Chapter Text
1995, December, the eve of Christmas
"Don't miss us, Potter,” Seamus spat out, lazily kicking the trembling body with the toe of his boot one last time.
"I hope you liked your Christmas present," Dean agreed, slapping his open hand on his friend's palm.
The sound of their triumph was deafening for a few seconds, ringing unpleasantly in their ears. Harry grimaced, raising himself from the bone-shaking floor with a quiet interdental whine. The severed organs ached in protest, the arm broken in the forearm clung pitifully to the torn dusty mantle, seeking protection.
“Yes, Seamus, Dean, thank you, a great present,” Potter smiled angrily, and his nose flowed onto his chin again.
"My low bow to Ron too. It's a pity that he couldn't give it to his dear friend by himself. I forgive him.”
Harry forced a laugh mixed with a cough — all the air, expelled by the exorcism of the fists, refused to come back. Honestly, a Gryffindor wouldn't even drive his spirit back into a pale, puny something if it wasn't, like, a need for an unconditional reflex. Once, when he was sitting in a Muggle biology lesson, he heard that babies were beaten on the back to make them breathe. Potter came out of his mother's womb fifteen years ago, but he tested this life hack on himself day after day and could tell that it was quite working. Just hit harder, the bones are already stronger.
A sharp pulling pain burned his cheek, throwing the weak head of the guy aside. There was a nasty squeak in right ear — a great hook, Seamus. The glasses clicked. They crashed. Harry staggered, following the laws of physics, but did not reward the menacingly yapping Finnigan with another fall to the floor. He just looked at his fellow students from under his brows with his piercing green eyes and licked the blood that got on his lips. Sour. Potter always knew for sure: he wouldn't give up without a fight. No matter how bad it is, the Gryffindor will smile — happily, crookedly, pretentiously, hypocritically — and ride sarcasm on fragile self-esteem. But he won't give up. Did he break magic hat in vain in his freshman year? Although, it would probably be better to listen to a battered old hat. At least the Slytherins don't touch him. Maybe they think they're above it, maybe they just hate touching the Golden Boy of Hogwarts — who the hell is going to figure them out? Harry, however, was grateful to them: caustic comments were kept in good shape, there was always something to answer to witticisms. At least this macaque shit-throwing makes it clear that Potter is still not broken. It is tilted by the Leaning Tower of Pisa, wobbles like a fragile tree with every gust of wind, but does not break. He stands there, stubborn, holding on.
How much more can he do?
A thin, long-fingered hand patted his shoulder, and the tip of a wand, faintly glowing with a spell, poked into his face. The solid "Oculus reparo" responded with a quiet rustle of overgrown cracks on the lenses. Dean and Seamus, apparently, quickly retreated from this solemn moment of presentation — how impolite — when they heard footsteps in the hallway. They wouldn't glue the broken things together. Harry sighed, trying to focus his gaze on the savior. It turned out badly. The eyelids slowly closed the greenery.
“Hey, Potter, don't switch off, I'm not going to carry you," a painfully familiar voice shook his hands on his shoulder.
Harry opened his eyes wide, staring at the Slytherin. A Slytherin helping him. Not any Slytherin, but Draco is my-middle-name-I hate-Potter Malfoy. And he did not hide his surprise:
“Malfoy?”
“Me,” the young man nodded, "and who were you waiting for, Potter? A prince on a unicorn?”
“Well, yes,” the Gryffindor chuckled, “I just thought my prince would be prettier.”
“Like Zabini?” Draco returned the caustic smile, patching his robes with household charms.
Harry pretended to think about the offer. He's figuring out fucking options. He shrugged his shoulder.
“Sure.”
Malfoy only grimaced, frowning his whitish eyebrows. Is he jealous? What if? As they say: from hate to love is one step, one beaten Gryffindor with a broken arm and one case of help. Maybe, of course, without continuing, but this is just Potter's frivolity, let him. My head is cracking.
“I'll tell him your prince tastes when he and Madam Pomfrey get back.”
His black, disheveled hair, like a cat's fur, stood up, responding to the goosebumps that ran over her skin. Last time, when Harry was lying down after another curse from someone from Hufflepuff's senior year, the witch explained very clearly that the guy was not allowed to go to the infirmary: If he gets caught again, he will inform Mungo. Potter only groaned in protest, pulling his head back to his shoulder when Malfoy touched the last blow he received.
“Don't go to Pomfrey, Draco.”
Malfoy sighed. Counted to ten. As calmly as possible, he gave out:
“Listen, a hereditary Gryffindor, I don't splice bones with the power of thought and I can't blow away bruises.”
“It's strange, you're a magician”
Harry Potter had an answer anyway. It's already spinning in the pan of its own emotions and states, it turns out — everything is fine again, jokes again. Hopeless.
“Shut up, Potter.”
The Gryffindor laughed hoarsely. Perhaps Draco was a little jealous of that.
***
Why did you remember this particular thing?
Harry was shaking in the compartment of the train leading him into the new academic year, the sixth year. Neville was sitting next to him, across from Luna. Both were silent: Longbottom was reading a book on herbology that his grandmother had given him, Lovegood was reading his father's newspaper upside down. Potter didn't join in the conversation either, thoughtlessly looking out the window at the fields passing by in a blur. Hermione was not with them: she hugged each of them in turn on the platform and galloped off to the prefects' carriage, cursing with Ron along the way. It's a pity, Granger would have forced him to banish the entire DADA program for all the years — not that there were many good years for DADA — and potions, since the stubborn Potter no longer agreed to appear in the infirmary, bypassing it. What did it take for them to persuade Pomfrey not to inform on Mungo? Harry smiled. It's better not to remember.
Still, why this particular memory?
Because after that, he and Draco started silently greeting each other with a nod in the hallways and in class? Because the Malfoy-Zabini-Nott-Parkinson company pulled Potter's battered ass out of the fight — beatings several more times after that, rather? Because Harry was returning to his private Hogwarts hell, to which he joyfully and naively escaped from the Dursleys at eleven? Or was it because he could now be called the boy-who-survived-a-year-of-violence? Maybe all at once.
The fifth year for Harry Potter became a course of fear. He had never been so afraid in his life. The vaunted Gryffindor "Spit on everyone, I fuck through walls" no longer worked. Whispers behind your back, fists in the corners, curses in the back, from those who are more noble, immediately to your face; "killer, creature, psycho, new Dark Lord" — nicknames; "Harry, you need to go to Madam Pomfrey" — motto; "you killed Cedric" — truth; sarcasm — shell. If you remember, you'll commit suicide. But here he is, Potter. He's on his way back. He goes to nicknames, motto, truth, sarcasm. It is overgrown with layers of cracked armor. Mentally preparing.
“Harry, we'll be there soon. We need to change clothes.”
There is no time to prepare.
“Thank you, Nev. Luna?”
The girl nodded, putting away the newspaper. She got up and opened the compartment door.
“Your brains are shaking, Harry.”
"It's okay, Luna, thanks, I'll calm them down," a wry smile.
Lovegood doesn't believe it.
Well, Hogwarts, meet him again! Harry Potter is still alive!