harry as he spoke. Harry, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, lit up in excitement. He knew it was just a cover. Draco could be seen being even more attached to Harry than usual since the Quidditch match. While his house was originally disgusted seeing as the Slytherins had lost, he had quickly set them right. “My best friend just had his broom viciously sabotaged and his hands nearly burnt to a crisp during his first ever game of Quidditch by someone they still don’t know the identity of; try and stop me from hanging out with him.” That had quickly put a stop to everyone laughing at how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. It helped that they were all so impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking broomstick.

Harry had tried not to preen too hard.

Apparently, he was Draco’s best friend.

Obviously, Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive for Christmas. McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays, and had become perplexed when she approached Harry only to find his signature already there. It had cost him a solid week of bafflement and distrustful glances, but it was worth it. He didn't feel sorry for himself at all; when it came to the Dursley’s, he’d stopped doing that years ago. With Draco staying behind, Ron and his brothers staying because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit Charlie, this would probably be the one of the best Christmas he'd ever had.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.

Hermione and – holy fuck – Ron spent all of lunch trying to convince Harry to come with them to the library to find out who Nicolas Flamel is, but Harry dodged their every move with the skill of a seeker. Neville was less insistent – he was appropriately scared of the Cerberus – but he too unfortunately wasn’t immune to the curiosity and mystery of it all.

“C’mon Harry,” he said softly, “just half-an hour?”

“Nope.”

The trio had been searching books for Flamel's name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how else were they going to find out what Snape was supposedly trying to steal? Harry would indulge them, but he couldn’t sit there listening to them speculate the Potion’s Master, and nothing he said would change their minds.

He took refuge with Draco more often than not at the Slytherin table – gasp, scandalous – but once the holidays had started and Hermione and Neville were gone, Ron was having too good a time to think much about Flamel. He and Harry had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. Harry enjoyed just being able to sit in – relative – silence and play wizard chess with one of best mates. It had been a long while since he’d last done so, and he was amused to find that no matter how old he was, Ron was still able to trash him.

Harry was relieved to find that by Christmas Eve, his exhaustion – for lack of a better term – had practically vanished. Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

"Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry stretched languidly in his bed.

"You, too," said Harry. "Will you look at this? I've got some presents!"

Harry crawled out of his covers, reaching to the end of the bed to pick up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a familiar, roughly cut wooden flute. Harry, grinned. How useful.

This time he hadn’t received anything from the Dursley’s, and Harry was glad to not get a note with attached a fifty-pence piece.

The second parcel was a small, hand sized box from Neville, containing three sprigs Dittany.

I may have only known you for a few month, Neville’s note said, but scarily enough I can already tell that things like the Quidditch match incident won’t be an entirely uncommon occurrence. So, I decided to get you some Dittany sprigs; it’s really a powerful healing herb and restorative. It makes fresh skin grow over a wound and after application the wound seems like its several days old. Usually it’s an ingredient in healing potions, but if eaten raw it can heal shallow to moderate wounds. I thought it might be useful?

Ha ha, sorry, bad joke.

Merry Christmas,

Neville Longbottom.

"Yeah, that's real funny, Neville," said Harry dryly, but still incredibly grateful for the thoughtfulness behind it.

Harry opened the next few presents, getting a Weasley sweater – a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green – and a large box of homemade fudge, a large box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

This only left one parcel. Harry’s heart picked up speed. He picked it up and put it under his bed.

He left it unwrapped.

He didn't feel like sharing it with Ron yet.

The dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry grinned as they dragged Percy into the room, then frog-marched him from the room, his arms pinned to his side by the sweater they shoved over his head.

Harry’s day was. . . blissful. He spent the majority of it with the Weasley’s, finally able to breathe easy around Fred, and when Harry finally left the table at dinner, he was laden down a full stomach and a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess set.

He’d even managed to drag Draco and his friends – Crabbe, Goyle and Blaize Zabini – into a furious – but friendly – snowball fight on the grounds with the Weasleys. With an agreement to meet up later, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, Harry and Draco parted ways to return to the fire in their respective common rooms,

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor tower because they'd stolen his prefect badge.

It. . . okay, it hadn’t been Harry's best Christmas day ever, but it was a near thing.

Ron, full of turkey and cake, fell asleep almost as soon as he'd drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the cloak out from under it.

His father's. . . this had been his father's. Well, actually, it was also one of three mythic Deathly Hallows, but that was strange to think about, so Harry preferred to just not think about it. He let the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, he remembered the note had said.

Sure can do, Dumbledore, Harry thought sarcastically, slipping out of bed and wrapping the cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. The sight was weirdly comforting.

He’d missed his cloak.

And like that, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was back open to him with his cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he stood there in the dark and silence. He quietly rummaged through his truck for the small wrapped box he’d ordered weeks ago.

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room, and climbed through the portrait hole.

"Who's there?" squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor.

Quickly, Harry made his way to the Astronomy Tower, eager to spend a few hours with Draco.

When he got there, he could see Draco standing there, back to Harry, and. . . well, he just couldn’t resist.

“And what do we ‘ave here, Mrs. Norris? Student out of bed?” he crooned in his best Filch impression – which, he must say, was fairly impressive. Draco whipped around, eyes wide and mouth opening to talk himself out of trouble, only to freeze when he couldn’t see Filch – or anyone else.

Harry let the cloak fall off him, and fluid and silvery grey went slithering to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Draco relaxed and rolled his eyes.

"Really?" he said sighed, "you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?"

"Nope."

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor and held it out to the blonde – it was like water woven into material.

"An invisibility cloak," said Draco, a look of barely restrained awe on his face. "I always knew you must have had one – too much many times not being caught sneaking around not to. Bastard." He added as an afterthought, holding the cloak back out for Harry to take.

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Draco grinned.

“Get this,” the raven said, handing Draco the note that came with it.

Written in narrow, loopy writing, Harry hadn’t even had to open it to know what it said:

Your father left this in my possession before he died.

It is time it was returned to you.

Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.

“Dumbledore,” Draco asked with a raised eyebrow and Harry nodded. “Well, we can hardly ignore an order from our own esteemed Headmaster, now can we?”

Harry grinned wickedly.

They spent the entire night under the cloak, floating about and trying to hush the other’s snickers. Harry showed Draco all the hidden rooms and alcoves he’d memorised off the map, and Draco dragged Harry to all his favourite getaways. It wasn’t until they came across a corridor with a set of familiar armour, did Harry stop.

“Harry?” whispered Draco hesitantly, noticing the plunging drop of mood.

Harry lightly took hold of Draco’s sleeve and slowly tugged him to the door that stood ajar to their left. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. If ignored Draco’s soft queries, holding his breath as he pushed open the door, and walked inside the room with a pounding heart. Harry dragged the cloak from his body, revealing Draco as well and slowly walked to stand in the centre of the room, trying to breathe deeply, heart jumping in his throat.

He knew – to Draco – it just looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket – but propped against the wall facing him was something that didn't belonged there, something that someone had put it there to keep it out of the way.

It was just as magnificent as he remembered, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi, which he now knew to be I show not your face but your hearts desire. Harry moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look but not wanting to see. He stepped in front of it.

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from sobbing. He slammed his eyes shut. His heart was pounding far more furiously than in the final battle – this time he didn’t see his family. Well, he did, but no longer did he see long lost relatives, but a whole different crowd of people standing right behind him.

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least twenty, thirty others. Everyone was there, looking like they did when Harry had left, but cleaner, healthier, happier.All the Weasley’s, including Fleur, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Remus, Tonks, even little Teddy. McGonagoll, Flitwick, Sprout; he could see his parents as well, all dark red hair and eyes, and messy black hair and glasses. Draco was there too, the older him, standing there and laughing at something Luna said.

And there, with his hand on Harry shoulder, smiling softly, proudly, at him, was Sirius.

Harry wanted nothing more than to reach up and take his hand, but he knew he’d be met with empty air.

"Harry?" Draco whispered. "What do you see?"

“. . . everyone.”

“. . . you mean. . .?”

“. .yeah,” Harry replied softly, “my family.”

Sirius just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and watched them interact, laughing, moving about, telling Fred and George off for something or other – Harry was looking at his family, for the first time a long time.

The Weasley’s smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands clenched tightly against his side. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade, and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He tore his eyes away from his godfather’s face, breathed, "Draco," and stepped aside, beckoning the other forward.

Draco hesitated, but complied. His face went slack, and he swallowed.

"Oh," he whispered. Draco tore his eyes away from the mirror to look wet-eyed at Harry.

"Do you think we can just. . .?"

". . . yeah," Harry agreed softly, “just for a little bit.”

". . . I should probably go,” said Draco reluctantly

"Yeah, okay."

Draco stood, and went to walk away, but he paused and turned back to a confused Harry. “Here,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a wrapped present that was should have been way too big to have fit in there. “Merry Christmas.”

Harry blinked in surprise and took it, then remembering his own gift.

He tossed it to the boy, who looked just as surprised.

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

Draco grinned.

The said goodbye, Draco left, and Harry turned back to the mirror.

There were his collective, mismatch family smiling at him again. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the mirror and Sirius sat down with him. He wasn’t going to stay there all night with his family, he knew better than that. But just a few more minutes, before he never saw them again.

Except –

"Good evening, Harry."

Bastard. Absolute fucking bastard.

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Dumbledore. Harry could’ve punched him – why did he choose to reveal himself now? Last time it had been on the third night, so what had made it change? Why couldn’t Harry have this?

"Good evening, sir."

"So," said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"Mirror of Desire, sir."

"Ah, good, I see you've realized by now what it does?"

Harry clenched his fists, hiding them from sight.

“Our deepest desires. Sir.”

"Yes, though a little understated," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your blood family, see them standing around you. I do not confess to knowing what young Mr. Malfoy may have seen, but it was obviously incredibly important to him. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.”

Harry had to fight from glaring at the Headmaster. Why the man thought it was a good idea to bring up Harry’s orphan status in his obviously vunrable state, would forever remain a mystery to Harry.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Harry stood up, but paused.

"Professor? Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me one more thing, however."

"Why did you leave me with the Dursley’s?"

"Because, Harry, they were the closest to family as I could’ve given you."

Harry bit his tongue.

It was only when he was back in bed did Harry let his frustration loose. Shoving Scabbers off his pillow, Harry sat there and shot a dark glared at the offending rat, anger only building at the sight.

Oh, how he had wanted to kill the thing the moment he had seen it. It had taken all of his will power on the train to not pick the pathetic thing up by its ears and throw it out the window. 

He and Draco had argued extensively over the matter of Peter Pettigrew.

Harry wanted to kill or turn him in as soon as possible, but Draco kept reminding him they couldn’t, not until the end of third year. Even then it was too risky – apparently they needed Pettigrew to find Voldemort and resurrect him, because how else were they supposed to find the bastard and kill him. Sure, they knew how to get all the Horcruxes, and they had plenty time to find and destroy them all, but it was no use if Voldemort remained hidden because his favourite rat of a devotee didn’t make sure he was in the right place at the right time – meaning, the graveyard fourth year.

That’s when they wanted to make their final move.

Of course, it was risky, and if they were honest, probably not going to work, but they had hope and more backup plans than there were letters in the alphabet. But in order for any of those to work, they still needed Pettigrew

Harry hated the fact Draco was right.

Harry just– . . .the one thing he never really understood was how did Sirius, Remus and his father even become friends with Pettigrew? Of course, Pettigrew being in Gryffindor in the first place wasn’t the problem; he had probably highly valued courage and daring, even though he didn’t have any himself.

That’s what Harry hated the most about Pettigrew. He hated what he did, he hated him for selling his parent out to Voldemort, and but most of all, he hated him for being a coward. At some point, a younger Pettigrew must have had some redeeming qualities for the Marauders to be friends with him. He managed to be a good enough friend that Harry’s mother and father him with their lives.

But at heart, Pettigrew was a coward.

Pettigrew never felt loyal to Voldemort, he never felt loyal to the Death Eaters, and he never felt like what they were doing was right. Similarly, he never felt loyal to the Marauders or the Order, or "believed" in the Order's cause. He didn't believe in anything except that he needed to find someone to protect him and, in some ways, provide for him.

It his choice to spy for Voldemort on the Order. He stayed in the Order, hiding in plain sight. Had the opportunity presented itself to Pettigrew to sway the battle irrevocably in favour of the Order, he would have done so, simply because the Wizarding World's gratitude would have kept him safe for life. But that never happened. Instead, he got the opportunity to sway the tide of the war in Voldemort's favour, and he knew that one act would be good enough that he would never be questioned or put in danger again for Voldemort. Voldemort would have his back for eternity, because he delivered the chance to eliminate the prophecy. Pettigrew decided to play both sides of the board in the hopes that he'd be able to ride the glad tidings of the winner. Instead, he managed to earn the contempt and revulsion of both sides.

He was pathetic. He was a twisted, pitiful, meagre person who never really stood for anything in his life, just looked for the shadow of greater men to stand behind. He turned in his best friend and his wife just for power. He left himself be defined only by his own fear. And he's just lucky that people took pity on him and Voldemort found convenient use for him – or, at least, enjoyed having a ‘yes’ man.

Harry blew out an angry sigh, turned his head to the side and looked at the sliver and green – ha, ha – wrapped present on his beside. Curious, Harry quietly ripped off the paper and was greeted with a black and silver book, the cover reading A Guide to Occlumency. Intrigued, and just a bit anxious, Harry read Draco’s note.

Harry,

I know that things have begun to become tense, especially after learning that we wont be able to start the Animagus process until at least the summer break, which is why I’ve managed to obtain this book from my family’s library. I know that your experience with Professor Snape was. . . less than pleasant, but I feel that until we can complete the transformation, learning and practicing Occlumency, could to help order your mind – and also help act as a more long-term solution.

If you’re panicking, or feeling unsure about it right now, I can tell you, it helped me. I’ll be there to help you with it of course, and I promise that we’ll approach it differently to the way Professor Snape did, in a way better suited for you and what we’re trying to get out of it.

Anyway, give a thought, maybe a read through?

Let me know what you think

Merry Christmas,

Draco Malfoy

Harry. . . he. . . Draco. . . . .

Oh, he so wanted to read the book before going to sleep, to get a head start, but he knew he was too angry and too tired to even try implementing anything.

First thing in the morning, Harry promised himself.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

It was so late into the night it was almost morning. As Albus Dumbledore finished signing the document with a tired sigh, he lent back in his chair and let his mind wander. Gazing around his office, he couldn’t help casting his mind back to the previous night – the night he found young Harry in front of the Mirror.

The boy was. . . a mystery. Not at all what he had expected to see.

When he had set up the room with the mirror, he thought, perhaps, that the young wizard would first venture out on his own, or that he would share the gift with the youngest Weasley boy. He certainly hadn’t given much thought to the idea that young Harry would not only share the knowledge of the gift with the Malfoy Heir, but also trust the boy with the knowledge of his deepest, most desperate desires.

Although, in a surprising kind of way, it somewhat made sense.

Albus has performed many acts in his long life, seen all manner of peculiar occurrences and been present for the strangest of things. During all these things, it was his capacity to expect the unexpected – or at least, not be wholly surprised when the unexpected occurred – that kept his three steps ahead.

Suffice to say, the young boy’s ability to circumvent his calculations was beginning to concern Albus.

Him and the Malfoy boy both.

The friendship between the two was. . . disconcerting, to say the least. While, yes, Albus was more than overjoyed that the young Potters’ time being raised by his muggle relatives hadn’t seemed to affect him as badly as Albus feared it would, to be such good friends with the Malfoy boy raised a few red flags.

Firstly, and most importantly, young Mr. Malfoy was that – a Malfoy. A young, impressionable boy whose father is a former death eater – more importantly, still a Voldemort sympathiser – and Dark wizard to boot, and mother a sister to Bellatrix Lestrange and daughter of the infamous Black family. Combined with hundreds of years of pureblood prejudice and propriety,  the boy being such close friends with “the saviour of the wizarding world” could only spell trouble – either through the two falling out, Harry ‘turning’ young Mr. Malfoy away from his family (Merlin knows the uproar Lucious kick up) or Mr. Malfoy ‘converting’ Harry to their side (a disaster indeed).

The other thing that bothered Albus, and bothered him deeply, was the friendship itself. For the life of him, Albus couldn’t figure out how the two had become so. . . close. He was well aware that children such like Harry tend to latch on and latch on tight to the first friend they find, and he supposes that the young Malfoy boy was most likely in a similar position, but even then, the friendship made next to no sense. He had gleaned from the ghosts and portraits, the two had first met a month before school, just briefly while shopping, and had no other contact aside from the occasional letter.

And yet, the two acted as if they’d been friends for years. And not friends in that fickle sense that young children usually are, but in that unshaking way that only seemed to come with age and experience in loss and heartbreak.

Though, Albus thought as he watched the students return to the castle after their break, maybe his paranoia is showing in his old age. Perhaps it’s just the emotionally maturity of the two boys skewing his judgement – after all, it’s not all that unusual for some children to be more mature than others, and perhaps that the two have found that in each other is throwing him off. Undoubtedly, the Malfoy Heir’s innocence would’ve been stomped out years ago to prevent a potential embarrassment to the family name, and enough said about Harry’s situation.

Yes, it must be that.

But to sooth an old man’s mind, he had set up the mirror test, just to be sure. He just. . . had to know, had to know he hadn’t made a mistake leaving the boy with his relatives, had to know he hadn’t just created another Tom Riddle.

The boy wanted his family.

While guilty – it only took a glance to see the dark circles under young Harry’s eyes since looking in the mirror, no doubt plagued with nightmares – the relief of having his fears abated outweighed that by miles.

But alas, so much to think on, so little time. For one, the young group of Gryffindors – despite (somewhat baffling) reluctance from Harry and Mr. Malfoy – appear to be getting closer to finding Nicolas Flamel. The upcoming Quidditch match, for another.

While he doubted another incident would occur, he felt it safer – much to the ever displeasure of Severus – to place the Potions Master as referee. The man had voiced his suspicions about Professor Quirrell, about his late night walks, about Halloween night, about his involvement in the jinxing of Harry’s broom – there was more, Albus was convinced, something else Severus was sure of, something that linked Quirrell to Voldemort, but trying to get it out of the man was like drawing blood from stone. Albus was certain it had something to do with Harry, that something had happened, throwing Quirrell into a more suspicious light, but Albus couldn’t figure it out – it wouldn’t have been an incident, for he would’ve most definitely heard about it, so it must’ve been something that Severus had picked up in observation. Though, even that doesn’t make sense, for word of it would’ve surely reached Albus’s ears by now? But that would only leave that Harry had confided in the man about something that had raised flags in Severus’s mind – however, that made the least sense of all his theories.

And more confusingly, Severus’s ire about being made referee for the upcoming match only seems to stem from the game itself, not from being ordered to watch over Harry – contrary to what Albus had first predicted.

Alas, he is giving himself the most terrible headache.

At the very least, it was quite amusing to see the entirety of Gryffindor worry and fret over Harry’s supposed impending doom.

Though, predictably, their worries were all for naught. The game started and almost immediately young Harry went into a spectacular dive and pulled up just before hitting the ground, raising his arm in triumph. He had captured the Snitch. The game had barely lasted 3 minutes. He had beaten all records, much to his house-mates’ delight and Albus’ as well.

"Well done," he said quietly, so that only Harry could hear. "Nice to see you haven't been brooding about that mirror. . . been keeping busy. . . excellent. . ."

Yes, perhaps Albus had been needlessly worried. Nevertheless, he would have to keep monitoring the boy and make sure he stays on the right path.

He eyed the boy as he and Mr. Malfoy seemed to hold a private discussion under the uproar of the celebration, comprised of frowns and meaningful expressions.

And perhaps, he would think more on the issue of Harry and Mr. Malfoy later, and how to deal with any potential. . . problems that may arise.

But first, on to important business.

He had come across a most excellent book of famous witches and wizards the other day – one he was sure a knowledge chaser such as Ms. Granger would greatly appreciate.

#

Snape spat bitterly on the ground.

He watched the Potter boy get heaped praise upon praise, crowds racing onto the field with a disgusting amount of yelling and cheering.

Admittedly, the boy’s performance was – reluctantly – impressive. While a part of Severus wanted to dismiss his accomplishment in light of his heritage, even a man as jaded and bitter as he could recognise that the young Potter’s skill was his own – there was nothing of the flashiness and arrogance of his father reflected in the boy’s. . . style, for lack of better term.

In fact, the more Severus observed the boy, the more he found the boy was unlike both his parents. Of course, there were some similarities – Merlin knows the boy had inherited his father’s ‘wit’ so to speak, most likely only diluted by the kind-heartedness of Lily. He had – and oh how it pained him to say – the natural aptitude for practical magic the James had so egotistically flaunted, but he also seemed to back it up with Lily’s brilliant understanding of the theory behind it. But those were surface level. The other Professors couldn’t see that, aside from a few other small characteristics, that was where the similarities ended.

The boy was just too different. It was to be expected really – the boy hadn’t been raised by his parents, so why would he be like them? The nature vs nurture argument is always up for debate, but that the boy was somewhat similar yet so vastly different was throwing Severus off.

And then there was the matter with his ‘headaches’. Or more specifically, the boy’s cursed scar.

It had taken some careful observation – the boy was surprisingly efficient at keeping the thing covered by his atrocious hair – but Severus had seen enough to realise that it was not a normal scar. Of course, he’d already known that – one doesn’t walk away from the Dark Lord trying to kill you with only a shallow wound – but he hadn’t recognised the true extent of the potential damage. He’d always known that the lightning bolt adorning the boy’s forehead corresponded exactly to the wand motion used to cast the Avada Kedavra curse, the obvious explanation being that, although the spell rebounded on the Dark Lord, the magic invoked it left its mark. What that didn’t explain, is why the scar, nearly a decade old in age, still looked as if it was in the early stages of healing.

Combined with the fact that the boy’s ‘headache’ only seemed to have started up since coming to Hogwarts and – more specifically – being in contact with Quirrell, Severus has been left with many questions and little answers.

Speaking of. . .

Severus drew up his hood, swiftly making his way down the front steps of the castle. Not wanting to be seen by anyway leaving or entering the Hall for dinner, he walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest.

It took some time, the trees so thick he could hardly see where he was going, but eventually, he reached the shadowy clearing.

And there, waiting for him, was Quirrell.

Severus could only just make out the look on his face – pathetic in its apparent nervousness, but now that he was looking, he could see the gleam of something shrewd hiding behind his eyes – and his was stuttering worse than ever.

"D-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus. . ." 

"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Severus, his voice icy, mind already racing ahead. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all." 

Though, for the strangest reason, the Potions Master thought sarcastically, I’m fairly certain there are least two students who are more than aware of what lies hidden in the castle. And knowing Albus’s meddling ways, three more shall probably find out soon enough.

Quirrell had started to mumble something, but Severus interrupted him, irritated with his own straying thoughts. 

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

The man blinked

"B-but I d-d-don't–" 

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him. 

"I-I don't know what you–”

"You know perfectly well what I mean." Severus paused, considering his words, then;

“Tell me, Quirrell, how are you finding teaching the Potter brat?"

The shrewd glint in the spineless man’s eyes glinted.

“Oh, h-he’s q-quite fine, a great s-s-student,” Quirrell blubbered, words practically falling over each other. “Exceeds ex-expectations i-in all–”

"Very well," Severus cut in – he’d seen all he’d needed to see. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie." 

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was almost dark now, but that didn’t disguise that Quirrell, although standing quite still as if he was petrified, was nowhere near afraid. 

Quirrell, somehow and for whatever reason, was working for the Dark Lord.

Chapter Text

Harry could just about tear his hair out.

He stayed hunched over his porridge, hands gripping painfully at his hair as he stared somewhat manically into the sludge, Hermione’s excited whispers fading to white noise. On Harry’s side he could feel Draco gaping incredulously, casting furtive glances around to see if anyone else was witnessing the same thing he was witnessing.

“Harry,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, not daring to turn his head. Harry didn’t respond, too busy despairing into his breakfast.

Somehow, despite Harry and Draco’s stubborn resolve not to help, Hermione still ended up figuring out who Nicolas Flamel is, and therefore, what was hiding in the school. Of course, the moment she had realised, she’d brought her findings to the group, Ron and Neville not quite understanding her leaps in logic but excited nonetheless at the new break in the case.

Harry would bet all the gold in his vault the Dumbledore somehow had a hand in this.

“Harry,” Draco hissed more urgently, pinching Harry's leg and making him jerk in his seat.

“Well,” Hermione prompted Harry eagerly, almost vibrating in her seat. “What do you think Harry? It fits, doesn’t it?”

Harry lifted his eyes from his bowl of pale sludge, staring blank and bleary eyed at the space between Hermione’s bushy mane and Neville’s tentatively excited face. Harry couldn't recall for the life of him, but he must’ve made some kind of noise that Hermione interpreted as agreement because her face brightened, shoulders and back straightening in a somewhat smug air.

“That’s what I thought.”

Ron, Neville and Hermione almost immediately started plotting.

Draco glared at him.

Harry contemplated whether throwing himself off the astronomy tower would gift him the mercy of a quick death.

Fuck, he thought to himself quite emphatically, fucking fuckity fuck.

Chapter Text

Easter was approaching fast and with it, Harry and Draco’s deadline.

Oh, and the end of year exams.

They’d been lucky in that way – while Hermione had initially been frothing at the mouth over the book about Nicolas Flamel she’d ‘found’ a few days ago, Dumbledore had miscalculated the timing of his well-placed hint.

After all, the only thing that could pull Hermione away from the lure of figuring out a nice and mysterious mystery is the all-consuming knowledge that exams were right around the corner.

“Right around the corner?” Ron sneered. “Hermione, the exams are ages away." 

"Ten weeks," Hermione snapped back. "That's not ages, that's like a second to Nicolas Flamel." 

"But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her. "Anyway, what are you studying for? You already know it all."

"What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realise we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten into me .  .  .”

Before this, Harry and Draco had of course begun preparations to distract the other three from the mystery of the stone, though they soon proved pointless – between Hermione, Hermione’s study plans and the professors alike, their fellow first-years were kept more than busy over the brief Easter break.

In an effort to use their good luck while it lasted (and perhaps gain the upper hand that had skilfully eluded him for most of his life), Harry had even suggested they just take the stone now – after all he and Draco knew that Quirell (mort Harry attached to the end with an internal snicker) wouldn’t make a move for the stone until the end of exams. Without interference from the two resident time travellers, there’d be nothing to accelerate the meeting of a drunk Hagrid and a ‘myst’rious bloke ‘oo wanted t’ know ‘bout Fluffy’ (“Honestly Potter, how much more suspicious could a person be?”).

It’s not like the duo didn’t know how to get past all the traps – not even the trick magic on mirror Erised could hinder them really. The flaw, or more accurately the plural flaws with that idea – as Draco kindly pointed out – were as follows:

1stly: “What in Merlin’s name would we do with the stone Potter? Keep it in your trunk? Mail it in anonymously? Hand it back to Dumbledore or Flamel with a ‘sorry we stole it, just wanted to stop and evil dark lord, have a good day!’ And here I thought we were keeping a low profile.”

2ndly: “What do suppose will happen when the Dark– Quirell gets to the last room and the stones not there and you don’t turn up to burn him to crisp? . . . I’m sorry, what? You’ll lie in wait for him to turn up and ambush him? I’ll give you that, it’s a good short term plan, but we can’t be thinking short term Harry – how do you think the Dark Lord is going to rationalise you not only taking and hiding the stone as a precaution but also attacking him in surprise like you knew one touch is all it would take to defeat him? . . . No, I’m not saying he’ll immediately jump to time travel. . . I’m saying he became one of the most feared dark lords of all time for a reason – while not exactly sane, he is smart Harry, scarily so. Moving forward he’s be wary, meaning adjusted plans meaning- . . . Yes Harry, meaning we can’t predict what happens next.”

And 3rdly: “Harry, the first obstacle is a Cerberus. A giant, three headed dog, with claws and four times the amount of teeth than any creature in this world needs. . . Easy?! Yes, well, unlike he who battles dragons every other Thursday, I’m quite content putting off all encounters with bloodthirsty beasts until absolutely necessary, thankyouverymuch!”

Something about that last comment - all encounters with bloodthirsty beasts – had tickled Harry’s brain, but he’d brushed it off in favour of dodging Draco’s vengeful jinx at the sound of Harry’s snicker.

Due to this agreement, Harry had the audacity, the sheer audacity to relax a bit – clearly a mistake, one he should’ve known better than to make with a record such as his own.

Let it be noted that on this day, Harry James Potter declares himself to be the biggest fuckup history has seen since the last biggest fuckup to grace history with their presence – which in all honesty, would probably end up being him anyway.

Clunkclunk

Rattle

Clunkclunk

Clunkclunk

Harry glared mulishly at the frantically rocking egg, scowling at Hagrid’s encouraging coo’s.

Norbert, Harry pouted to himself, how did I forget about Norbert? Is it too much to ask for two weeks without something happening?

Harry, inspired by his unusual lack of things to worry about and unburdened by the thought of homework and exams – unlike his fellow classmates – had encouraged the other three Gryffindors to take a trip with him down to Hagrid’s.

It’ll be fun, he said to them.

A little relaxation never killed anyone, he had implored.

A spiderweb crack appeared in the huge, black egg. 

Upper hand, Harry bemoaned to himself, why must thee elude me so?

Hagrid looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't. 

"Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she reminded him. 

But Hagrid wasn't listening. He just kept humming and cooing merrily.

"Wonder what it's like to have a peaceful life," Ron sighed, sharing a commiserating look with Neville. 

“Yeah,” the boy agreed forlornly, face pale in the face of a dragon egg yet flushed do to the sweltering heat of the hut. “I blame Harry.”

Harry squawked indignantly even as the others agreed with a single unified ‘yeah’.

“I’m a victim too,” he mumbled petulantly to himself.

Hagrid shushed him, flushed and excited. 

"It's nearly out,” he said, hands fluttering.

There were now deep cracks in the egg. The dragon was moving inside, a funny clicking noise was emanating from it. 

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with bated breath. 

All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn't the prettiest sight in the world; Harry privately thought it looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. It had a long snout with wide nostrils, only the stubs of horns and bulging, orange eyes, its jet skinny body made to look even smaller by its huge spiny wings.

It sneezed, looking confused at the action as couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

Harry cooed internally – admittedly, it was actually kind of adorable.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand to stroke the dragon's head and it snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs. 

“No, actually,” Draco drawled disdainfully from the doorway, “it really isn’t.”

Hagrid startled, scrambling to hide – frankly – un-hidable evidence of a very illegal operation while Hermione gasped, Ron swore, Neville squeaked, and Harry sighed.

“Don’t panic guys,” Harry told them with an eye roll. “Draco’s just being extra.”

“Extra?” Draco echoed with a scowl. “Potter, in case it’s escaped your thick notice, that shrivelled prune is a dragon.”

“I know that,” muttered Harry, “I was talking about your entrance,” but Draco smartly decided to ignore him and addressed Hagrid.

“You do realise you live in a wooden hunt, right?” he asked rhetorically, “Excluding the fact that owning a dragon is highly illegal, that thing will grow twice the size of this place in half the time, not to mention its tendency to set things alight and its diet of tender flesh and blood.”

Hagrid’s distraught face was already too much to bear, made worse by his attempt to cuddle the beast only to have his beard set alight by another dragon sneeze.

Harry winced as Hermione rushed to put out the fire.

"Bless him, look, he knows his mommy," said Hagrid, nervously chuckling in the face of four concerned and unimpressed pre-teens. 

"Hagrid," said Hermione, somewhat reluctantly, "Draco’s right – give it two weeks and Norbert's going to be as long as your house." 

"Just let him go," Neville urged. "Set him free." 

"I can't. I– I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I can't." said Hagrid. "He's too little. He'd die." 

They all winced, and Hagrid continued desperately.

"I've decided to call him Norbert," he said, looking at the dragon with misty eyes. "He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where's Mommy?" 

"He's lost his marbles," Ron muttered in Harry's ear as Draco visibly grimaced. 

"You know, I could go to Dumbledore any minute now," he said loudly and was met with uproar. He spoke louder. "I’m not saying that to be nasty! I’m saying it because you cannot keep a dragon on school grounds, much less a wooden hut." 

Hagrid bit his lip. 

Harry sighed – so much for relaxing weekend – and turned to Ron. Charlie, he said. 

"You're losing it, too," said Ron. "I'm Ron, remember?" 

"Charlie – your brother Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons? We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put him back in the wild."

"Brilliant!" said Ron. "How about it, Hagrid?" 

Much to everyone’s relief, with assurance from Draco that he wouldn’t actually tell his father or the Headmaster, Hagrid agreed that they could send an owl to Charlie to ask him. 

Mentally exhausted, they walked back to the castle, Hermione keen to get backing to studying with Neville and Ron dragging their feet. She was trying to get Harry and Draco (what a pleasantly happy surpise) to join them but was having the upmost difficulty. Draco was simply giving her that smarmy “do you really think I’ll lower myself to studying for something I could do in my sleep suspended from a broom” that he’d perfected way back when he was actually eleven - only this time he could actually back himself up.

Harry tilted his head up, watching the clouds.

One of them looked like hand reaching across the sky – or maybe an animal of some sort? What was the Australian animal, that weird one with the. . . that’s right, a platypus!

“You know, Hagrid wasn’t entirely wrong,” he mused to the others. “I mean, Nobert looks ugly now, but I imagine a more grown dragon would be pretty majestic.”

“Harry no,” Hermione said sternly as they others looked at him in horror. “Absolutely not.”

He looked at them, brow furrowed and mouth tilting down in confusion. “. . you guys don’t think so? I mean, fully dangerous, yeah, but I don’t know – I’d said there’s a certain beauty to danger.”

“It’s not that we don’t think so mate,” Ron said unconvincingly, his backwards glance at Hagrid’s hut telling his real thoughts. “It’s just that you’ve got a very different definition of . . well, a lot of things compared to the rest of the world.”

“Really?” Harry briefly mulled over, “I never noticed.”

“Harry, you thought Fluffy was c-cute,” Neville reminded everyone.

“He kind of was though,” Harry insisted. He blinked and hesitated, noting that he sounded dangerously like Hagrid . . . deciding not to look too closely at that he continued hastily with; “y’know, once you get past the teeth and claws.”

“Harry,” Draco said airily, finally contributing to the conversation, pulling ahead of the group without looking behind, “you need help.”

“Oi!” Harry squawked, outraged. “There’s nothing wrong me.”

“I’ll believe that when you stop wanting ‘cuddles’ with massive three-headed dogs.”

The others laughed all the way back to the castle as a yelling Harry chased an unrepentant Draco across the grounds.

#

Like the sun finally finding a crack in the thick blanket of dark clouds that was the Scottish winter, finally, Harry and Draco caught a break. They’d arrangend for Charlie to come as soon as he could, aiming the drop off to be just after the start of dinner while everyone was busy stuffing their faces (including the professors)

Between dodging Hermione’s iron fist of revision, Hagrid’s mournful eyes and Quirrel(mort)’s pungent scent trail of garlic, the two time-travellers had a rough few weeks – but nothing could stop them from successfully managing to smuggle the Norbert dragon off to Charlie and still make it back in time for dinner that night.

Harry paused even as he and Draco walked back to dinner.

What a strange sentence, he thought to himself, even for me.

“You know, I thought that something would, you know, happen; go wrong. . .” Harry mussed aloud.

“You sound disappointed – what’s wrong with things going right for once?”

Harry shrugged as they turned the corner to the Great Hall.

“Bit anticlimactic.”

“Anticlimatic?” Draco repeated dubiously, “we just smuggled a dragon out of the castle Potter.”

“I know.”

Draco blinked at him, then shook his head.

“. . . you are so weird,” he exhaled in an exhausted sigh.

Harry wasn’t worried – he could hear the undercurrent of affection buried beneath Draco’s weariness.

Or, at least, what sounded like affection.

. . . okay fine, Harry wasn’t completely sure, but Draco hadn’t killed him yet so that had to account for something.

Right?

The two sat down (they were back Gryffindor table for tonight’s rotation) and the entire hall was none-the-wiser about their illegal activities.

Well, everyone except for the three Gryffindor’s eagerly leaning in and ‘surreptitiously’ glancing around for non-existent eavesdroppers.

Draco’s eye twitched and Harry imagined he was thinking something along the lines of:

“Fool-hardy Gryffindors – the art of subtly is lost on these loggerheaded plebeians.”

or something of the like.

“So,” Ron prompted lowly, shifting nervously, “did you- did you do it. . .?”

Harry level his gaze at the red head as Draco went about pouring them some juice without a care in the world. Smoothly, keeping his eyes trained on Ron, Harry accepted the goblet, calmly took a sip and finally answered.

“Do what?” he asked curiously.

Hermione and Neville sighed as Ron jaw dropped.

“Do what? Do what!?” he repeated in a squawk, hissing when Hermione pointedly stamped on his foot.

“Merlin, Weasley, does the art of subtly really escape you that thoroughly?” Draco drawled.

Harry’s lips twitched even as he scolded the blonde for antagonising Ron (disregarding the fact he himself had been just that seconds earlier). ____ up, Harry told the three Gryffindors to relax.

“Don’t worry,” Harry told them, heaping the mash potato onto his plate, “do you think we’d exactly be here otherwise? 's'all good.”

Visibly relieved, they deflated, like puppets with cut strings.

Their dinner resumed.

Yet, for the rest of the night, Draco found himself troubled.

Many times, throughout dinner, Draco had caught Harry glancing through the windows of the Great Hall and out into the night, face hard with frustration, yet also soft with. . .  sadness.

“What’s wrong?” he had whispered to him after catching him for the fifth time.

Harry didn’t startle exactly – that was too dramatic a word. More so that Harry seemed to come back to himself, remember where he was.

He sighed.

“Nothing,” he replied softly, hesitating before he continued with: “I. . I just wish we could do something to help the unicorns.”

And Draco dropped the conversation there because, well, what could one say to that?

Harry and Draco couldn’t exactly go up to Hagrid or Dumbledore and tell them what was killing the unicorns; nor could they exactly go out into the night and physically stop the Dark Lord.

Tricking him and then catching him off-guard at his most cocksure moment to temporaily best him was one thing – going against him in a battle of magic in a forest of dangerous creatures with no horcruxes destroyed, risking him taking off into the night and not return so that they wouldn’t be able to weaken him through destroying his mortal body and therefore throwing off the timeline because he wouldn’t have to search for a new body to possess and–

Draco took a deep breath as he lay motionless in his bed, holding it, attempting to slow his thoughts.

Most feared Dark Lord to exist in a long time, he bitterly recalled saying Harry.

It had been like this all night – no matter which way he turned or how many times he flipped his pillow over to the colder side, thoughts raced and Harry’s words flowed fluidly on repeat, no clear beginning or end. It wasn’t long until Harry’s face joined the cacophony, war-hardened eyes sad as he stared across the tables and out into the night as if he could somehow see the unicorns being slayed where they stood.

Giving up on his newest sleep method (close his eyes and hope), he rolled over to stare up blankly into darkness, telling himself firmly he wasn’t going to do it even as he mentally prepared himself to do it.

“Blast it.”

He uttered and ripped himself out of bed.

Not 10 minutes later, cold, nervous, and regretting his life from the moment he met Harry (though not really because he was also, in a way, the best thing that had ever happened to him), Draco gripped the invisibility cloak tightly at the edge of the tree line.

“Right.”

Harry’d thoughtlessly let him hold onto it after they’d finished their illegal business – the casual subconscious show of trust subtly blew Draco’s mind – and they’d both been so distracted by their respective thoughts neither noticed he hadn’t passed it back.

It worked well for his intentions now, no matter how much Draco almost wished it didn’t.

“This is only because Potter,” he told himself rather unconvincingly, “will have those ridiculous only-an-orphan-can-achieve level of wounded puppy eyes for the rest of the month and do something stupid like try and somehow ride the giant squid into the forest to avenge them,”

Yeah, Draco liked the sound of that - he was pre-emptively dealing with the issue of Potter’s reckless saving people/things habit.

That’s most definitely what this is about

Deep breath in.

.

.

.

Deep breath out.

Donning the cloak and pulling out his wand, gripping it tightly he muttered;

"Feel like a bloody Gryffindor.”

He paused, scowled, and muttered even darker;

"Sound like a bloody Weasley.”

Chapter Text

Anyone would tell you the weeks leading up to and week of exams were hell.

Whether it be the sweltering heat, the fact that was exam week or the strange, eery mood that undercurrent the castle and lightly prickled everyone’s senses, those two weeks inspired irritation and frustration among the entire student body.

Well, to say the entire student body might be a stretch. Much to all’s frustration and distaste, there remained two young students seemingly unfazed by all, one going so far as to be chipper, disgustingly enough. Naturally the two students did have some complaints, however many at Hogwarts were considering revoking their right to complain if all they had to say about the week from hell was:

“Bit hot, isn’t it?”

and

“Tch, tedious.”

Unbeknownst to the students, even the professors were feeling the unrest. Most, meaning those not as involved or informed about the castle’s more intimate going-on were simply eager for the school year to be over, wanting to get their two months rest and recuperation before having to deal with all manner of magical mishaps and mayhem. Others, such as the heads of house, the headmaster and a few select others were more concerned with darker news. Just the other week had a centaur – a centaur of all things – approached the castle doors under the cover of night, seeking audience with the headmaster.

While those at the castle had become aware of the situation with unicorns and a monster in the forbidden forest through Hagrid, to have the centaurs leave the forest to discuss it with them was unnerving to say the least.

The centaur – a young Firenze – told them a trusted individual had approached his clan and given them an outside perspective over the situation, and as such, that they would be herding and temporarily relocating their clan and the unicorns until such time as the monster is caught.

This, understandably, both alarmed the Hogwarts professors and gave them some form of relief – at least the unicorns, pure creatures that they are, would now be safer. For Professor Dumbledore, it also confirmed one of his largest worries and suspicions.

Voldemort had indeed breached Hogwarts’ defences.

Although the professors had tried to hush it up, of course the students were somewhat aware of as it was the only exciting thing of note to happen during lead up to exams.

The centaur bit, not the stuff about Voldemort.

But come on now, really? A centaur voluntarily leaving the forest and interacting with wizards? It was practically unheard of – no matter how thorough the cover up, of course the students would find out that a man-horse hybrid met with the headmaster about something serious and left shortly thereafter.

Common sense adults; do keep up.

On a completely unrelated note, the next morning saw the entire great hall being greeted by the amusing sight of Harry Potter almost body slamming Draco Malfoy to the ground in a hug, an unintelligible stream of happiness and rushed ‘thank you’s spilling from his mouth. No one knew what it was about, as both boys refused to say anything on the subject, but the-boy-who-lived was vibrating with happiness and excitement all day, much to his friends’ never-ending exasperation.

Not that they saw the two very often in the passing weeks, as Ron, Neville and Hermione spent their time studying, the other two spent their time. . . goofing off and– and doing unrelated, non-studying things. She’d tried to get them to join, but, well, when one gets told “Tch, tedious,” by an individual such as Draco Malfoy, one tends to avoid the subject again for fear of decking the boy.

So, naturally, Hermione could be classified as a tad infuriated.

“Leave them alone,” Ron muttered to her, bent low over his ‘homework’. “They don’t even need to study to get O’s – slackin’ off won’t harm them one bit.”

“Just because they’re fine now doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be getting into good study habits,” Hermione whispered back hotly. “Besides; you’re just saying that because you’re studying and they’re not.”

Ron scowled dejectedly at his homework, muttering: “Yeah, ‘cause they don’t have the Goblin War-Chief of Education breathin’ their necks.”

“Ron, you’re mumbling,” Hermione said, not taking her narrowed eyes off the whispering duo.

“I said,” Ron says, clearing his throat slightly. “You should at least quit staring at them – they’re gonna think you want to murder them or somefink.”

After which Hermione did.

Kind of.

Not really.

The stop watching them bit, not the murdering bit.

Do keep up.

It’s not her fault, okay? If the two wouldn’t act so fundamentally sketchy, then Hermione wouldn’t have to watch them like a hawk every chance she gets. No, instead she’d be able to focus solely on studying so that she can pave her way the future she wants, and make sure she doesn’t get dragged into another life-or-death situation because of the intellectual ineptitude of her friends.

Honestly, it was starting to quite bother her. Harry and Malfoy’s shifty nature that is, not the life-or-death situations (although that too did bother her quite significantly). It wasn’t that they were keeping secrets from h- their friends; Hermione, while lacking in experience, is more than aware that in a healthy friendship it’s more common than not that some people don’t necessarily feel the need to share everything, and that in a group of friends, study has shown that while they all might have an equal relationship with each other, certain individuals may feel more comfortable divulging their life and issues to only one or two members in the group. And that is fine; more than absolutely fine.

It just didn’t help in this particular situation that there was the philosopher’s stone to consider.

She would never admit it to anyone, but each time she passed the third-floor corridor, Hermione would press her ears to the door to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Professor Snape would sweep about in his usual bad temper (terribly unprofessional), which in her mind gave her some security in knowing that the stone was still safe.

But with every day, Hermione would grow even surer that Harry and Malfoy were planning something, and it all centred around the stone.

The hushed conversations. The excess reading of potion books when everyone knows full-well neither boy needs the study (Draco). The out of context hug-attacks at breakfast for seemingly “no reason, no reason at all” (Harry). A strange concentration on practicing quidditch manoeuvres post quidditch season (Harry) and playing competitive chess (Draco). To bring these points up to anyone else would instantly label her paranoid, and yes, Hermione herself couldn’t exactly tell you herself why these activities ruffled her feathers so, but ruffle them they did.

Perhaps, out of all her reasons, it was the way the two have been going out of their way to discourage further investigating of the whole situation. It just didn’t make sense. It was clear the two were interested by it all, it was clear they two wanted to do something about it. But if so, then why; since the beginning, since before they knew it would be so serious, why have they been so determined to keep herself, Ron, and Neville from investigating?

It all, at least to Hermione, screamed that the two were up to something.

The week before exams, Hermione couldn’t take it anymore.

Hermione glared at her parchment and tossed her quill to the table. “Oh, sod it,” she huffed, leaning back in her chair.

As these actions were extremely un-Hermione like, both Neville and Ron startled out of their game of snap, poor Neville’s eyebrows suffering the worst for it.

Still frustrated but slightly guilty, Hermione waved her wand at Neville (ignoring his flinch) and performed the second-year hair-regrowth spell, asking them in frustration; “doesn’t it bother you?”

As Neville tentatively touched his eyebrows to check they were actually there – as if Hermione would actually mess up with such an easy spell – Ron shook his head slowly.

“Not really?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Oh for goodness sake Ron, not the game,” she sighed in exasperation. “Harry and Malfoy – doesn’t it bother you?”

Now Neville was frowning in confusion, a strange sight as he was still stroking his new eyebrows. “I thought you d-didn’t mind them? That’s what you told H-harry. .”

“Not that,” Hermione dismissed hastily before Neville really finished, “I don’t care who’s friends with who – I’m talking about how suspicious they’re acting. Don’t you ever get the feeling that. . that they know more than they let on?” she asked, frowning uncertainly, “like- like there’s something they’re not telling us?”

The two boys looked to each other and “Well, yeah, a bit,” Ron said awkwardly, “but that’s kind of normal though, innit? They’ve been like that since day one.”

“Though it can be a bit creepy,” Neville admitted, “L-like how Malfoy comes across like he knows all your darkest secrets, a-and how Harry just knows all kinds of things, but he won’t tell you where he learnt them.”

“Exactly! And how they’re always whispering to each other and how they act like they know the future or something!” Hermione paused, realising how crazy she sounded seeing the looks on the boy’s faces. She continued more with a more subdued, “it’s just. . . it wo- bothers me.”

“Yeah, but ‘Mione,” Ron countered slowly, in a surprising display of tact. “That’s what they’ve always been like. Since before all this stone busin- No, ‘Mione, that’s what this’s about and we know it. You’re not subtle.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, feeling frustrated (and irrationally humiliated). Neville, bless the sweet boy, seemed to sense this and stepped in.

So much for tact.

“I- I think you should talk to him. Harry. Talk to Harry.” He heisted, “Maybe- maybe it’ll help?”

And so, Hermione set out to talk with Harry ‘the-boy-who-lived’ Potter. It took a few tries to get Harry on his own, for these days he and Malfoy seemed to either be joined at the hip or no-where to be found. It was only two days – two days! – before exams that Hermione managed to catch him in the common room.

God– the gods– Merlin?– oh, whatever deity presided over the wizarding world must’ve been smiling down at her as well, because while everyone was outside enjoying the last rays of sunshine before hibernating in the library for exams, Hermione was between Harry at the unlit fireplace the common room exit.

There was no escaping from this conversation.

She cleared her throat, and something must’ve showed in the tone of her throat clear, because upon looking up Harry immediately became wary.

(or, perhaps, it had more to do with the hands-on-hips power stance and glint of homicidal intent in her eyes – but Hermione believes that Harry’s always a bit prone to exaggerating, so upon being told that sometime later she’s elected to dismiss the possibility entirely)

“We need to talk.”

“We do?”

“Yes. We need to talk, and we’re going to be doing now.”

“Right now?”

She levelled him with a look.

Harry held against it for a few seconds before admitting defeat.

“Alright,” he sighed, sitting back against the couch, gesturing her to the seat across from him. “Might as well be comfortably I suppose.”

Hermione wasted no time, hands gripping subtly but tightly onto the strap of her book bag. It wasn’t that she was nervous. That would be irrational. This is simply a conversation between two friends – a conversation about how one friend is concerned about the other and wants to know that they’re not caught in anything dangerous or life-threatening. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

Besides, it was Harry she was talking to – while possibly (probably) slightly, insane he would hardly throw her to the curb for laying out her concerns

“‘Mione? You right?”

“I know you’re up to something,” she told him sternly, Harry’s eyebrows shooting up surprise at her cold tone.

No, no, no, no, no! That’s not at all what she wanted to say! She was supposed to converse with him, not scold him! She can fix this.

“Don’t try telling me I’m wrong – I’ve seen you and Draco skulking about the castle and having secret conversations.”

Stop it! Stop, stop, stop – words, must find the right words.

“Hermio–”

“And for that matter, if you don’t tell me what it is then I’m- . . then I’m going to tell the headmaster.”

Silence.

“F-for your own good. . .”

For the sake of the role she’d inadvertently created for herself, Hermione tried to keep up a stern façade, but it was so hard. Inside she was despairing. Those weren’t at all the words she had intended on using – she had a plan for this!

She was going to come in, make sure he couldn’t wiggle away, get him talking and get to the truth so she could help him. She didn’t want to go all bad cop on him like in in those ridiculous American crime dramas her parents watch. She wanted to be his friend, good friend. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? Harry seemed to make it look so effortless, befriending them all and defending them from each other and helping them all get along – sure Hermione never really had friends herself, but that was a choice! The people at her primary school didn’t understand her and never put in any effort to, so why should she bother trying to include herself in their fun and games. Just because she’d never had friends before shouldn’t mean it would be so hard to simply have a conversation with someone without it all going wrong.

She always does this, always says one thing when meaning another. It’s not like she wants to sound like she’s berating someone when she helps them with homework, or sound condescending when someone asks her an obvious question – she just gets excited and loses control over her tone and her words and why can’t some people just see that she doesn’t mean to and–

“Hey, sh, shh, it’s alright, its okay,” reached her ears, her face pressed lightly into something itchy, the warm pressure of hands methodically going up and down her back, completely arresting her focus. Up and down, up and down, smooth change to circular motions over her shoulder blades, down and up, down and up, shhh, shhhh, it’s okay, up and down, up and down. . .

Hermione followed the voice – Harry’s – instruction; breathing deeply, slowing her thoughts, using the irritating scratch of his jumper to narrow her focus.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, choosing to hide from his gaze a little while longer. Thank – oh, blast it, thank someone! – indeed that no one else was in the common room to see that embarrassing display. “I didn’t mean for it to. . .”

“. . come out like that?” Harry finished gently with a small laugh, “yeah I kind of figured.”

She could feel the prick of tears threatening to spill again.

“I just wanted to- to. . .”

Harry waited for her to finish but she couldn’t find the right words.

It seemed to be the theme of the day. No, week- actually, forget that. Theme of her life.

Hermione Granger, the-girl-who-always-says-the-wrong-thing.

“Right,” Harry said, keeping up the soothing up-and-down movements on her back, “how about I talk, and you tell me yes or no, yeah?”

Hermione nodded, shifting her head to the side to rest her cheek on his shoulder, gaze staring wetly at Harry’s previous – now vacant – seat.

“You wanted to sit me down so that we could talk, yeah?”

Nod.

“A serious chat, where I don’t lie or tell you not to worry, yeah?”

Another nod.

“A chat about how I should really be studying no matter how much of a born genius I am?”

Disapproval so thick it was palpable.

Harry wisely shifted direction.

“Or was it more about how you’re worried I’m going to do something stupid and dangerous, in,” he paused, trying to recall, “what did Ron. . oh yeah, in true Harry ‘Bloody’ Potter style?”

She let out a small huff of amusement – Harry ‘Bloody’ Potter indeed.

“So, all in all, a long-suffering chat with stupid-old-me about me doing something stupid, me getting myself dangerously hurt and me – tragically – leaving you all alone to deal with the idiocy of others by yourself.”

Hermione shot up, gaping at the boy, so genuinely insulted she forgot to be sad. “That’s not at all-! how could you think- the first part most certainly, but the second- I don’t think like that at–!”

And it was at this moment she stopped mid-sentence, for the smug and knowing grin had grown too large on the raven-haired boys’ face for her to possibly miss.

“Oh, you bastard,” she breathed as he started snickering. She bit back her own grin and instead grabbed a pillow, beginning to wack him with all her might.

“You.” Shoulder. “Complete.” Head. “And.” Shove to the floor. “Utter.” Wack. “Bastard.” Wack, wack, wack!

“Ah, stop, stop! I yield, I yield!” Harry said laughing. “Oh, merciful witch, spare me, please spare me!”

Hermione got to her feet waggling the pillow threatening at him. “I ought to have your head, I really ought to.”

All the response she got was more laughter and she couldn’t stop herself from joining in. But soon enough, Hermione sobered down, worried thoughts creeping in again as she helped Harry up from the ground and back onto the couch.

“But seriously Harry, I’m worried about you,” she whispered, “I mean, you’ve always been a bit mysterious, that kind of just your thing, but. . . you’re always sneaking around these days, having secret conversations with Draco, you’re distant even when you’re speaking to us,” Hermione pushed seeing his micro-wince. “Oh, blast it, we see Professor Snape more than we see you these past weeks Harry! Neville and Ron wouldn’t say anything under wand-point, I know that they’re worried too.”

“‘Mione, nothing’s wr–” Harry paused, backing tracking at her glare. “Okay, not nothing’s wrong, but more. . . You have valid points, and I’m really sorry that I’ve made you – and Neville and Ron – worry. I mean, I have been. . . worried. About the stone.” He paused again, and Hermione bit back what she wanted to say, instead nodding for him to continue. “It’s not a massive deal. I just. . . sometimes I don’t realise when I’m–” he stopped oddly, pressing his lips before continuing with an obviously false smile. “Sorry, I suppose it’s just been a while since I had friends to smack me out of it when I’m being, well, me.”

“Really?”

But Harry was so. . . likable. It seemed inconceivable to Hermione that someone like Harry, might’ve been like. . . her. No friends. No one to lean on. Plain-Jane, Hermione Jean Granger.

Harry laughed falsely again, reclining back a bit. “Yeah, guess I’m just not all too good at the whole ‘friendship is sharing the load’ thing yet. Not too good at the whole friendship thing in general thing actually.”

“That’s a bold-faced lie, Harry.”

“Not bold-faced if it’s true.”

“It is too,” Hermione muttered. “You’re so good making friends – you got Ron and Malfoy to get- well, at least play along politely.”

Harry shrugged dismissively. “Not really; I just. . . it gets easier, somewhat, to get along and make friends once you learn how to not let others dictate who you are and how you live.”

“How did you do it?” she asked, biting her lip harshly when slight desperation bled into her words.

“I didn’t do it, that’s not the right. . .” Harry frowned, gaze distant as he searched for answers. Hermione knew he found them as a quiet, confident conviction filled his expression as he met her eyes.

“. . . One day I decided I’d spent enough time moulding myself to be what others wanted me to be, and that on that day it was enough. That ‘good luck’ thinking that your opinion of my character will impact me any longer – I am who I am, I am who I was, I am who I will always be, and that will never change.”

Hermione took that in for a moment, deep in her gut wishing that one day she would have the same kind of revelation.

“And for that matter,” Harry continued, “you know what I saw the day I decide ‘yes, I want that strong, independent girl as one of my very best friends’?”

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

“I saw you. I saw a brilliant, kind, strong willed, unbelievably and insanely clever girl who had been misunderstood by those around her and didn’t know how to get herself out of the situation she’d accidentally created by just. . being herself. I saw someone I wanted to have in my life who I knew would always have my back. I-. . .I saw myself in you. How could I not want you as my friend?”

She started tearing up again, unable to control herself as she flung her arms around him tightly.

“Hugging, okay we’re doing the hugging again!” he laughed, then to himself, slightly bewildered and too quietly for Hermione to hear, “why is it I always end up with the crying ones?”

“Honestly,” she laughed wetly, pulling away and wiping her eyes, “boys.”

“Ha ha, yeah,” Harry agreed, hand messing with his hair as the sniffling stopped. “Boys.”

She laughed again, standing up and grabbing her bookbag from where she hadn’t realised it had fallen.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said sincerely. “And with the stone, just promise me– promise that you won’t do anything stupid.”

He held up his hand, three fingers up mocking the scout’s pledge. “I, Harry Potter, gracious friend of one Hermione Granger promise hereby to ‘not doing anything stupid in regard to the stone’.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Good?”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

He grinned.

Of course, had Hermione paid closer attention, or had been just a bit older with more life experience on her side, she would’ve caught the odd desynchronisation in his expression – the way, in his eyes, something about his face didn’t quite match the happiness of his grin.

But that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, I’m going to go–” she paused, looking down at her book bag with a small, slightly self-deprecating laugh, “well I suppose you know how that sentence finishes. Me, off to studying, what a surprise,”

Harry shrugged, picking up his own bag that had been lying by the couch. “Mind if I join?”

Hermione frowned lightly in confusion. “But, well, it’s hardly like you need it.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. . .”

“You want to study,” she repeated with raised eyebrows, highly sceptical seeing as the boy hadn’t so much as looked at a book in weeks.

“Well, not necessarily,” he conceded, adding with a grin: “However, I wouldn’t exactly say no to spending part of the day with a very dear friend of mine.”

She laughed, deciding to just go with it. “Then off to the library we go, dear friend.”

“Off to the library we go.”

Chapter Text

Exams were finished – their last being History of Magic – and Harry found himself outside.

The others, Hermione, Ron and Neville, had already gone inside, Harry having begged off in favour of ‘enjoying the freedom’ for a bit longer. It wasn’t exactly a lie, as although the exams hadn’t been hard for the time-traveling wizard, he did want to enjoy the rest of the day in peace before tonight’s insanity.

From where he lounged under a tree, Harry looked up and breathed deeply, emotions sitting lightly in his chest like a cat curled up in the sun. In that moment he could ignore ever constant fire in his scar with practiced ease. With the cloudless sky streaked by brilliant orange, the sun just beginning to sink and giving a new light to the lush landscape, Harry could just be for a second.

The eerie, stressed mood over castle seemed no longer there, the foreboding aura having lessened in the face of exams being over. It wasn’t gone, of course, but it was mostly overshadowed by celebration.

Harry’s lips curved into a small smile and closed his eyes, face titled to the sky, peace settling in his bones.

It was a mistake on everyone’s part to relax their guards, but Harry wasn’t complaining – it made his and Draco’s job much easier.

It was time.

That night, after making sure everyone was sleeping and wouldn’t wake up ‘til he got back that morning – thank you Sleeping Charms – Harry donned his cloak and left for third floor corridor.

Within a few minutes, he was there, the door already ajar and Draco leaning casually against the wall next to it. Harry could already hear the faint melody of a harp and muffled, huffing breathes from inside.

“You ready?” asked Harry, slipping off the cloak and bundling into his satchel. He fiddled with the rune etched leather band he’d made in preparation for the night.

Draco scoffed, uncrossing his arms (revealing his own matching leather band) and patting his own bag of essentials. “Do you really feel the need to ask?”

He couldn’t quite hide the tremble in his hand.

Neither could Harry.

Though they knew what they were facing, any manner of things could go wrong. Perhaps this time they can’t get past the chess board, or maybe they’d have to actually fight the troll. There was the high probability that Harry incorrectly remembered the correct potion to Snape’s riddle (it’d been 7 years, okay? Frankly, it’d been a miracle he could remember as much as he had).

“You sure you made the right potions?”

Draco pushed off the wall and stared at him flatly.

“Potter,” he drawled, “open the door.”

Harry pushed open the door.

The creak of un-oiled hinges was drowned out by the low, rumbling growls of Fluffy. Even through the haze of sleep, all three of his noses flared madly in their direction.

Draco paled.

“Merlin’s saggy. . .” he whispered, glancing nervously at the harp by the Cerberus’s feet. “You said it wakes up the moment the music stops?”

Harry hummed in affirmation, busy concentrating on carefully levitating Fluffy’s paw off the trap door, pausing every time the dog twitched.

“Right,” said Draco under his breath, aiming his wand at the harp and casting an additional Musicorum at it, “just in case.”

He could physically feel Harry biting back his smile, but he decided to take the higher moral ground and not hex him for it. They’ll see who’s laughing when they don’t have to deal with an awake and angry Cerberus after all is said and done when they escape.

Fluffy’s hot breath grew more pungent as they approached the giant heads (like a normal dog’s breath but amplified by 100, then times by 3). Stepping carefully over the his hip tall legs, Harry bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, swinging it up and open.

"Devilsnare?"

“Devilsnare,” Harry repeated with a shudder. For weeks after, all those years ago, he’d had nightmares of falling and getting trapped in the squirming mass, no amount of relaxing or light freeing him from its grasp. He wasn’t scared of the stuff per-say, merely. . . justifiably creeped out.

He looked down into the abyss.

There was no sign of the bottom.

“Down the hatchet we go,” he whispered, and in he jumped.

Down and down and down, frigid, damp air rushing past him as he – with a muffled thump he landed in the thick, vine mass. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, he called up to Draco even as the Devilsnare quickly began wrapping its limb around him body.

"You coming? Don’t tell me you chickened out already?"

With a mutter lost to Harry – though it sounded suspiciously insulting – a few moments later Draco joined him in the pit.

“I hate this,” he said instantly, a disgusted scowl forming, not quite unable to stop the initial squirming.

“Just relax,” Harry reminded him, already feeling himself starting to sink.

“Just relax,” mocked Draco, nonetheless doing just that.

The two boys felt it unravelling its grip as it lost interest in its prey and within a matter of seconds, they were able to pull free and slowly crawl their way to the stone path.

“Why I insisted on not letting you do this by yourself, I’ll never know,” announced Draco, eargerly walking down the passageway and away from the writhing pit.

“Because your life wouldn’t be complete without,” Harry teased over the gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The passageway sloped downward, delving further into the bowls of the castle. He’d always wondered where exactly this whole area was in the castle – he assumed it had to be magic, some kind of extension charm. He’d tried searching for the rooms in second year out of curiosity and they were nowhere to be found. Just normal classroom in their place.

“You mean my life would be much more peaceful without you.”

"Potato, potahto.”

Draco frowned at him in confusion, “what?”

 “. . you say potato, I say-? Oh, nevermind,” Harry sighed, “muggle thing, apparently.”

Before long, the soft rustling and clinking of the flying keys could be heard, and soon after that they reached the end of the passageway. The brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them, was full of the small yet deceptively dangerous flying keys, fluttering and tumbling all around the room.

“Accio,” Harry cast, having already spotted the damaged key.

Nothing happened.

“Worth the try,” Draco said, “was never going to work, but worth the try.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry muttered, “of course the traps would be easy enough for us to get through, but merlin forbid we be able use a simple summoning charm.”

Draco snorted, seizing a broomstick and kicking off into the air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. Following his lead, Harry retrieved his nimbus out of his bag and unshrunk it, swinging up into the air. He kept out of the fray, calling out directions as Draco’s view was obscured by the bewitched keys darting and dived all over the place.

Between the two of them, it was embarrassingly easy.

“This is ridiculous,” said Draco frowning, unlocking the door and leaving the broom behind as it refused to pass the threshold. Harry flew through, his broom finding no resistance. “These ‘defences’ are so simple a muggle could defeat them.”

Light flooded the next chamber revealing the giant chessboard.

“That’s kind of the point,” Harry said, lowering until he was hovering next the boy, waiting for him to get on. “They’re designed to be beaten, all except for the mirror. The stone is the cheese, and the mirror is mouse trap.”

The chess pieces looked at them with challenge in their marble eyes, daring them to take their place on the board.

Holding on tight, Harry and Draco rose into the air and flew right over them, bypassing the entire challenge entirely.

"Ridiculous," the blonde repeated mulishly.

Harry looked back at the infuriated chess pieces, expressionless faces somehow still conveying deadly glares. Yet still, none of them moved to stop them as they went through the door and up the next passageway.

They reached next door.

“And you’re sure troll will be knocked out?”

“Certain.”

The room beyond the door roared.

Draco stared at him in exasperation.

“Mostly. . certain,” Harry corrected.

Pulling out the cloak, they donned it, casting Quietus and Odor Redigendum before slowly pushing open the door.

Instantly, the disgusting smell of rotted flesh and public toilet filled their nose, making both boys pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes watering, they saw towering over them, a troll even larger than the first, dragging its massive club behind it as it lumbered angrily around the room.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered emphatically, almost choking on the fumes. “Of all the things for Quirell to do differently, it had to be this.”

It was clear the troll had already been in a fight – there was a massive gash on its head, sluggishly bleeding, as well as dozens of other minor but damaging cuts and slices all over its body.

“On my count,” Draco whispered, readying his wand. “1. . 2. . .3!”

Together, they cast the Bludgeoning Hex right at the troll’s head. It roared, staggering and stumbling. For a moment, a hopeful second, the troll seemed to teeter on the edge collapsing into unconsciousness.

Not wasting a second on waiting for it to fall, Harry and Draco darted across the room, lunging for the door. Draco wrenched it open as Harry sent Glacius at the troll’s feet – it wasn’t enough to freeze them solid, but it was enough to cause the troll to topple to the ground with a mighty thud. Harry stumbled over the threshold and Draco slammed the door shut behind him, purple fire spring and nearly burning him. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward. They were trapped.

The troll roared even louder, thumping and banging so hard within the room that the boys could feel the stones reverberate.

“What are the chances,” Draco huffed, leaning against the table, “that Quirell didn’t hear that?”

“About the same chances,” replied Harry from where he’d plopped to the floor, “that he didn’t feel it.”

They grimaced – so much for the small element of surprise.

Turning around, Draco perused the potions, the seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a line.

"Snape's," he said, briefly scanning the roll of paper lying next to the bottles, even though they didn’t need it. Draco pulled out two of his own potion bottles from his bag, going about testing the differences

While Draco, much like Hermione, had been able to figure out the riddle within minutes – but that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the potion for the black fire was in the smallest bottle – by the time Quirrell had come through there was only enough there for one other to go through: hardly one swallow. Obviously another one of the headmaster’s purposefully placed mechanics, Draco thought with a disgusted snort, probably to make sure Harry would choose to in alone with no support.

Draco’d be damned before he let Harry go into that room alone, knowing he couldn’t help him if things went drastically wrong.

So Draco had grilled Harry on this trial – what the fire looked like, was it hot, did it flicker slowly or was it more furious? – brewing potion after potion before he finally narrowed it down.

He smirked, lowering his wand.

“I take it you brewed the right potion?”

Of course he was right, Draco thought as he held out the Ice Potion, he’s always right.

"Okay," said Harry, running through the plan. "I drink that, go in and confront Quirrell. You wait here until you feel the signal,” he briefly touched his leather band. When they’d finally confirmed their plan of action a few weeks prior, Harry had begun assembling the matching pair. It’d taken him numerous tries and many, many books on runes, but he’d managed to create and link the two – upon activation, the one-use runes it would alert the one wearer that the brother wearer was signalling for help. “First rune means something’s gone wrong and I need your help, second rune means I Voldemort’s gone and it’s safe. Got it?”

“Yes, Harry; I was there when we planned this.”

Harry ran his hand through his hair nervously, “right, yeah, sorry.”

There was a brief pause where neither boy spoke.

“Look,” Draco said awkwardly, “we don't like this, but we also know I can’t go in there with you,” and not because I’m scared to face the Dark Lord, as true as that might be true. “I hate that it means you have to do it alone,” where all manner of things could go wrong while I wait here safely for a sign. “But you’re a fantastic wizard Harry,” I believe in you. "Tell anyone I said that though, and I'll hex you into next year."

Harry gave him a small smile, wasting no more time as he took a gulp of the potion and handed it back to Draco as the ice flooded his body. He took a deep breath and turned to face the black flames, hesitating.

“Scared, Potter?”

Looking at the flames, unable to see the boy, unable to see the shadow of the man that he’d grown to know in the eleven year olds' eye, Harry could almost believe that the last 7 years of his life had been a dream; that he the blonde we’re about to face off each other in some utterly petty rivalry.

He grinned wolfishly at the flames.

“You wish,” he promised to the flames, stepping confidently through the flames-

-and emerging on the other side, straight into the heart of the last chamber.

There, in all his purple glory, stood Quirrell, head still wrapped in the ever-pungent turban.

"You!" gasped Harry for show.

Quirrell smiled, completely and utterly falling for it, His face wasn't twitching at all.

"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here, Potter."

"But I thought– Snape–"

For a moment Harry thought he was over-doing it – if Quirrell had done any sort of effective surveillance he would’ve known Harry had been advocating for Snape’s innocence since the beginning – but evidently, he needn’t have worried.

Quirrell was lapping it up.

"Severus?" He laughed manically, cold and sharp. He’d completely dropped his usual baritone stutter. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Harry eyes the room surreptitiously, glancing over the mirror, "but Snape tried to kill me!" he protested half-heartedly. While Voldemort didn’t have the same level of connection with Harry as he did by Fourth Year, he was still an extremely accomplished Legilimens – Harry would have to be careful.

"–ther few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom,” Quirrell spat. “I'd have managed it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a counter curse, trying to save you."

"Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course," said Quirrell coolly. "Why do you think he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it again. Funny, really. . . he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything with Dumbledore–”

Merlin’s beard, Harry had nearly forgotten how much Quirrell liked to talk – it was like the man was compensating for the time spent speaking with a stutter.

Quirrell snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air, wrapping themselves tightly around Harry. He had to physically repress the instinctive war born reaction of defence and retaliation.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter,” said Quirrell with a cruel smile. “Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that, for all I knew–”

And on and on it went. Quirrell kept talking, explaining to Harry the entire year, his plans, his clever misdirection’s with Snape, and how this all came to be with to no prompting by Harry. Not once did he take his eyes off the mirror, tapping his way around the frame, walking around to look at the back. Unlike the first time, Harry wasn’t concerned about drawing his attention away from it – Quirrell would never get the stone from the mirror, even if he figured out the trick

Quirrell cursed under his breath, coming back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it.

"I don't understand. . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

Harry let out a slow, steady breath.

What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does.

He edged to the left, carefully positioning himself in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing; he was still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And the voice that had haunted Harry for years spoke, a raspy hiss that filled Harry with the urge to be sick.

"Use the boy. . ."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Potter– come here."

He clapped his hands once, the rope binding falling off and Harry complied, slowly walking forward he was shoulder to shoulder with the man and his parasite.

"Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

I must lie, he thought calmly. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, pale yet resolute. A moment later, the reflection nodded at him in solidarity, gently patting its bag. Harry didn’t bother checking to see – he knew the blood red stone would be there, unattainable to Quirrell lest he want to lose a limb. The charm was based off the wallet with fangs Hagrid had gifted him in Fifth Year – were anyone but the approved person to put their hand inside. . well, it would be highly unpleasant.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry bit back a smile.

"I’m being photographed shaking hands with Dumbledore," he said, going for the most offensive thing in Voldemort’s eyes. "I've won the house cup for Gryffindor and become the youngest professional seeker in the world."

Quirrell cursed again, shoving Harry out of the way.

"He lies. . ." hissed Voldemort again.

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?"

The high voice spoke again.

"Let me speak to him. . . face-to-face. . ."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough. . . for this. . . ."

Harry felt as if DevilSnare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. The back of Quirrell's head, there was a face, just as terrible as Harry remembered, if not worse. Glacier white, burning red eyes, slits for nostrils – as ever snake-like as his eventual rebirth body.

Those red eyes, boring into his own, mouth curling in sadistic satisfaction, ‘bow, Harry, bow’,

                                                                                                                                                          high, piercing laugh sending acid crawling down his throat,

                                                                                                                    pooling thickly

                                                                                                                                                          in my lungs.

                                                             He can just barely breathe past it, but with every breath

                                                                                                                                                          I feel it more and more.

"Harry Potter. . ." it whispered.

                                                                                                                  He breathed in deeply to loosen the cord

                                                                                   around his throat and the band

                                                                                                                  around my lungs, but with every

                                                                                                                                                          expansion comes the contraction

                                                                        and the constriction and the acid rises

                                                                                                                higher without ever actually                                         

                                                                                                                                                           leaving and

                                                                                                                    I just want it

gone.

Harry sprang forward with a desperate yell, ignoring Voldemort’s scream of "SEIZE HIM!", ignoring the needle-sharp inferno of pain that seared across Harry's scar. His head felt as though it was about to split in two, but still he ignored it with all that he was as Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry clawed at his face, gripping it tight and not letting go–

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again.

"Master, I– my face– my–!"

Through the agony and tears, Harry could see his face transform; blister to raw redness, raw redness to blackened charcoal. Quirrell’s flailing caused Harry’s hands to slip (but never loosen), causing skin to tear and split adding rivers of blood to the massacre as they fell to the ground, allowing Harry further advantage.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

–the pain in Harry's head was building– he couldn't see anything expect the blurry impression of red, purple and black– the sick smell of burning flesh coating his lungs like tar as Quirrell's terrible shrieks pierced the chamber air, Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" falling underwater and other voices– his scar flared even further in agony. Had he activated the runes y- the fire consumed him, starting from his scar and rapidly devouring his every nerve, a voice in Harry's own head cried, "Harry! Harry!" – hands forced him to his feet and maybe those voices weren’t inside his head, for it seemed like suddenly Draco was there.

Harry was just barely keeping consciousness, hazily allowing Draco to pour something even colder than the first potion down his throat. A foul stench. A roar. Flashes of blue, purple and green blurred his vision, a resounding thud. Faint murmurs of ‘nearly there, come on Potter’ the only thing keeping Harry from falling under. Vertigo. Cold wind. A strange silkiness sliding over his skin that he later identified to be his invisibility cloak. Harry stumbled along; all his willpower centred on keeping one foot in front of the other.

It was only when he felt a cloud against his back and the whisper of ice dousing the flames did Harry’s world go black.

Chapter Text

There’s a strange juxtaposition, an oxymoron if you will, concerning the concept of Occlumency. On the most basic level, it involved clearing one's mind — “empty yourself of emotion, Potter!” — to prevent a Legilimens from perceiving one's emotions and thoughts.

The more advanced levels Occlumency, according to Harry’s handy-dandy ‘A Guide to Occlumency’, involved ‘suppressing only the thoughts, emotions, and memories that would contradict whatever it was an Occlumens wished a Legilimens to believe’. In simpler terms, the point is to produce an artificial mental layer; to totally throw off the perspective of whoever was peeking into your mind into thinking that said layer is the legitimate one, so you can hide all the things you don’t want them to know as a layer deeper within.

It would be an understatement to say that Harry found Occlumency difficult. It was like telling him not to think of a pink elephant – of course he was going to bloody think about a pink elephant! Everyone knows that deliberate attempts to suppress certain thoughts just make them more likely to surface!

But Harry digressed.

Despite initial trepidations, he had been making some decent headway. While he was no-where near the level he needed to be to prevent any sort of invasive attack, between Draco’s tutelage and setting aside time to meditate every other night, he’d somewhat managed to calm his mind. Enough so, at least, that his thoughts weren’t spilling out for all to hear. Enough so, that the nightmares seemed a slice less extreme upon waking. Enough so, that he could confidently stand before Dumbledore’s probing eyes and not mentally blurt out all his deepest secrets.

“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore offered the two boys.

They politely declined.

That night – or rather that very early morning – had seen Draco dragging a barely conscious Harry back to his dorm after he sent the signal. Quirrel a pile of ashes, Voldemort gone and Dumbledore undoubtedly on his way, the two had made themselves scarce. They had no intention of dealing with either the headmaster or the entire school body knowing of their escapade. Too many eyes, too many questions, too much scrutiny. Harry had lived through it once before and had no intention of living through it again, especially now that he had something to hide.

Hence why, for the most part, Harry and Draco endeavoured to leave as little physical and magical evidence when going through the ‘challenges’. They’d barely even touched the first four rooms, breezing through them leaving nary a footprint (quite literally in the chess room’s case). The troll of course was a surprise, but its injuries will easily be laid at Voldemort’s feet. By making their own fire resistance potion, there was next to zero proof that anyone else had been present in the chamber. It had been a clever detail admittedly, Snape making sure that the potion only had enough solution for two people to pass through the flames.

Too bad it had been made completely redundant by a spot of good planning.

In short, Harry and Draco had created a fool-proof plan to fool a previously thought-to-be fool-proof trap.

So yeah, as he stood before Dumbledore Harry was confident that even though they were clearly under suspicion for the moment, he and Draco wouldn’t – couldn’t – be linked to the events of that night.

Nervous, yes (those twinkling blues will always make him nervous), but confident.

Harry gave himself a mental shake as Dumbledore sighed, calmly pulling himself away from the events of last night and focusing on the now, allowing himself to pull vague confusion and innocent nervousness to the forefront of his mind, hopefully creating a thin smoke like layer of protection between the headmaster and his more damning thoughts.

It begins.

“I’m sure my boys that you, like many other students this morning have noticed that there is. . . a tension let us say, present amongst your professors,” Dumbledore began, surveying Harry and Draco over his half-moon spectacles. “As I’m sure you’re also aware, this is due to the events that occurred last night.”

“Events, sir?” Draco enquired, eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s alright Mr Malfoy, you’re not in trouble,” the older wizard misinterpreted with a genial and significantly strained smile. “I simply want to know what happened.”

“What. . happened, sir?” Harry repeated; he and Draco shared a feigned expression of confusion.

“Yes, my boy. Last night, with stone,” Dumbledore clarified, skin around his eyes tightening.

Draco frowned thoughtfully, shaking his head. “The stone, sir?” (Harry was quietly in appalled awe at how much exaggerated innocence Draco was getting away, but clearly, it was working) “What stone?”

Dumbledore was visibly taken aback.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed before the man could recover, “do you mean the – oh, what was it called. . . the-? Hmm no, not that. . . the Fil-ac-tities stone?”

Draco made a disagreeing hum; “No, I think you’re thinking something else.”

“Yeah?” Harry thought for a second, “Oh, yeah no, I was thinking Philoctetes, that Greek bloke.”

Draco nodded with more seriousness than the conversation deserved; “Mm yes, very similar – quite easy to mix up I’d say.”

The headmaster chuckled, masterfully belying the confusion, tension, and slight panic in the tension of his hands and shoulders. It made him slightly guilty for the stress he was putting the man through, but Harry couldn’t help the somewhat spiteful glee he got from being the one finally holding all the cards. For once, he held the answer the other wanted and he’d be damned if he was giving it up that easily.

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed hurriedly, “Quite understandable – however I’m afraid we’re discussing the Philosopher’s Stone my boys. More specifically, what happened to it and Professor Quirrell last night.”

“Professor Quirrell?” the two First Year’s asked at the same time. “Don’t know why you’d think we know, sir,” Draco continued with a shrug, leaning back in his seat in a manner that somehow managed to make look dignified, “We were in our beds all night, dead asleep.”

“I know I certainly wasn’t wondering the castle last night,” Harry joked with a hesitant grin at the headmaster, “exams have been hard sir, they’ve taken a lot out of us – I was just glad it was all over. I was really looking forward to a massive sleep in this morning,” he said like he was confessing a guilty secret.

“Well said, Harry.”

And with that, the two stared at Dumbledore with polite confused, positively radiating innocence from every pore.

The headmaster chuckled again to borrow time, to disguise his desire to stare between the two, flabbergasted, knowing for sure that they were pulling his leg – ‘exams hard on them’? Merlin’s beard, everyone being in the castle knew for fact the two boys barely spared a thought towards the exams, breezing through them with bored expression with record-breaking times, easily well on track to get all Outstanding’s. He was sure they knew what happened last night, sure they’d been there and knew where the stone.

However, the very reason he was sure they were lying – their earnest, confused, ignorant innocence to the entire situation – was also the reason he was doubting himself – surely, they wouldn’t be this obvious in their deception if they truly were deceiving him. They’d proven themselves to smart, capable, cunning even; surely, they wouldn’t dare be so blatantly insubordinate to his face, in a place where he could easily call them out and punish them? It didn’t make much sense in his mind.

But perhaps, it might in theirs. . .

He was loath to invade their privacy like this. Truly, he rarely if ever used his Legilimency skills on his students; perhaps a slight brush against their consciousness here and here, but only when he saw something that concerned him, only when something was quite wrong.

He continued the conversation, something about the merits of a nice sleep in and more probing about their whereabouts last night – he wasn’t entirely paying attention, well versed as he was in the art of making conversation while the larger portion of his attention was occupied.

He caught young Harry’s eye.

. . . stone. . . stone. . . cool breeze coming off the lake, shade of a tree. . . why am I here? Does Professor Dumbledore think-?. . . long table laden with food, sunlight streaming through a window. . . Professor Quirrell? What happened to-?. . . stone. . . stone. . . what stone?. . . silver-grey glinting in calculation, warm face and the hitching of breath. . .

Albus retreated, satisfied. Unrestrained, flitting and racing one subject to the next, Harry was a boy who had quite loudly expressed his displeasure about false pretences over the past year, and such ideals appear to have taken root in his subconscious mind; it mad sense that the boy would have no patience for a practice he so clearly loathed to take place within his own mind. Yes, it was clear that young Harry did not have anything to do last nights events – the boy didn’t even know what the stone was! No, Harry was innocent in this entire debacle. He daren’t try the same with young Malfoy’s mind – undoubtedly, the boy had learned some passing form of Occlumency from his paranoid father, or least would be able to detect even the slightest of presence. Best not to risk it.

Besides, the boy would hardly have involved himself in the entire debacle without young Harry to push him along, and Albus was certain the Potter child had defied all expectations and refrained from any kind of investigation despite the clearly laid out clues.

(Albus ignored the small corner of his vast mind that whispered paranoia to him, that the two boys were lying, pulling the wool over his eyes.)

However, now Albus was faced with a highly more concerning conclusions; either Voldemort couldn’t retrieve the stone and Quirrell paid the price, or Voldemort did indeed have the stone and they were all doomed.

Albus stilled his shaking hands and resisted the urge to curse, suddenly feeling light-headed with anxiety.

No, no, he would’ve known if Voldemort had the stone by now; the half-man would’ve restored himself and begun his campaign of terror with no time to spare. Needless to say he must have been bested by Albus’s brilliance with the mirror magic, his rage at the slight so potent it burned his host to dust.

Yes, yes, all that was left was to get the stone out of the mirror. He would never admit it aloud, of course, but Albus was a slight bit hesitant on this point; he himself couldn’t get the stone out, having experimented doing so when gauging the strength of the spell. It would be ignorant to assume a wizard such as he would not tempted by the possibility of immortality – he’d be hard-pressed not to at his age and power.

He’d failed to retrieve the stone each and every time.

Resigning himself to dealing with that headache at a later date, he gave the two boys permission to go – no point keeping them away from their friends and relaxation time when they evidently knew nothing about the situation.

“Thank you, my boys for settling an old man’s mind,” Dumbledore told them, “I hope you can find it in yourselves to enjoy the rest of you day with this hanging over you.”

Harry smiled at him pleasantly, leaning forward to pinch a lemon drop as he stood.

“I think we’ll manage, sir.”

Making a swift exist, the two time-travellers barely managed to contain their snickers until they reached the end of the hall – just out of sight of the Dumbledore’s guardian gargoyle – before they burst into laughter. Staggering away, leaning on each other as they struggled to breath past the hysteria, the sound travelled like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown in. It radiated pure and free, so childish despite their mental years.

And thus, their last week of school continued unimpeded.

Rumours flew of course, as rumours were want to do, but that’s all they were – rumours. No one knew exactly what happened that night. A whisper of an epic battle here, a mutter of prank gone terribly wrong there. Most people seemed to be of the opinion that Professor Snape had conspired with Hagrid and his creatures to assassinate Professor Quirrell in his secret bat lair because the man had given him advice on how to deal with greasy hair. There also seemed to be a small minority who were convinced that the Dark Arts teacher had torn off his turban in a fit, driven to insanity by the ever present stench of garlic and thus unleashing the terrible world devouring eldritch horrors that had been bound there by ‘Aincient Magiks’ – whatever the hell that was.

(Harry could hear the unnecessary capitalisation and pompous misspelling as he eavesdropped on the surrounding Slytherins.

“Is that even a thing or–?” he whispered to his left.

“. . . no Potter,” winced Draco with pain filled eyes, “it really isn’t.”

Harry snorted; “Embarrassed of your people, are you?”

“No; I’m insulted you think I’d claim people vacuous as that as ‘my people’.”)

While Harry had learned to discard Hogwarts rumours very quickly in his beginning years, there had always been a small part of him both impressed and disturbed by how very wrong some rumours could be whilst also being weirdly. . . right?

In other good news, Harry had bounced back quite quickly from his encounter with Voldermort (incinerating Dark Lords took a lot of effort, but he had practical experience and 17 years of being a horcrux on his side). This meant that Harry was not unconscious in the hospital wing for the Quidditch Cup unlike some other time when he, for example, was slatted to play the last Quidditch match of his first year but was unavailable due to, oh he doesn’t know, being unconscious in the hospital wing for three days straight because he burned a man to death with his mother’s love.

No, Draco, he’s not fucking salty.

Harry shot into the sky like a Hungarian Horntail chasing a thing, and Ravenclaw never stood a chance.

He knew the resulting win wasn’t enough points to drag across their house onto the winner’s podium for the overall House cup (that went to Slytherin much to Draco’s competitive, smug pleasure), but as Harry looked around him (at Wood half-blinded by tears; his team tangled together in a many-armed hug yelling hoarsely, “We’ve won the Cup! We’ve won the Cup!”; the wave upon wave of crimson supporters pouring over the barriers onto the field; thumping pats on their backs) he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He cast his gaze around and there, jumping up and down like a maniacs, all dignity forgotten as they fought their way toward Harry, were his friends. Ron. . Hermione. . Neville. . . Draco.

Harry beamed and they beamed back.

It was a beautiful time to be alive.

Chapter Text

August 17^th, 1991

       Dear Ms Circe Turpin, of the Improper Use of Magic Office,

       Ministry of Magic

I was referred to you by a tutor of mine, who told me you were the one to inquire about these sorts of topics; namely, the Trace.

Recently, I’ve found myself researching into what exactly the Trace is. At first, I came across the subject due to a school project, however I soon found myself fascinated by the concept. From my understanding, the charm allows the Ministry to track/detect underage magic, which is obviously banned under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. I tried searching high and low in books, scrolls and even word of mouth, but came up short every time.

Why is there little to no information about the Trace available to the public, and furthermore, what actually is the Trace? Is it a tracking charm? A detection charm? A monitor charm (like they use for infants)? I must admit, if it’s the first, I find myself slightly alarmed by the notion that my whereabouts are being tracked by our government.

Waiting your reply.

       Sincerely, Marcus Gudgeon

September 27^th, 1991

       Mr M. Gudgeon,

I do admit it’s a pleasant surprise to receive a letter such as yours – so little of this younger generation express interest in these areas of magic. Unfortunately, due to strict confidentiality laws, I can’t really disclose the information you seek.

If you truly are interesting in learning more, perhaps consider a career in the Improper Use of Magic Office; it’s an incredibly rewarding path, filled with a slew of enriching experiences and the opportunity to build quite the respectable reputation under the tutelage of the Ministry.

Good luck with your future schooling,

       Kind Regards,

       C. Turpin,

       Improper Use of Magic Office (Underage Magic Branch),

       Ministry of Magic

September 29^th, 1991

       Dear Ms Turpin,

Of course, I most certainly understand; I wouldn’t dare dream of getting you into trouble just because of my simple inquiry. It’s only. . . well, I can’t but wonder; if such a spell can be sanctioned to be placed on a child before they even take their first breath, why is there not such a spell for adults? A spell that monitors the magic of an individual would surely be beneficial in monitoring magical acts of crime? The ministry would simply be notified of what spells where used and who cast the spells.

Waiting your reply.

       Sincerely, Marcus Gudgeon

October 13^th, 1991

       Mr M. Gudgeon,

A forward thinker indeed, Mr Gudgeon, with such interesting questions too.

This has, of course, occurred to those of us at the Ministry before; we are, after all, dedicated and fully committed towards always looking for a brighter future. However, that is not how the Trace works.

Without getting in too much detail (I wouldn’t want either of us to get into trouble), the Trace can be more equated to a detection type charm; it notifies my department when there is magical activity around underage witches and wizards, not necessarily what is causing it or by who. That is where my department comes in; we investigate the source of the magic and determine whether it was cast by an underage individual or an adult.

While an incredibly efficient spell, it is simply not within the Trace’s function to identify or give exact information. Admittedly, there is even some leeway with under-age magic performed in all-wizard environments (such as Hogwarts or wizarding homes) due to the abundance of magic used, but we trust that your professors and fully magical households are able to sufficiently monitor their children, therefore the Trace is not monitored nearly as closely.

Furthermore, there is also the matter of ethicality; if a spell such as the one you’re proposing did exist, such heavy scrutiny would cause a revolt. Witches and wizards in the community would be rightly outraged, especially so if it were being applied to their children.

       Kind Regards,

       C. Turpin,

       Improper Use of Magic Office (Underage Magic Branch),

       Ministry of Magic

October 14^th, 1991

       Ms Turpin

Ah, I think I understand now. In short, the Trace exists because while of age witches and wizards can be more trusted with their use of magic, underage individuals need to be monitored more closely. I suppose that means children of a magical household can be trusted more to use magic than a muggleborn or even halfblood for that matter?

I admit I’ve never really subscribed to that way of thinking, but if there’s factual evidence from the Ministry that proves the difference in magical ability and control then it must be true. . .

Waiting your reply.

       Sincerely, Marcus Gudgeon

October 24^th, 1991

       Mr Gudgeon,

No, no, not at all; the Ministry (nor anyone else I should think) has such evidence. We at the Ministry are firm disbelievers in equality and fairness

Think of the Trace as a safety net, Mr Gudgeon. It’s not there to punish or reward one’s birth circumstance; it is a safety net designed to ensure the well-being of children and prevention of muggles stumbling upon our world by way of accidental (or sometimes intentional) magic.

The Trace is lifted by way once a child turns 17 because they will have/are about to finish their magical schooling, thus marking their magical maturity. This is done through a fully automated system of magic, tamper and bias free.

       Kind Regards,

       C. Turpin,

       Improper Use of Magic Office (Underage Magic Branch),

       Ministry of Magic

November 20^th, 1991

       Ms Turpin,

Automated system of magic? I admit, that surprises me; I would’ve thought the Trace was manually lifted, or perhaps only has a 17-year time limit. Is such a system safe? What if a spell in the system turns faulty somewhere along the way?

Or, and I hate to even mention it, for such a thing is incomprehensible to me; but what if there were an individual, or group of people who tried to sabotage/modify the system to rid themselves of the Trace quicker?

Would such a thing possible?

Waiting your reply.

       Sincerely, Marcus Gudgeon

November 24^th, 1991

       Mr Gudgeon,

I assure you, Mr Gudgeon, such a thing is not possible. We have multiple sets of backup spells and wards, along with a very dedicated security team.

Rest assured, sabotage (or even circumvention of any kind) is not possible; we at the Ministry are very thorough and dedicated to the protection of all wizardkind.

       Kind Regards,

       C. Turpin,

       Improper Use of Magic Office (Underage Magic Branch),

       Ministry of Magic

January 1st, 1992

       Ms Turpin,

Ah, okay.

Thank you so much for your assistance; it’s been greatly appreciated.

       Sincerely, Marcus Gudgeon

January 3^rd, 1992

       Mr Gudgeon.

You’re most welcome.

I wish you the best of luck with your future endeavours; by the sounds of it, there might very well be space for you here.

       Kind Regards,

       C. Turpin,

       Improper Use of Magic Office (Underage Magic Branch),

       Ministry of Magic

June 5^th, 1992

       Dear, [redacted]

We have something you want.

Waiting your reply,

       A friend        An Ally        Someone you can trust 

      Someone who is getting annoyed

      M + P

Chapter Text

book 2 is a go, I repeat, book 2 is a go!

hahah, sorry for the wait my friends, but book 2 is definitely a go. I've gotten past my block and chapter 1 is up 

thank you for the endless stream of love and support, every single one of you has made this possible, and pushed my motivation off the floor ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go go!!!!!!!