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Chapter Text

Year One

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Harry, however, didn’t care too much about that nonsense. He had never been normal and he certainly wasn’t about to start now.

.

It began, as too many stories do, with hateful words and cruel actions. He was ridiculed, cast aside, dismissed as the worthless freak, as if that made him less than human. Strange things had a habit of occurring whenever he was feeling particularly angry or sad, and children often had words that bit deeper than any adult’s could.

He had tried to pretend at normalcy. He had tried to push and push down the feelings of something inside him, something trying to come out to play. It didn’t work all that well. He wasn’t all that surprised, anyway.

So no, Harry was not normal.

He let their words and behaviour be and pretended that it didn't hurt. He wouldn't let it hurt. 

.

He loved his hair.

It always came back. However many times his aunt had attempted to shear it off, more crooked and with more blood as time wore on, his hair would grow back overnight. Every time, without fail.

Harry really loved his hair. 

It was untameable. 

.

Others laughed at his scar, but if he was honest with himself, as he made a point to be, he was rather fond of the slightly-raised lightning bolt. It hurt sometimes, late at night as he lay in his cupboard with the spiders and the mice, but he whispered soft words as a comfort to himself until the pain receded.

Most of the special things in his life came with pain anyway. Harry didn’t mind so much anymore.

Besides, he could take that kind of pain. He had plenty of practice. 

. 

Head down, face hidden, not out of shame but out of self-preservation. 

If they didn't see him, then there was nothing to tame, yes? 

.

Harry, for all the things he’d discovered about himself, hadn't known he could talk to snakes. 

He could make things move without touching them. He could heat his cupboard with a thought. He could make his cuts and bruises heal far faster than they were supposed to and his stomach hurt less than it should. Occasionally he could even make music out of air, soft notes and faint melodies floating through the wind that curled around him as he worked.

And now he could shift his thinking and his throat and speak in the hissing-language, but quietly, because he knew better than to let Dudley hear.

He could make glass vanish too.

.

Then the letters came.

Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He’d plucked one out of the air while his uncle was gathering the ones on the ground. His uncle’s face was red and his aunt was shaking. Harry hid it under his shirt, which was big enough for the bulge not to show, and read it as he holed up in his cupboard for the night.

Apparently, if he asked nicely enough with the strange force that laid within him, he could make his finger softly glow as a light to read by.

Hogwarts. What a strange name.

It sounded equal parts ridiculous and perfect. Harry decided on the latter.

.

It was never silent in his cupboard.

He could hear Dudley in the room above him, his aunt and uncle as they shifted around, seemingly never satisfied with where they were. He was good at sleeping through the creaking of the house and the cold of the cupboard and the hunger of his stomach.

Thankfully, the spiders and mice stayed away when he asked. He might have been the first to say ‘please’.

.

His uncle still didn’t know that he’d found a letter, so Harry, avoiding the argument and the inevitable beating that would come after, followed them to that miserable little shack in the middle of the sea. Then, as he settled on the floor, something hit the door.

BOOM.

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Uncle had a rifle. The strange man had an umbrella.

Harry felt something coming off the man, something that was similar yet foreign at the same time, and he didn’t doubt for a second that if it came down to it, the man would win. 

It was a fascinating feeling and Harry wanted more. 

.

“Harry — yer a wizard.”

Harry felt something inside of him twist. It was brilliant, the idea that he could do magic, that he would finally be where he belonged, that he would finally have people like him, as he'd always really wanted... it was like a breath of fresh air in a world otherwise dead. But it still struck a little wrong. A feeling more than a voice, made more of instinct than words, tickled at the back of his mind. 

After all, the strange man looked expectant as he watched Harry's face. Like he had just revealed some great secret, or pulled back the bushes surrounding a spring of forbidden knowledge. But Harry wasn't surprised, not really, because how could a child not notice that thing inside him? How could they remain oblivious to the force that would respond to their call, happily, eager to agree in exchange for a 'please'?

Unless the singular act of noticing was Harry's doing. 

There were questions building up in his mind, resting somewhere behind his eyes and putting an odd sort of strain on his vision. If this was all the wizarding world had to offer, strange men and pink umbrellas and mutilated pastries, then Harry might just have to do what he'd been doing for the past decade. Head down, face hidden, because if they couldn't see him then they wouldn't bother at all. 

"I'm a what?" he asked loudly, predictably, plastering a bewildered look on his face. If he was going to downplay his abilities, he had to do it properly. 

Funny, and he was so happy to finally belong. 

But he refused to be a target. 

Harry learned. 

.

Of course, after he'd already committed to the path of acting-like-less-than-he-was, Harry discovered that really, he didn't have a choice in the matter to begin with.

Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived. He was only half-surprised.

Harry endured the muttering along with the disbelieving looks and awed glances. He was used to being not normal, but he wasn’t used to standing out in the way that he did now. Harry liked blending in. He was good at blending in. He liked learning in the background, unnoticed and uninterrupted. 

Harry wasn't ashamed to admit that maybe, sometimes, it was nice to be seen. The background could, admittedly, be lonely. Safe, but lonely. 

But they didn't see Harry. They saw their Saviour. 

They didn't see him. 

The looks of awe weren't worth the price. 

.

Why, Harry couldn't help but think, if my parents were magic, and children with parents with magic live around magic...

Why was I left to muggles? 

It was a thought that took seed, watered with every tinkling laugh of wizard-children. 

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Enter, stranger, but take heed

Harry read slowly, carefully, taking in and remembering every word, because the goblin sneering at the door left an impression that he'd rather not trifle with.

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

He thought — this, the goblin's countenance — this was more than a simple warning, because the wording, the aura, something about it screamed a sort of personal vengeance. He'd have to look into goblins and their history, Harry noted absentmindedly, but the one at the door was already eyeing him suspiciously. Time to move on. 

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

Beware indeed, Harry thought wryly. 

.

He’d never had money before, but the novelty was quickly overshadowed by “the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

Harry wouldn't typically call himself a cynic. As a general rule, he tried not to judge people too soon after meeting them, and certainly never before. He knew that people rarely deserved the benefit of the doubt, but he preferred to give it anyway. 

Nonetheless, he found that he already had a few things to say about this ‘Dumbledore’ character.

Was the Headmaster an idiot, or did he just think that Harry was one?

But no. Prejudgements were unbecoming, and Harry preferred to be better than that. 

.

Listening to Hagrid speak was an experience in of itself. Harry had to completely reconsider everything he had previously thought about himself. It seemed that the process might be a recurring theme in the wizarding world.

As Harry's chest tightened further and further, he thought, he just might be a cynic after all. 

.

Vault six hundred and eighty-seven. Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon. Twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle.

“One speed only,” said Griphook, and Harry felt his the corner of his lip twitch into what wanted to be a smile. It was the closest he had gotten in a week. 

It felt nice.

.

Harry had originally thought he was good at reading people. This, it seemed, would have to be re-evaluated. Either Harry himself was exceptional, or everyone else was painfully obvious, or this world as a whole was somehow leagues ahead of him and only playing to his ignorance. His chest tightened just a bit more every time he thought he saw a sign of the former. His face was hidden but his eyes remained watching. 

Just once, he'd wanted to fit in. 

“— another young man being fitted up just now, in fact,” Madam Malkin said, and something similar to disapproval flashed across her face. Harry had a feeling it wasn’t pointed toward him as he approached the only other boy in the room.

“Hello,” said the boy. He was holding his arms stiffly beside him and his posture was rigidly straight. “Hogwarts, too?”

Harry took a moment to look at him; the black of the boy’s robes made a too-harsh contrast against his skin. His white-blond hair was slicked back with far too much hair product, to the point where it almost looked painful, and his nose was stuck just a bit pompously in the air. The boy's discomfort felt almost palpable, though Harry wasn’t sure he'd even noticed. So Harry simply nodded, letting the boy fill up the silence and watching as he had to stop himself from shifting.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands. Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Harry very briefly considered telling the boy that he was trying too hard, but he never paused to breathe, so Harry kept quiet. 

“— until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family has been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Harry hummed noncommittally. The boy was under familial pressure, then, to be in this Slytherin group, whatever that was. His father undoubtedly held influence from the way he was mentioned. The boy had money and was in the upper tiers of society. Given what Hagrid had said, the boy's father was, quite possibly, on the darker side of the law. 

Harry wasn’t one to make judgments, but he was also smart enough to keep track of potential allies. 

Enemies too, of course. 

This boy was of equal potential for either, perhaps. 

.

Ollivander’s eyes saw too much. Or maybe just enough; Harry couldn’t quite decide. The concentrated magic in the wand shop was making his head spin. It wasn't the same as what lived within him, and it was overwhelming, the bombardment of otherness. 

Holly, phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and supple.

Terrible things, but great, said Ollivander, and Harry sighed softly. 

Harry wouldn't tell others that part. He didn't want a legacy to live up to, twice-connected to a Dark Lord. 

.

He almost felt guilty for denying Hagrid, but he didn’t exactly have the space or need for an owl. Hagrid scoffed at the idea of a cat, so they left the pet shop empty-handed. Harry didn't mind; the snakes were getting awfully chatty, and they were rather hard to ignore once they got started. They wanted mice and cleaner glass. Much beyond that stretched their limited vocabulary. 

Harry knew because he had crept into a corner, hiding in the shadows like they were a part of him, and whispered; "What are your names?" he had asked, along with "where are you from?" and "do you have family?" and every question that he had. 

"Mice?" They had replied, "sticky cave? More mice?" 

And then Hagrid was calling his name, so Harry slipped out of the shadows and pretended like nothing had occurred. In a way it hadn't. Regardless, he had a feeling that talking to snakes, an animal associated with sin and bad, was a part of him also not normal in this strange new world of magic. 

.

Thankfully, his remaining week at the Dursleys' went quickly. He didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother him. Harry only hoped it would last. 

If it didn't — well.

Now Harry knew what to call his magic, and he knew that they were unequivocally terrified of the subject, and he had no qualms about using their fear against them. 

It would be what it would be. Harry didn't bother to deny his curiosity, because he had discovered a gap in his knowledge, and he wanted to know. 

.

And then it was the first, and the beginning of what Harry hoped beyond belief would become a new era.

Nine-and-three-quarters was a challenge to find, but not impossible. Harry noted the family of redheads, dressed oddly and gesturing animatedly, before realising he had very little choice.

"Hello," said Harry, giving the eldest woman a small smile. "Sorry for bothering you — could you help me find my platform?"

The woman's eyes strayed to his forehead. "Of course, dear," she said, smiling back. It was a kind smile, welcoming, but her eyes were still trained on his scar.

.

Fred and George were his favorite.

He didn’t know how their mother couldn’t tell them apart. They felt distinctly different, the feeling of other that Harry had learned to identify after his wizard-watching. Feeling himself was still easier than reaching out, but he was slowly getting better, though he was still recovering from the backlash of the wand shop. 

The red-headed family was almost a breath of fresh air. 

Mrs. Weasley was overwhelming. Ron was nervous. Ginny was giddy. Percy needed a few deep-breathing exercises. But the twins, they were clever and quick-witted, with a sort of sharpness in their demeanor that Harry could appreciate. 

Gred and Forge were just the right type of loud.

.

He sat with Ron anyway. 

The boy was quiet, if anything. 

.

Hermione was going to be in Gryffindor.

Harry had bought several books and soaked in every bit of information he could, in the week before school, curled on the old bed in Dudley's second bedroom. According to everything he'd read, Hermione would most likely fit best in Ravenclaw. She was practically the textbook definition of a Ravenclaw. 

But he could feel the frantic, dancing energy around her. Hermione most likely wouldn’t find balance for years to come.

She was going to be in Gryffindor, because that was how children worked. 

Harry wondered what he was like. 

.

The rat felt off, Harry noticed. 

Scabbers. Something about Ron's rat was wrong, and it wasn't the creature's refusal to turn yellow. Harry filed the information away for later use; he trusted the feeling inside him, the one that let him read others, and it had never let him down before. 

The not-knowing bothered Harry. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The knowledge was right there, locked in his brain in a place that he couldn't quite reach. 

For some reason, the image of an old woman and a cat flashed in his mind.

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Ron was worried that they would have to fight a troll. Harry suppressed a sigh. 

.

“The… wrong sort,” Draco Malfoy sneered.

Harry debated. He didn’t particularly like Ron and friendship with Draco would most likely prove more beneficial in the long run. Draco's father had connections. Harry could tell by the way the other boy had introduced himself, even if it was mostly posturing. 

But Draco was hated by a majority of the students he'd met thus far, it would seem, and Slytherin by even more so, so Harry inwardly winced and I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.

If he ever met Draco’s father, he would have to make a good impression. Thankfully, children tended to be much quicker to forgive and forget. 

Still — the hurt look on Draco's face almost made Harry reconsider. 

"It was nice to meet you," Harry said, his kindness genuine. Draco himself wasn't bad. He just wasn't useful. 

.

“Ah, you’re a tricky one, aren’t you?"  The Sorting Hat whispered into his mind.

Hermione had gone into Gryffindor, Draco into Slytherin. He had a choice to make.

“You’d do well in Slytherin,”  the Hat suggested.

“Slytherin would hold me back,”  Harry thought. “I would go farther in another House, one that played to my strengths and minimized my weaknesses. The spotlight would be stifling. I’d rather a place where expectations would do good rather than harm.”

The Hat sounded almost amused. “What would you choose, then? ”

“Ravenclaw,”  Harry said. “Access to information and bias that allows me to be free with my interests and unquestioned in my motives. Or at least, that's what I've gathered so far.”

“That’s an awfully Slytherin mindset of yours.”

“Yes,”  Harry admitted. “But you don’t place students in Houses simply for their traits, do you? Hermione Granger, by all accounts, should be in Ravenclaw, but she chose Gryffindor for who she wanted to be, didn't she?"

“You can’t choose your House.”

“Can’t you?”

And so the Hat called out his House, and Harry went to sit with the Claws.

.

Harry was given his own dorm room. Not enough people, the Prefect had said with a small shrug. The room wasn’t big, exactly, but it was several times larger than Harry’s cupboard and had its own window and small alcove. 

Harry loved it, from the dark mahogany floors to the pale blue walls, off-white drapes across the window and blankets piled on the bed. 

It was his. 

.

Professor Flitwick must have known his parents.

Objectively, Harry was horrendous at making the small feather float. It was ironic, he thought, because he was talented in ways that others were not, but utterly lost when it came to what was a simple charm for most. His pronunciation came out stilted and awkward, his wand movements jerky and forced. Flitwick still beamed in his direction.

Hermione Granger was rather impressive, even as she lectured Ron Weasley. Swish and flick, she said. Harry tried to follow along. The feather twitched.

It was another mark of how different he was, not normal even among magic-users. Harry had no doubt that he could make the feather soar, but the wand confused him. It centered his magic, focusing it to such a thin point that it was harder to manipulate.

Harry had always done spells by politely asking the force inside him to lend him power, to help him pull the strings of reality for just a short moment. It wasn’t in him to manhandle a spell into being. His magic liked to help, anyway; it was always rather responsive, spreading through his body before he had even fully formed the request.

But with a wand, he had to direct. Command. There was no softly worded question or guiding with a gentle hand. No, the magic had to obey.

His magic didn't like that so much, and besides, it didn’t make sense to him. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t make himself shove the power into the small stick of wood. He didn’t want his magic confined to a certain set of boundaries. 

Harry hated confinement and his magic was a part of him. It was only logical that his magic felt the same. 

But this was school and he didn't have a choice, so he whispered a sorry and softly pushed his magic from his fingers and into his wand, half-heartedly muttering the incantation while telling the force, please, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to constrain you like this, forced into this—what is it, dead wood?—, but please can you lift this feather?

The feather floated. Harry smiled; a small, wistful thing, a twitch of the mouth coupled with bittersweet eyes. 

.

He stayed away from the Restricted Section.

Harry was obviously curious, as he was with the vast majority of things in life, but he didn’t want to raise questions about himself so early in the year. It didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted.

He resolved to sneak in at some point, if only to peruse the shelves and see what exactly got itself listed as restricted.

Instead, he focused on his newest fascination: runes. The specialized class wasn’t available for first-years, but he had seen a textbook from one of his fellow Housemates and found himself intrigued. And it wasn't restricted, even with the dangers he was discovering, simply because students didn't care enough to bother. 

Runes, unlike spells, were suggestions. They could mean many different things, had an almost ludicrous number of different interpretations, and required precision in every line. A mistake made something new entirely.

Runes channeled power in a way more all-encompassing than either wand or wizard. Runes created and strengthened wards, they siphoned strength, they could act as a storage unit for excess magic or discouragement for mal-intended spells. They could be modified to fit their purpose or created to best suit a new one.

Most of all, they were not necessarily a structure. Runes were more of a very strong, very powerful suggestion.

Harry could very much support that. 

.

Professor Snape, like Professor Flitwick, must have known his parents. 

Harry had never before had a legacy. He’d never had someone to look or live up to. That had completely changed, and he found that he did not appreciate it. 

Professor Snape held a permanent sneer in his direction. It was almost impressive, if Harry was being honest, that one person could hold so much animosity for a stranger.

“Harry Potter, our new — celebrity.”

Yes, definitely impressive, Harry decided.

“Tell me,” Professor Snape said, “what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

He could tell that the professor’s question was an effort to humiliate, considering that no first-year student would read the entire text before the first class had even begun. He debated not answering, but he was in the House of the Clever, and he had to prove that he could succeed here. Even if he was only proving it to himself. There was no need to bury his head underground in an effort to keep himself unnoticed.

Hermione’s hand shot up. (Perhaps Harry had been wrong, and there was one first-year student that had read the entire text before the first class had even begun.) The professor ignored the girl altogether, his face twisting more when Harry didn’t answer. “Nothing for me, Potter?”

Harry furrowed his brow, thinking. Asphodel? Wormwood? He hadn't memorized the specific ingredients to each potion, because really, that would be asinine, but he knew a bit about the plants and animals involved. His first thought was some sort of cleansing solution, but that was far too mundane for a man like Professor Snape, and the man has said powdered, not sliced, which made a dramatic difference. 

“Some sort of very strong sedative, I’d imagine,” Harry said, “I don’t know enough about the specific names, but based on those properties… an incredibly potent draught.”

He was right. He could tell by the increasingly-displeased look on the professor’s face.

“Where could I find a bezoar?” Professor Snape shot back, ever the picture of professionalism.

Yes, Harry had read something about this one, around the time he was looking into how to identify more dangerous magical substances. Just in case, of course.

“The stomach of a goat, Sir.”

Professor Snape’s scowl grew deeper.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes and Harry was already exhausted. Pity, he’d been looking forward to Potions. Maybe he could self-study?

“What’s the difference between —”

Yes, it would seem he was on his own for this class.

.

To be fair, Harry found himself on his own most times.

Days passed relatively quickly. He ate by himself, marveling at the amount of food available to begin with, bringing his quill with him but leaving his books in his room. He’d hate to get food on them, after all, but he could spare pieces of parchment if it meant being able to write legibly.

It was difficult. Who had come up with the idea of writing with a giant feather?  Honestly. 

.

He explored the castle between classes.

He made sure to stay in his room during the night because, despite his curiosity, he didn’t want to be found by the infamous Mr. Filch. Harry was sure the man wasn’t as bad as the rumors claimed, but he wasn't incredibly eager to test that theory. Optimism, he'd found, was often an unnecessary risk. 

Besides, extra attention and all that. He'd really rather not. 

.

Harry knew he was bothering Madam Hooch. He didn’t much care.

The other students stood by their brooms, hands out, up, up, UP.

“But are the brooms magic?” He asked her, quietly as not to draw too much attention, because Merlin forbid the books in the library tell them something so simple. He wanted to know for the sake of knowing, which he perhaps was rare in of itself.

“They’re charmed, Mr. Potter,” Madam Hooch said. “It’s a very complicated process.”

“Why brooms?” He asked, unable to help himself, because 'It's complicated' should never count as a proper answer to any question. “They don’t look very comfortable, and while there might be some level of aerodynamics involved, it would make sense to enchant something that would be easier to hold on to —”

She gave him an unreadable look. He pulled back his curiosity and held his hand above his given broom, ratty and chipped and second-hand. He waited until she had walked away to softly ask, “Up?”, and the broom lazily drifted into his hand. 

It was for the aesthetic of traditionality. Like the quills and parchment. Or the lack of lightbulbs and plastic shampoo bottles. Without a better explanation on hand, that was what Harry had decided. 

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Draco had stolen Neville’s Remembrall.

Harry found himself uncommonly irritated. Neville wasn’t the best in class, that much was already obvious, but Harry wasn’t one to sit back while someone was in pain for pain's sake. He walked over, refusing to doubt himself or think about how much attention this would likely bring, instead stepping closer and closer until he was invading Draco’s space in a very personal way.

“Draco,” Harry said softly, iron in his words and darkness in his bones, because his cupboard stayed under his skin and the twisted dark with it. The blond boy shivered. “You are the Malfoy Heir. Act the part.”

The blond, for reasons not quite known to Harry, dropped the Remembrall into Neville’s open hand.

Not without a sneer, of course, but Harry took it as a win. 

Even if he had used his dark to get it. It was such a small hint that it barely counted, anyway. 

.

Harry liked Professor McGonagall.

There was only one problem. Harry had felt the sort of magic around her, just once before, when he was new to this world and what it entailed.

Professor McGonagall was also a cat, which meant Scabbers must have also been a man.

He had no doubt that Ron didn’t know.

The thought was — quite uncomfortable. 

.

True to his nature, Harry ended up in the library. It was official; he was going to learn what that was and how to do it. Becoming an animal... that could give him a huge advantage. Over everything. 

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Professor Quirrell gave him a sick feeling. Harry didn’t know why; he seemed like a perfectly nice man. But Harry knew better than to ignore what his magic whispered into his ear, especially when his magic was saying wrong, stay away, wrongwrongwrong.

Harry was careful to be very quiet in that class. Disappointing, because it might have otherwise been his favorite. 

Despite his stutter, Quirrell was a half-decent professor. 

Wrong, claimed his magic, and Harry listened. 

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Animagi. He had a new goal, but the process was long and difficult, so he decided to leave it until summer. It wasn't like he'd be doing anything else. 

.

A month into the term, Harry had the belated, unsettling realisation that he was living in a castle.

The ghosts were surreal, sure, and talking paintings were still a bit disconcerting. But now, and Harry really didn't know why he was even still surprised, he had found a secret passage.

.

He was in the library every day. Pince barely spared him a second glance. 

It was there, buried in a book about the Founders looking for information about secret passages, that he found an interesting annotation. Apparently, his hissing-language wasn't unique, and it had a name: Parseltongue. 

Harry all but drowned himself in his family history, because it would be equal parts fascinating and terrifying if he was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself.

(He wasn’t. Harry wasn’t too disappointed, but he was curious, because he had to have gotten the ability from somewhere.

So he looked further.)

.

Harry liked flying. He didn't like much the class, but he loved the act itself. People looked small from up high, when the wind was screaming in his ears and dancing on his skin.

He could make the music appear there, too, and it was beautiful; he never showed anyone. He didn’t have anyone to show, but for the first time, that wasn’t the problem.

Harry had looked it up. Making music from air simply wasn’t something that magic-users did.

Absently, he wondered if anyone else could hear it at all.

.

Update: Yes. Mrs. Norris could.

She hated it. 

Harry found this disproportionately amusing. 

.

Professor Flitwick must have really loved his parents, because Harry was one of the worst students in Charms and Flitwick still smiled proudly. 

Lumos was a relatively simple spell. He had done it a million times. He still could; Harry had checked to make sure curled under his blankets in his dorms, the soft light he had so often summoned glowing beside him. If he asked, it would stay on the tip of his finger, but he preferred to have it float at his side.

The one he brought to the end of his wand sputtered, flashing too brightly.

He hated his wand, and it surprisingly had nothing to do with its brother owner. 

Briefly, Harry considered going outside and finding a normal stick and keeping everything wandless after all. 

But that would be...

.

Harry went somewhat unnoticed in Potions.

They weren’t allowed to use magic, and for that, he was glad, because every small mistake would cause a very large explosion, and when wands were involved, he made an embarrassing number of small mistakes. He'd yet to go to the Hospital Wing and Harry would much prefer to keep it that way. 

Professor Snape ignored him for the most part. Scathing comments and burning looks were sent his way every few minutes, but that didn’t really count. 

Harry had a decade of experience behind him.

.

Harry finally went outside and found a normal stick.

He apologized to the tree that he stole it from, because that's what it was, stealing, and then he shaved it down, polished it with half a thought, and pored over the small piece of wood until it looked identical to his magical wand. 

He loved his new stick. His magic kept the wood alive, making its way through the stolen sprig far happier than it had ever been with the phoenix feather.

Harry kept his real wand close by, just in case.

.

His love for Runes was slowly put on hold for Theory.

At first he was just curious, as with everything, because his particular brand of magic didn’t seem to fit anyone else’s. It took him four days and thirteen books to reach a conclusion: Harry simply had a different perspective from the rest of the wizarding world.

At least, the rest of the wizarding world that the students at Hogwarts were allowed to study. Harry wasn’t blind and he certainly wasn't stupid. He knew there was more. He knew their provided material was censored. Probably quite heavily, by the looks of it, but he was good at taking bits and pieces and snips and abstract thoughts and bringing them together.

There was one thing that stood out to him in his hours of studying.

‘Magic’ had a lot of rules.

Perhaps that was where he and the rest differed. Harry knew that where there were rules, there were limits; while often a good thing, providing structures and standards, rules were also why wizard needed to wave wands and recite words and learn what was impossible.

He’d always hated the word ‘impossible’, but he didn’t know enough to push the limits more than he had already.

Tried-and-true had its value. Harry was only eleven. It was no time to start reshaping the world. That would have to wait a couple years. 

.

He kept using his fake wand, though. 

Professor Flitwick finally had a reason to be happy with him in Charms. 

.

Harry woke early, bathed, dressed, and made his way to the Hall before the rest of his Housemates. Professor Snape was there most days, but Harry didn’t pay much attention to him.

He had never really had access to fresh food at the Dursleys', and choice was a foreign concept, so he allowed himself to eat only fruit and vegetables. The meat here was too greasy, and it reminded him of hot oil and cast iron pans. 

Others looked at him oddly, the lone boy avoiding meat and sweets and drowning himself in work.

But he was a Ravenclaw, so it was okay. They were strange anyway.

.

It came to him, one night as he laid in the dark and stared at the sky, that people might think he was arrogant or stuck-up because of his withdrawn nature.

A laugh bubbled up.

Harry was glad he chose Ravenclaw. He might have had friends in the other Houses, but it would be so much more tedious.

.

Hermione Granger was interesting.

She had argued with the Sorting Hat just as he did, for the opposite reasons. She wanted to be seen, heard, recognized.

She wanted it so badly that she kept screwing it up.

Harry almost felt sorry for her.

Almost, but not quite.

She should have been smarter. 

Some things would never be learned through books; it took years of hearing harsh words from the mouths and minds of children. 

.

He realized something, as every morning he watched the Gryffindor table part for Hermione, that no one was willing to be directly beside her. She always sat in the middle, unconsciously wanting to be included.

Harry sat at the end of the table, where everyone could ignore him and no one had to move.

But Hermione didn’t seem to realize that her efforts were the very thing driving others away.

Harry already didn’t talk much in class, but he began to write a little less on his essays.

.

“Troll! Troll in the Dungeons!”

Harry debated. He had read about trolls, of course, but to see a live one would be a different sort of knowledge altogether, and how fascinating was that? He'd seen goblins and ghosts, but no other magical creature.

But no, he thought, the repercussions weren’t worth the attention it would bring. So the Boy Who Lived simply sighed and dutifully followed his Housemates to his common room.

.

Within the hour, the news came out: Ronald Weasley and Neville Longbottom had heroically run to warn Hermione Granger of the danger and the three first-years managed to defeat the troll.

It would be the talk of the school for a while. 

Their eyes were not on Harry, and he was free to walk the shadows. It made it easier to ignore the swirling under his skin. 

.

Harry spent the majority of his free time in the library. 

He read too fast, he was discovering. The library was large, but only held so many books about any given subject. With his actual schoolwork on the backburner and his curiosities brought to the front, he methodically made his way through the vast aisles.

It was then that he discovered the idea of magic sensitivity.

It was one of the first concrete answers he’d found in a while. This was why he could sense others. This was why he could sense himself, too.

After that, Harry practiced. A lot. He didn’t have much to do, anyway, because staying average was rather easy. So he continued wandering the halls and stumbling his way through understanding his instincts.

The books didn’t have specifics. They didn’t have specifics on most things, actually, which could be rather irritating. He had to teach himself best he could, which admittedly wasn’t well, but it wasn’t as if Harry could exactly ask anyone.

The most interesting thing he discovered on his wanderings, when one of the staircases moved beneath him, was that the castle was inundated with magic. He hadn’t noticed before because it was so strong, but Hogwarts was positively humming.

It helped, a lot, when Professor Snape was berating him for one thing or another, to look solemn and nod and listen to the castle around him instead of the professor’s words.

Snape never seemed to notice. 

.

Talking to oneself is the first sign of insanity, they say, but he wasn’t talking to himself at all.

He was talking to Hogwarts.

The castle never replied in words, exactly, but the magic pulsed around him almost like a living thing.

He had never felt quite so safe or comforted than during those late nights, looking out of his window and whispering his thoughts to the school.

Maybe he was going insane, but Harry could swear that Hogwarts’ magic got just a bit lighter whenever he let his music swirl around him.

.

Hogwarts led him to the Wish Room.

Harry didn’t know what it was really called, but he understood the purpose of the room itself, so he made do.

The Wish Room had books left behind, those that were most likely long forgotten. Harry asked; Hogwarts didn’t mind him reading them, but it didn’t want him to take the books out of the room.

It was knowledge for the wanderers. Harry understood.

.

Until the day that he understood too much.

One moment in his life, almost forgotten but always there. 

The darkness that lived under his skin. 

.

Half of him wished he had never found the Wish Room. That he had never picked up those books and dug into their contents with his usual hunger, devouring their words, a being too-long starved.

.

But now he understood.

Almost all of it, it seemed. Not quite, but almost.

.

Harry Potter had almost become an Obscurial.

He could remember that day, actually, when the darkness within him threatened to consume his being from the inside out and rip his skin and tear his mind and feed on his bones and destroy who he was. When he had almost let it.

He had dropped a vase, an ugly, floral-printed thing. Harry could still feel the drop in his gut, the feeling that no, god, she’s going to kill me.

The funny thing was, the vase didn’t even shatter. He had caught it. He was proud.

He was so incredibly proud.

And Dudley had seen the vase fall, and Harry’s catch, and it would have been fine if only not for the fact that Harry didn’t catch it with his hands but his magic.

He had never seen so much blood more than he did that night.

Harry had crawled into his cabinet, bones cracked and wrongly-healed, hunger too painful for his magic to dull, cold too deep inside himself for his light to reach.

He had almost died that night. And every night the week after, when he was blessedly ignored and left on his own to recover.

His hatred had almost eaten him alive. He had almost been happy to let it.

Harry was four.

And then his music came, the simple melody curling through the air and around his soul and lifting him up and up until he was no longer drowning in his darkness. It was there, still and waiting under his skin, but it was quiet.

Harry had almost become an Obscurial.

In that moment, sitting in the Wish Room and holding back tears, Harry made himself a promise.

If he ever found out who forced him into the Dursleys' care, instead of some other proper wizarding house, like proper wizarding children, Harry would kill them.

How much that person was responsible for, well.

That would determine how long their death would take.

.

(Could he kill? Shadows roiled under his skin, but could he —)

.

Harry stayed at school for Christmas.

Professor Flitwick gave him a pitying look, which Harry promptly ignored. His Head of House had no say in his decision.

He went through the same routine as always: shower, breakfast, library, lunch, library, dinner, library, bed. It was a habit at that point, a ritual in which he could find comfort.

Harry received a single gift on Christmas day. It was the first gift he could remember receiving.

And now, he could wander at night.

.

The Invisibility Cloak, as he’d learned it was called, starred in one very famous children’s tale.

But in every tale there was some truth. Harry researched deeper.

.

The Three Brothers. The Deathly Hallows.

It all came back to the Peverells.

The Stone, the Cloak, the Wand.

Maybe they didn’t exist. But Harry, like always, was curious.

.

One day, on a leap of most likely faulty logic, Harry saw Dumbledore’s wand held loosely in the old man’s hand and something in his mind clicked.

The mysterious person who had given him the cloak. A wand that looked awfully familiar to a certain picture in a certain book.

Harry hoped more than anything that he was wrong.

.

Dumbledore and Grindewald, 1945.

Did every wizard already know this? Was the connection common sense, or did they simply not believe in the Elder Wand?

.

The night before Christmas break ended, Harry found a large, covered mirror in an abandoned room. The inscription looked like gibberish.

erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

Harry paused, avoiding looking in the mirror. He didn’t recognize the language, but he certainly didn’t want to find himself trapped in some sort of cursed object.

The most common language for wizards was Latin. This didn’t even have Latin roots, so either it was completely foreign, despite being in the English alphabet, or it was in code.

Wait, Harry thought. That one painter, da Vinci. He wrote backwards in a script you could only read in a mirror.

“I show not your face but your heart’s desire,”  Harry mumbled, thanking Merlin for muggle school.

He considered not looking into the glass. Just walking away, avoiding the temptation.

But both fortunately and unfortunately for Harry, he prided himself in finding answers regardless of his personal opinion of whatever he’d find.

He moved forward slowly, coming into view of the mirror, whose image shimmered and shifted slightly. He could almost see the magic around it, subtly probing into his head and swirling around the mirror.

An older version of himself was staring contentedly off to the side, lazily curled up with another man and a thick book. The man was unidentifiable, less of a stranger and more of a person that had yet to be identified. The scene looked warm and comfortable, his older self’s body and the other’s fitting perfectly together as he rested in the man’s arms.

It was almost fitting, really, that his greatest desire would be faceless. He didn’t know anyone well enough to crave.

Harry turned and left with a heavy heart. It wouldn’t do to linger.

.

He found himself on the Astronomy tower, high above everything but the stars in the sky. Harry allowed himself a tear, surrounded by stone walls where no one could see. The cool night air burned in his lungs, but he kept breathing, in and out, over and over, until his head felt clear and his heart was light enough to move. 

.

Harry spent the night in the Wish Room. Its magic unfurled around him like a friend’s, acknowledging his presence and lending its strength. A fireplace appeared in the corner, already lit, the heat of the flames slowly warming the air.

Harry smiled and held his blanket close, a mug of warm tea in his hands, and curled into a ball beside the crackling warmth. The Wish Room hummed happily around him.

If anything, magic would always be there.

.

The holidays ended. They learned Alohomora, the Unlocking Charm, and Harry was remarkably proficient for the first time.

His fake wand was paying off.

As Professor Flitwick beamed down on him, he could have sworn that he felt Hogwarts giggle.

.

Professor Quirrell was making him increasingly nervous. Something was changing. The murmurs of wrongwrongwrong had gotten louder and more insistent.

Harry couldn’t focus. Or rather, he couldn’t focus on anything but the man himself.

There was something about seeing his back to Harry that made Harry want to vomit.

.

He loved the invisibility cloak, but he officially hated what he found while wandering at night.

There was a three-headed dog on the ‘forbidden’ third-floor.

Three. Heads.

Harry hated magic sometimes.

.

He wasn’t paying attention to Professor Snape.

Instead, Harry was listening to the little voice in the back of his mind that had gotten louder as the days wore on.

The Potions Master had a limp. It was subtle, but Harry had hidden enough injuries of his own to know what suppressed pain looked like.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen. Trolls. The wrongness around Professor Quirrell.

Who gave a child an Invisibility Cloak when danger sat so thick in the air? 

His mind wouldn’t let go of the thoughts.

.

There was something off about Professor Quirrell’s stutter.

He couldn’t tell what, exactly, but something.

.

Professor McGonagall asked a question, and for once Harry didn’t know the answer. Only half an ear was listening. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all connected.

.

Harry Potter wasn’t so egotistical as to think that the world revolved around him.

With that said, there were a lot of strange things happening that coincidentally coincided with him coming to Hogwarts.

As he absentmindedly perused the library, he came across his undeserved title, the one that his parents had died to give him.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He was missing something. He almost had it. 

.

Where was the Dark Lord last seen, again?

Where did Quirrell say he came from?

.

Harry didn’t often jump to conclusions, but it was all so painfully absurd that it fit together.

Nicolas Flamel. The Philosopher’s Stone and its resulting Elixir of Life. Vault seven hundred and thirteen, all that security, for only one small brown parcel. A robbery in Gringotts, everything left untouched. 

Professor Quirrell. Albania. A stutter that didn’t quite ring true. Magic that said wrongwrongwrong.

The third-floor corridor with a three-headed dog. The troll that managed to pass through Hogwarts’ wards.

It was time to revisit a certain floor.

.

Harry had never liked dogs. It probably came from memories of Marge, but with three heads snarling loudly in his face, he didn't have time to psychoanalyze. 

Thankfully, someone had irritatingly annotated one of the creature-books with the ambiguous advice ‘sing’. Harry liked humming, so on a hunch, he did that instead.

Despite his hatred for dogs, he couldn’t help but rest his hand on one of its ears as he walked past the sleeping animal.

.

Plants. Plants that were trying to tear him apart.

Harry’s mind raced.

What is a person’s first instinct? The perfect trap uses the victim’s mind against them, takes and twists their thoughts until thinking is useless and lost to panic. What is the first thing a person does when they’re scared and being held down?

They fight.

Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

.

He had to find the key.

There was a broom in the corner.

With half a thought, the broom was racing towards him, and three seconds later, the key was in his hand.

.

This was too simple.

There was no possible way the Philosopher’s Stone would be hidden behind these ‘tests’ like an obstacle course. There was something off.

Harry was terrible at chess. He made his way around the enlarged board in place of playing the game.

Because that’s what this was. A game.

.

Then he came across the Potions riddle, and a sort of fury spread throughout his body to his core as the pieces of the puzzle clicked together.

Herbology. Charms. Transfiguration. Potions.

A three-headed dog in a school full of children.

.

It really was a game.

Harry felt disgusted.

Every professor had known.

They were children.

.

As Harry swallowed the correct potion, he slipped the nettle wine into his pocket. He had a feeling he’d need to numb out whatever happened next.

.

So he was right.

Quirrell pointed him towards the mirror. “Give me the Stone.”

“I will do nothing for your Lord,” Harry said quietly. Hogwarts shimmered around him.

“The Stone.”

Harry’s voice was steel, not unlike the tone he’d taken with Draco so long ago. “I will do nothing for your Lord.”

.

The voice requested to see him. Or demanded, he should say, because nothing was really a request with this man.

The Dark Lord was weak. Deformed. He couldn’t so much as form full sentences. Harry was half-tempted to give the man the Stone anyway, just to rid him of his pitiful form, but the pathetic creature thought it could control him.

Instead, he briefly consulted with the darkness that he held inside him, requesting that it help him with the removal of a certain parasite.

The darkness readily agreed.

.

There had never before been a wizard pulled back from becoming an Obscurial. Not so late.

There was a reason for that, Harry thought, as the blackness bled from his pores and fed on the air. His Obscurus might always live inside him, guiding his hand when he meant to destroy.

A parasite to kill a parasite.

Harry smiled his first true smile of the year. The room turned black. 

Giddiness washed through him as the screaming started, and kept going.

And going.

And going.

He probably shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was, he thought absentmindedly, listening to his Obscurus rip his Professor to shreds from the inside out. But to be fair, if the Dark Lord had never killed his parents, the blackness would never have been inside him. 

What comes around goes around, Harry mused, as a heavy body fell to the floor. 

The Dark Lord undoubtedly had measures in place to come back, but never again to this body, never again to that form. The darkness had split him into pieces and burned him alive. 

Well. Harry called it 'the darkness', but really, he knew it was just him. 

.

He was in the infirmary. He wasn’t hurt, but he tolerated Madam Pomfrey’s fretting. His darkness had been sated and was satisfied to sit in the back of his mind, not forgotten but put aside for the time being.

What an adventure, my boy, Dumbledore said.

The Invisibility Cloak, given to me by your father for safekeeping, Dumbledore said.

I’m proud of you, Dumbledore said.

The power of a mother’s love, Dumbledore said.

When I chose the Dursleys… Dumbledore said.

Through the old man’s speech, watching his eyes twinkle in a way that they had no right, Harry decided definitively this time.

Him.

When I chose the Dursleys... 

He was going to kill Albus Dumbledore, and he was going to make it slow. 

.

(But if —)

Chapter Text

Year Two, Part One 

The Hag watched the boy with absentminded interest. Every corner of Diagon Alley was crawling with people — that fool Lockhart’s fault, no doubt — but the small slip of a boy wove his way through the busy street with practiced ease.

His face was hidden behind a book, but his movements were graceful and held no hesitation; his gait was slow and smooth and sure, and the crowd unconsciously parted to let him through.

There was something else about him, the Hag decided. Something that she hadn’t felt for a very, very long time, but still strong enough that she could sense it from across the alley.

The Hag had spent a lot of time around important people; powerful people with magic so strong it was suffocating. They exuded an aura of not to be trifled with, and even those who couldn’t sense it stayed far, far away.

But the worst of the worst; they felt perfectly average.

The Hag had only known a few. She’d been alive a long time, longer than most, and she could remember the young ones, before they had tainted themselves with things beyond their imaginings.

This boy felt of restraint, with his worn, baggy robes and his messy hair and his eyes that were boring into her.

The Hag didn’t respond, save for a single raised eyebrow and a pointed look at the boy’s book.

His lips quirked. She inclined her head in a show of respect; a small nod, to apologize for her scrutiny, and an acknowledgement of his wish to remain unseen.

When she looked up, the boy was gone.

The Hag smiled.

.

Borgin, who had been carefully watching the Hag from his storefront  — it was always better to keep an eye on that one — shivered.

He hadn’t seen that look on her face in fifty years.

.

Harry didn’t even bother to buy Lockhart’s books from the bookstore. At best, they were a waste of money. At worst… Harry didn’t even want to think about what this year’s Defense class would entail.

Something miserable, no doubt.

To say Flourish and Blotts was crowded would be a gross understatement. The man himself stood proudly at the center of the chaos, beaming his impressively-white teeth at the flashing cameras.

If Harry was being honest, and he usually was, he would say that he felt intimidated by their newest professor. He was charismatic to a level that would allow people to completely overlook his obvious incompetence. That, in of itself, was a feat to be admired.

But, Harry mused, that didn’t mean he couldn't dream up ways to make the irritating man suffer.

He briefly wondered if this was how Snape had expected him to act when he started Hogwarts; it would certainly make his immediate and undeserved hatred somewhat understandable.

Harry pushed quietly through the reporters, intent on finding supplementary Defense reading, and didn’t notice until a second too late that Lockhart had seen him.

“Harry Potter!” Lockhart announced loudly, and Harry barely withheld a curse. He was busy: but Lockhart didn’t seem to care as he made his way over and pulled Harry close to his side.

Oh, how Harry yearned to reach for his wand and hex the man’s award-winning smile off his pretty face.

Alas, the cameras.

Harry gritted his teeth and pasted on a small, embarrassed smile befitting of his shy Ravenclaw persona, and prayed to the universe for a distraction.

.

Fortunately, the universe was more than happy to provide.

.

Unfortunately, that meant that Harry had to witness a Weasley tackling — because really, there was no other word for it — a Malfoy.

Harry should have known better than to ask the universe for anything.

.

Draco stood awkwardly in the corner of the bookshop, watching his father and Arthur Weasley trade fists. If this had been him, his father would have taken away his broom privileges for a month, but Draco wasn’t surprised that his father played by different rules.

What did surprise him was seeing his father knock Ginevra Weasley's cauldron into the ground, sneer self-righteously, and shove it back in her direction one book heavier. A book that, Draco thought, might as well have been dripping with Dark Magic.

Draco knew his father. He knew it couldn't have been a mistake. Lucius Malfoy didn't make mistakes, especially not like that, not unless they were planned and served a greater purpose.

“What a role model,” a low voice came from beside him. Draco jumped; he’d neither heard nor sensed anyone approaching, but there Harry Potter stood, looking as innocent as ever.

“My father —” Draco began, about to justify his reasons, before promptly realizing that it would be a bad idea.

Potter gave him a knowing look. “Lockhart, I mean. Please tell me you don’t like him.”

This was more than Potter had spoken to him in the past year. First some… plebeian brawl, and now this?

“He’s our professor. We have to show our respect,” Draco mumbled, keeping most of his attention focused on not rolling his eyes.

“He’s borderline incompetent,” said Potter. “The best thing he’s got is his smile.”

“And his stupid laugh,” said Draco, and Potter looked at him understandingly.

“At least it’s over when he opens his mouth.”

“Draco.” That was his cue, Draco thought wryly as he moved towards his father.

“Father,” Draco said, “this is Harry Potter. Potter, this is my father.”

“Lord Malfoy,” Potter said, and Draco was grudgingly impressed with his smooth half-bow. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Mr. Potter,” his father returned, in the voice he used when he wanted to make someone like him, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Code, Draco knew, for his father’s inevitable tongue-lashing when they returned to the Manor, because Draco had mentioned nothing about the Boy Who Lived.

“Same goes for you,” Potter said mildly. “All good things, of course.”

Draco nearly shivered at his tone.

“Come, Draco. We wouldn’t want to keep your mother waiting.”

Draco loved his father, really, but…

The last time he’d spoken to Potter, it was to be scolded like a small child. The time before that, it was to be looked over impassively — though Potter had at least made a valiant effort to seem interested.

For all that his father preached of connections, Draco could admit that he wasn’t all that good with children.

.

Harry watched Draco’s back as he left the store.

The book that used to be in Weasley’s cauldron felt heavy in his pocket.

It was a simple trade, really, and he’d had plenty of practice being quick.

.

He waited until he was safely inside his warded and locked door — it was still the Leaky Cauldron, of course, so it still wasn’t the safest place to be — to bring out the book. It was either a very bad idea or — well, an even worse one, but Harry couldn’t help himself.

Admittedly, Harry was mostly curious about the book because it was dark, a very familiar sort of dark, and Lucius Malfoy was — for some reason — giving it to a Weasley.

Lucius Malfoy, a man who was Marked, claims of the Imperious or not, had held an object filled to the brim with the Dark Lord’s magic. And he had given it away.

Yes, Harry was curious, especially as he could feel an undeniable urge to open the book, abandon all caution, lose himself in the oh-so-familiar aura —

But Harry knew himself, and that urge was not his own.

He opened the book anyway.

The pages were blank; Harry was confused for a long moment, and then the puzzle began to fall into place. He wasn't sure why , of course, the Dark Lord would create a journal that was capable of compulsion, and was most likely sentient on its own; perhaps the man only sought destruction for destruction’s sake. Harry wouldn’t be surprised.

He still wanted to know.

Another urge, Harry noticed, subtler this time; the journal was adapting to his thought process. Could it read his mind? Could it sense his hesitation?

Harry also wanted to burn the cursed thing, but his curiosity won out.

He traced a mild expulsion rune on the floor; in approximately an hour, it would send out a pulse of magic that would rip the journal from his hands, or earlier than that, if his magic depleted to a certain level. It wasn't near as careful as he’d like to be, and he was sure his disregard came from the increasingly-strong compulsions emanating from the journal. He wanted to write in it — he had to write in it —

Harry made sure his inkpot was full before sitting down on the bed and pulling out his quill. 24 August 1992, he dated neatly. Hello.

Hello, the journal wrote back.

.

His own ink had sunk into the page. Harry took a moment to appreciate the level of care that would have taken, though when speaking of the Dark Lord, he supposed that the Wizarding World had come to fear him for a reason.

.

What is your name? The journal asked.

.

The script was long, spindly; a person’s handwriting could tell a great deal about their personality. This was a person who had taken care in choosing their appearance; the curved and jagged letters spoke of hours of practice, for them to be so consistent.

Harry’s own handwriting sprawled across the page in a sort of purposeful casualness. Subtle loops and swirls defined his letters; ones that he could easily exaggerate and make his writing illegible, or understate and have his words appear more as a professional script than that of a twelve-year-old boy.

Harry knew how to look for a manufactured personality, and the Dark Lord was only getting more interesting.

.

My name is Harry Potter.

It is a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter. I am Tom Riddle. How did you come across my diary?

It was a gift, of sorts.

.

Harry, as he danced around questions and had the same done to him, wondered how such a brilliant man had come to rest on the back of Quirrell’s head. He knew he didn’t have the whole picture — the pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit yet, but they would — but he would use what he did have to his advantage.

It wasn’t the best solution. Harry was stepping forward completely blind. But the journal — or diary, as it called itself — was just as blind as he was. The consciousness trapped there was just a few years older than Harry himself, and Harry could work with that.

.

Late into the night, when he closed the book and changed into nightclothes, Harry laughed.

The Dark Lord had a diary.

.

Draco tucked away in his corner of the Manor before he opened his schoolbag, because he didn’t want to deal with his mother’s protective nature, and there was one book in there that he most certainly hadn’t bought.

A Beginner’s Guide to the Light, Dark, and Everything in Between

by Celestia Monroe

Draco cast a quick spell, one of the first he’d learned, and cracked open the spine only when he’d confirmed that the book wasn’t cursed.

A faded note on old parchment was tucked between the cover and the first page.

Extra reading, [the note read], because his laugh won’t teach us everything.

.

Harry had a week before the term began, and he’d already managed to pique Riddle’s interest. Harry thought it was genuine, but he could never quite tell, given that his new companion wasn’t a person at all.

He carefully kept his darkness at bay, strangling it enough for it to stay far inside of him, because Riddle was far too perceptive for his own good. But he was useful, at least, and Harry could take calculated risks.

.

I’m very bad at not thinking.

Relaxing your mind does not mean ‘don’t think’. Occlumency is a mind art, and you must treat it so.

What about Legilimency?

Legilimency tends to be much more difficult than its counterpart. I would suggest that you master Occlumency first.

That was an impressive deflection, Harry mused, and resolved to find a book on Legilimency before he had to leave for Hogwarts.

.

Not his studies nor anything else could keep Harry distracted enough.

He was terrible at Occlumency, regardless of his continued efforts, and he briefly wondered if the Dark Lord was sabotaging him.

But it seemed that Harry was, by nature, a thing of instinct, and while he was exceptional at keeping his body under control, his mind was a different matter entirely.

It wasn’t until the beginning of October that Riddle tried to take possession of Harry’s body.

Harry, obviously, didn’t let it happen. His Occlumency wasn’t that bad; he could stop it easily enough, if he asked his magic to assist. Let Riddle think that he hadn’t gained enough power and that Harry was still oblivious.

Harry wasn’t done with the young Dark Lord.

He was, indeed, a surprisingly good teacher.

.

Professor Snape didn't like Harry.

This wasn’t news to either of them, but his professor’s enmity only seemed to worsen as time passed. It reached its peak when Harry’s potions were consistently acceptable.

Harry didn’t learn anything in class; he took notes, but his mind was always somewhere else, because listening to Professor Snape had, and would likely always be, useless.

It was under the guise of bettering himself in Potions that Harry recruited Riddle for help. Really, Harry just wanted to know about plants and their properties, but Riddle was as innovative in his brewing as he was in nearly everything else.

It was then that Riddle offered to show Harry in person.

.

Do you want me to show you?

Another time. I’m almost late for History.

.

Harry still didn’t know what the diary was. It caused a problem.

Harry wasn’t used to feeling conflicted; he usually did what felt right, and that was that. But this time, he couldn’t sparse out what was the diary’s compulsions and what was his own instincts.

Harry didn’t like it.

Instead of thinking, he threw himself into spell theory and runes, because he still hadn’t forgotten his goal, and the darkness grew with his irritation every day.

.

Eventually, Harry broke, and asked for help. He didn’t bother to justify it to himself; even though Riddle wasn’t aware of his reasoning, it was the biggest risk he had taken yet.

Dumbledore was one of your professors, yes?

Yes. Why do you ask?

Harry knew it was a bad idea before he inked his quill; before he touched the nib to his paper.

Can you show me?

.

Harry had never done well with feeling useless.

Some of it was necessary. He couldn’t — wouldn’t — exceed in his classes. He couldn’t skip meals to study. He couldn’t become an animagus during the school year; the mandrake leaf would be a bit too obvious. His yearmates weren’t smart, but even they weren’t quite so oblivious. He couldn’t kill Lockhart, as much as he was tempted, and he still didn’t know enough to kill Dumbledore, even if Riddle had agreed to let him look in on their lessons.

If the itching under his skin didn’t stop, Harry might have to take up knitting, or something.

.

Dumbledore, Harry thought, for all his shortcomings, was a brilliant teacher.

He was in the diary — Riddle had pulled him in, somehow, and Harry watched with a sinking feeling as Dumbledore effortlessly controlled the classroom.

“He hated me,” Riddle said quietly.

Harry turned around; slowly, because despite all of his curiosity, he wasn’t pathetic.

Riddle was just as much of a vision as Harry had expected; his appearance was even more carefully crafted than his handwriting. His voice was soft and smooth — trust me, it said.

He had short black hair and dark eyes. A lean figure, one that spoke of hungry nights, and a smile with a sort of sharpness that Harry recognized only because he had felt it himself.

“Why?” Harry asked, in a voice just as soft. He let his green eyes flicker down, to Riddle’s shoes, and made a subtle show of biting the inside of his cheek and forcing his gaze up to Riddle’s.

“I never knew,” said the boy. “He never told me.”

“He doesn’t like me all that much either,” Harry said. “So — I understand.”

You’ll never understand, Riddle’s eyes said, but it was quickly masked by a thankful quirk of the lips. He was right, Harry supposed; Harry would never call himself a Dark Lord, or create another name, miserable childhood aside, because it seemed a bit pretentious and self-important for his tastes.

Not that Harry would ever say that, of course.

.

Harry met Luna the day after he’d met Riddle for the first time. She sat next to him during breakfast, and she wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Hello,” said Harry. “Do you not wear shoes on purpose?”

“The Nargles stole them,” she said lightly, “but I like it better this way.”

“What’s your name?”

“Luna Lovegood. It’s nice to meet you.”

He liked her immediately.

.

He still wanted to kill Lockhart.

Trying to find a way to get rid of Dumbledore wasn’t doing much for his tolerance level, Harry mused, but his mind couldn’t help but daydream.

It wouldn’t be hard, surely. The man was an idiot.

.

Perhaps Lockhart had seen something nefarious happening inside the Forbidden Forest and had valiantly saved the school… before his untimely, undeniably heroic death.

(He didn’t deserve one last glory, though, Harry decided.)

Or the pressure of his fame had driven the poor man over the edge of the Astronomy Tower.

(No one who knew him would believe it.)

The great, unforeseeable tragedy… the celebrity had taken the wrong teeth-whitening potion and had mistakenly consumed lethal poison.

(This idea certainly had merit.)

Could another student trip at an inconvenient time and push him over the stairs?

(He’d have to find a student and a decent tripping charm, but...)

Or… Lockhart was slipped a love potion and fell irrevocably in love with the Fat Lady, and had to be removed from the premises on account of his inability to remain inside his classroom.

(Humiliation… plus a sort of ridiculousness that was becoming of the man…

But knowing Dumbledore, he’d just move the Fat Lady into the Defense classroom.)

Harry wondered if he could enchant Dumbledore’s robes to strangle their newest professor.

(It would be a colorful death. Perhaps it would be the Weasley twins’ fault.)

Or the Sorting Hat. Would anyone blame the Sorting Hat? A prank gone wrong, perhaps.

(Definitely the Weasley twins.)

Harry thought it was prime time to start finding a way to really distract himself, before he did something he wouldn't regret, but would be bad nonetheless.

.

“You should take up knitting,” Luna suggested. “I know a person that’s looking for someone to discuss patterns with.”

“I just might,” muttered Harry.

“A dark scarf to keep you warm,” she said. “Warm even under your skin.”

He didn’t bother to question her uncanny knowledge — instead, he returned her smile when, a week later, he showed up to breakfast wearing a dark blue scarf.

He’d made a bright green one for her. She loved it.

.

Harry had reached a sort of understanding with Riddle. They wouldn’t answer each other’s questions, not real ones, anyway, but they were both polite as Harry kept Riddle company in his memories.

The peace had lasted until early December.

.

Luna frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Something of mine had been stolen,” Harry said quietly. “Something very important, and if I don’t get it back, something very bad will happen.”

Luna moved a little closer and wrapped a comforting hand around his wrist. They didn’t talk for the rest of dinner.

.

Harry had enough to begin his plans — though the thought of calling them ‘plans’ made him feel more than a little foolish, because yes, he felt like a cartoon villain — but he was tempted to wait, because there was only a week until the winter holidays, and a fortnight to himself was just what he needed.

.

Two days later, a sixth-year was found Petrified.

.

No one knew anything about the Chamber of Secrets, but Harry thought he knew exactly who the Heir was.

And it was very, very bad.

.

The winter holidays. Condolences and reassurances were sent home. No one had died, so they weren’t shutting down the school, but concerns about Hogwarts’ security were getting louder.

Harry did his best to ignore everything; he only had a fortnight to create two potions and a curse, and it would be an ongoing battle to avoid Flitwick’s eyes.

He was tempted to start immediately, but something unfamiliar held him back.

He could multitask, he supposed.

.

Two Yule presents down. Two potions and one curse to go.

.

Draco knew who the Heir was.

How could he not? It was the only thing that made sense.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

But he pushed that out of his mind, because there was nothing he could do, not unless he wanted to betray his father — and instead focused on the unfamiliar owl sitting on his windowsill, waiting expectantly to be fed.

Draco scrambled for his tin of treats and gingerly traded them for the package. He had a feeling he knew who it was from, and there was no way he was waiting until Yule morning — not if he was right, and would have to order a gift to give in return.

Inside the box was a scarf; dark, emerald green, impossibly soft, with grey-silver strands subtly woven into the simplistic design. Draco pulled it out carefully, and wasn’t surprised when a folded note fell into his lap.

I’m still not entirely up to date on wizarding etiquette, [the note read, in the same cursed handwriting as the one hidden deep inside his drawer], so please forgive me if this is at all presumptuous or inappropriate.

The scarf is charmed to regulate body heat at whatever temperature you prefer. Put it on whenever you’re comfortable and simply tap it with your wand; it will key into your signature. I hope you like it. I tried to use a softer yarn and keep it uniform-appropriate.

Potter had made this? Draco thought incredulously.

Best wishes,

HP

p.s.: [read small, neat script at the bottom], If you are alone, say “Invicti” and look in the box.

I’m never going to find a gift to match this, Draco thought with a sinking feeling. “Invicti,” he murmured, and heard a click.

Potter had gone too far over the top, he decided. A small black stone rested at the bottom of the box — Draco didn’t know how it had been hidden, and honestly, if Potter could so something so complicated at his age, because Draco was sure he hadn’t asked for help — he didn’t want to know.

Draco hadn’t forgotten how it had felt to be scolded by his yearmate, and the sheer power Potter was able to emanate was intimidating, to say the least.

Another note sat by the stone, and Draco felt a curl of nervousness settle in his stomach.

This can be inlaid in a ring, bracelet, or necklace, or just held in your pocket. It warms when someone near wishes you harm.

Draco sighed.

If you tap it once, it will vibrate in return — twice if a person (within hearing distance) is under a cloaking spell, once if they’re visible, three times if you, or the room, is caught in an eavesdropping spell. This is not infallible, though I included as many as I could.

This is, unfortunately, not a holiday gift between acquaintances. Danger is coming, and you do not deserve to be caught in the middle.

Draco, at a loss for anything else, looped the scarf around his neck.

.

Luna wore her new sweater proudly, and she made sure her dad wore his scarf too.

“For when you go to search for creatures,” she said. “Harry always puts something extra inside of them.”

.

One potion done. One potion and a curse left.

.

Harry was honestly surprised when he saw Draco’s owl.

Acquaintances. I’m hurt, [the letter attached began in large, neat calligraphy].

In the box is — I’m ruining the surprise, I know, but not everyone can be as clever as you — an enchanted telescope. It looks through the clouds at night. Plus a little extra, but I won’t spoil it all.

You seem the type to appreciate the stars.

Thank you for gifts.

D. Malfoy

Harry didn’t bother to hide his smile.

.

From Luna, he received a pair of bronze ear cuffs — to help protect your mind, she had written — and once again, he didn’t ask how she knew.

The task of learning Occlumency still fell wholly on him, but his mind felt calmer than it ever had before.

.

The holidays had ended far too soon, but now Harry held a little brown book — warded stronger than he’d ever warded anything before — with a very specific curse detailed inside.

It was, quite honestly, the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he was all the more satisfied for it.

He had one more potion left to finish, and he kept everything inside the Wish Room. Hogwarts’ magic didn’t approve of what he was doing, but it didn’t try to stop him, either.

Last year, Hogwarts had comforted him as he needed; this year, it seemed to respect the thought that his decision was his, and his only.

It didn’t approve of what Dumbledore was doing, either, and Harry figured that probably played a part.

.

The halls were painfully crowded, and after two weeks of blessed silence, Harry felt more than a bit overwhelmed. But he moved towards the Ravenclaw table anyway, because his restless disposition was no reason to skip meals.

“Potter!” A very familiar voice called, and Harry didn’t hesitate to turn around. “Meet me in the hall?”

Draco stood nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

“How can I help?” asked Harry.

Draco bit his lip, as if still coming to a decision, before shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out something small and silver.

“I — wanted to thank you for the stone,” Draco said, and glanced nervously at the people milling about. Harry moved them closer to a corner and asked his magic to hide them, not enough to be noticed, but just enough for wandering eyes to pass by.

“It’s imbued with healing spells,” Draco murmured softly, hesitantly. “You don’t really need protection, but — just in case something gets through.”

He held the small ring out to Harry, who took it with gentle fingers.

“Thank you,” Harry said softly.

“It — it turns invisible once you put it on,” Draco said quickly. “But I… I had it engraved anyway. With… well, you see.”

Harry held the ring closer, and yes, on the surface lay the curved words — was that Draco’s handwriting? — absit omen.

“May omen be absent,” Harry murmured. “Thank you.”

“Hopefully you won’t need healing,” Draco said, lips quirked.

Harry slid the thin piece of metal onto his right pinky, where it turned the color of his skin. Draco gave a short, almost bitter laugh.

“You know, this is the fourth time we’ve talked,” he said.

“I suppose it is,” Harry replied, not really seeing his point.

“And we’re giving each other gifts for protection.” Draco’s voice was dry, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had gotten himself into such a situation.

“The game is afoot,” he said, because he could, and the look on Draco’s face made it worth it.

.

Harry still couldn’t find the diary.

This time, it was a third-year.

If Harry was right in his suspicions about Slytherin’s ‘monster’, it was only a matter of time before someone died.

.

Harry had taken to doing his homework in his dorm. His studies were often mixed with his self-appointed ‘extracurricular’ assignments, which were most certainly not suitable for prying eyes.

But Ravenclaw had won their last Quidditch game against the Gryffindors, and were obnoxiously enlivened, so Harry found himself in the library.

Hermione Granger was sitting at his usual table — or at least it was, last year — nearly pulling out her hair in frustration.

Harry debated about checking in on her; she did look worryingly stressed, and she would probably be a useful ally in the future. He decided against it; too high-maintenance.

His feet moved anyway.

“Hey,” he said softly, against all reason sympathetic for the girl — such was the downside of brewing over valerian root all break. He sat down beside her, not bothering to wait for an invitation. “What’s wrong?”

“I —” She looked at him, conflict written on her features, gaze tortured.

“Do you want me to get someone?” Harry asked gently.

“No, I — I’m fine,” Hermione said roughly. “Just —” She paused, then let her head fall to the table. Harry winced at the dull thud that made.

“Do you want some chocolate? Chocolate makes everything better, I’ve found.”

“Yes — wait, no, I’m — my parents are dentists, and — you probably don’t even know what that means —”

He gave a small smile, forcing his features to relax into something comforting. “Even dentists understand the importance of a little chocolate, sometimes,” he said, and took a small wrapped piece out of his pocket. “Here.”

She looked at him suspiciously, but it only lasted a moment before she was unraveling foil and shoving the square in her mouth.

Immediately, she calmed, then visibly gathered herself up enough to stare at him accusingly. “You drugged me, didn’t you.”

“Just a bit of Calming Draught,” Harry said, unashamed. “You looked like you needed it.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Hermione said, but she didn’t look mad, so Harry took it as a win.

“What’s wrong?” He repeated his earlier question. That would probably work on the Gryffindor. She sighed, deflating.

“What isn’t wrong? Slytherin’s monster is on the loose, I’m a Mudblood, and I can’t figure out what it is — and none of the teachers are answering any questions about this mysterious “Chamber”, except Lockhart, but he’s just preaching about how he knows where it is but we’re “young to understand” —” She said the last bit in a high-pitched, mocking voice.

“And to top it off, Professor Snape is being completely unfair with all of my work and I can’t focus enough to work on my Charms essay —”

Hermione broke off with a frustrated groan and went to hit her head on the table again; Harry stopped her with a steady hand.

“I can’t help with the rest, but would you like me to look over your Charms essay?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “No offense, Harry, but you’re shite at Charms.”

“Offense taken,” said Harry dryly. “You’ve never read one of my essays.”

Hermione grumbled, but set her bag on the table and pulled out multiple sheets of parchment. “There’s no way I’m copying off of yours —” she began, and Harry gave her a carefully constructed shit-eating grin before taking the paper from her hands.

“No need. I haven’t started mine yet,” he said, and ignored her loud shriek of indignant disbelief.

.

Helping Hermione was exhausting. Not because she was slow, or doltish, but because she argued with him on everything.

“You can’t just change the wand movement,” she said obstinately.

“You can if your way is better,” Harry replied, equally stubborn and more than a bit petulant.

“What are you — agh!” She threw her hands into the air. “What you’re suggesting doesn’t even make sense!”

“It makes perfect sense, if you think about it right,” Harry said. “Look — wand movements are based off of runes, yes?”

“What?” Hermione asked. Her eyebrows furrowed. “No, they’re not.”

Harry suppressed a groan. Allies, he reminded himself. You might need her in the future.

Still, the darkness was sensing his agitation and threatening to rise up.

“If you think they’re not, you’re reading the wrong books.”

“I’m reading the class books!”

“Exactly,” Harry said pointedly. “You’re looking into a subject not for beginners. Do you know what students here are? Beginners. If you want to be this advanced in second year, you need different books.”

“But —”

“Look — just listen for a second. You’re writing about the Disarming Charm, right? And its efficacy? If you just add less of a swirl at the end — “ He demonstrated — “And more of a flick, like this, it works twice as well, because you’re adding an additional element for ‘protection’.”

“But what about if you just do it like —” Hermione snatched Harry’s wand out of his hand.

A wave of fury hit him so hard he almost fell out of his chair.

Hermione was flicking his wand and frowning, and he bit his cheek until he tasted blood before speaking. “Hermione, please give that back.”

His dark showed in his voice.

She looked at him nervously before her curiosity — though in this case, Harry might call it plain stupidity — won out. “I don’t sense any magic in this. What’s it made of?”

“Hermione,” Harry warned, holding out his hand. “A wizard’s wand is sacred.”

She went to hand it back, then paused, studying it carefully. “But what’s it made of?”

His control was on the edge of snapping. Seeing his wand, dud or no, in her possession —

“Hermione.”

“Sorry,” she said, chastised.

He could feel her eyes on his back, as he calmly picked up his bag and walked away.

.

It had been a week, and the darkness under his skin had yet to still.

After so long of having so little, Harry mused, people taking from him seemed a much greater crime than it had any right to be.

But for her to touch his wand… any magic-user would agree that that was far, far out of bounds.

.

Harry took the Invisibility Cloak flying, and for the first time in months, he heard the music.

.

The peace didn’t last long, of course.

.

“Harry! Why don’t you help me with this demonstration?” Lockhart said, beaming at the boy. “It’s just an example of how I managed to contain the Siren of Somalia, as it says in my book…”

Harry forced his feet to work as he made it to the front of the classroom.

“Another volunteer?” Lockhart asked, far too gleefully. “Draco, is it?”

Oh, this was a bad idea.

.

“I conquer the hearts of men,” Harry read in monotone, sparing Draco a long-suffering glance. “Surrender now to my womanly wiles.”

“I will do whatever you desire, oh perfect one,” Draco said, mimicking his dry tone to the point of perfection, “if only you’d sing me a bit more of your song.”

“And then I swooped in —” Lockhart said, moving forward dramatically, “and smiled at the Siren — there you go, Harry, swoon a little more — and her hold over the villager was broken!”

“You’ve tricked me.” Draco didn’t even bother to look up from the book, and someone in the back of the room snickered. “How could you do this, cruel creature. How.”

“Aha!” Their professor cried. “But I have come to your aid! Fear no more!”

“You discovered my weakness for strong, handsome men.” Harry said, hand over his heart with his face completely blank. “And have saved the day once more.”

“Hooray.” Draco said. “I will name my firstborn after you.”

Harry broke character, turning to Draco and hissing, “The villager already has a kid.”

“I will re-name my firstborn in your honour,” Draco amended.

Lockhart looked supremely pleased.

.

He shared Potions with the Gryffindor class, and Harry had never hated it more.

“Granger and… Potter,” Snape sneered, and Harry was tempted to return the look because he wanted no part in this, “the Girding Potion. You have an hour.”

“You can start heating the water while I get the fairy wings and doxy eggs,” Hermione instructed, and Harry didn’t bother to protest.

They had made it a full forty-five minutes into the brew before things went wrong.

Hermione turned the heat up prematurely before tossing in the dragonfly thoraxes, and Harry was confused, because that was such an obvious mistake, until she hissed, “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you should be able to fix this before it explodes.”

Harry sacrificed precious moments to think, because if he let the potion ignite, Snape would no longer have a classroom — or half of his students — but if he fixed it, which was more complicated than it ought to be, there was no way he could play it off as a stroke of luck.

Perhaps he could say he studied over the break, Harry thought absentmindedly as he shut the heat off entirely and ripped fairy wings apart with his hands.

He cracked two doxy eggs on the table with his wrist and ground them with his palm — anything else would gave him the wrong amount of precision and pressure, and Harry couldn’t afford to be less than perfect, even if that meant showing off techniques that he shouldn’t even know about, much less preform — and dropped in the entire vial of salamander blood.

It took him seconds to mix his crushed doxy eggs with the jagged fairy wings, and he put the heat on full blast the moment they touched the surface —

The potion turned a milky green, and Harry let himself breathe.

“Potter,” Snape hissed, towering over him. “See me after class.”

He sounded furious. Always a good sign.

Hermione gave him a smug smile, and in that moment, adrenaline and darkness running through his veins, Harry nearly killed her.

.

“Explain to me what happened today,” Snape said, his voice sounding so dangerous it was almost comforting.

Harry knew how to deal with someone who sounded like they were about to beat him bloody.

“The heat was turned up before we added the thoraxes,” he said quickly, clearly, careful not to assign blame, “I used doxy eggs to lower the core temperature, fairy wings to neutralize the reaction, and salamander blood as a protective catalyst.”

“OWL level knowledge,” Snape said, and it was actually NEWT, but Harry wasn’t about to correct him.

“I did a lot of studying over the break, sir,” Harry said, his tone as respectful as he could make it with his throat still tight from holding back his anger. “I apologise for not coming directly to you, but the chain reaction would have —”

“I know very well what it would have done,” his professor snapped. “Hence why I assigned it to you two. Apparently, I was remiss in my assumption.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, not entirely sure what he was apologising for but forcing the words past his lips anyway.

Snape’s lip curled. “In the future, I will refrain from assigning the more delicate potions to Miss Granger. You are dismissed.”

That was as much a thank you as any other, Harry thought.

.

His day couldn’t possibly get any better, Harry decided.

He immediately regretted the thought when a sharp spike of magic alerted him to something wrong, because if Hogwarts was warning him —

He ran forward blindly, staircases moving in front of him, guiding him to what is happening —

Harry stopped.

He took a breath; he swallowed very, very carefully, and focused on how blood was threatening to drip from his palms, with how tight he was clenching his fists.

Luna was on the ground.

Her lip was bleeding, her things scattered around her — and she was crying.

“Get back,” he growled, and his tone had the crowd around her immediately withdrawing. He reached out to her, and —

She flinched.

He moved slower, then, and it only took until his hand was resting on her shoulder for her to throw herself into his arms.

“Luna, love,” he said quietly, “who did this to you?”

She looked at him with shining eyes and gave him a watery grin. “No one important, Harry,” she said, as he wiped the tears from her cheeks.

When he only looked at her, she slumped farther into him. “The Nargles took your scarf,” she said in way of explanation. “It usually keeps them away, but — they found it, and they took it."

Of course it had kept them away, Harry thought, with the spells that he’d carefully woven into each and every strand. That was the point.

He was going to have a very, very long discussion with her Nargles.

.

“She’s a little girl,” Harry said quietly, sharply, “and you made her cry.”

“I — I didn’t mean — I wasn’t thinking —”

“No, you weren’t,” Harry told a distraught Ginny Weasley, not bothering to modulate his tone into something less… dark. "But from now on, you will, yes?”

She nodded shakily — Harry was putting out quite a bit of ambient magic, but he was too angry to try to reign it in — and turned to leave.

Harry restrained the urge to throw a hex at her back.

Too many suspects, he told himself, in a tone harsher than the one he’d used on her.

He was even more tempted, though, when he saw a familiar black book peeking out of the side of her bookbag.

.

Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting Ginny to end up Petrified.

.

He really wasn’t expecting the Weasley twins to corner him in an abandoned hall, and immediately begin throwing accusations his way.

“You were the last person seen with her,” Fred hissed.

“We heard about your little stunt in Potions,” said George.

“Smart enough, with the resources to pull something like this off.” Fred came closer, looking even more irate at Harry’s silence.

“Maybe Snape’s right. Do you need more attention?” asked George mockingly.

“And don’t think we haven’t seen you with Malfoy.”

“Little Death Eater Junior.”

“Ickle baby Draco,” Fred mocked.

“Friends with the enemy, now, are we?”

“We know it was you.”

“Don’t bother denying it.”

“Just tell us. What,” Fred breathed, “did you do to our sister?”

“I did nothing,” Harry said, even though he knew it wouldn’t help, because what else could he say?

“You liar,” George hissed, eyes narrowed. “Tell us.”

“We’re not afraid to hex you,” Fred said, as if Harry was worried about that.

No, it was getting harder and harder to keep the darkness at bay, and Harry could not afford to lose control here.

“Nothing to say?”

“Last chance.”

The twins looked at each other, then, as one, lifted their wands and cried —

“Rictusempra!”

“Furnunculus!”

Pity. He’d liked them, Harry thought mildly, as the two spells collided on their way towards him and p a i n

(They had been his favourite. How often had his favourite things hurt him?

How many times had they caused him so much pain?

Was it him or was it his choices?

He... didn't want to think about that.)

Harry, in an effort to distract himself, tried to determine what the effects of those two spells were when combined —

The Tickling Charm and the Boils Hex —

Why, it seemed to be slowly ripping his skin off.

(He'd liked the thought of the twins against Lockhart, Harry remembered.)

He barely saw the twins’ combined looks of panic — funny, the one time they weren’t coordinated, they had come up with a surprisingly effective torture method — before he fell to the floor, screaming.

It kept all he had, focusing on keeping his obscurus in and not out, destroying everything in its path.

Screaming, in comparison, didn’t matter. If they laughed at him for this — well, he could kill them later.

When they didn’t laugh, and instead looked upon him in horror, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like.

Covered in blood, no doubt, from the way his body slid across the floor. The skin was peeling back from his hands — as well as everywhere else, of course, but he could only really see his hands, because the skin off his cheeks kept getting in the way — and if it kept going much longer, he might be able to see bone.

Half-hysterically, Harry pondered the beauty that was trauma-induced dissociation.

Minutes later, which was far too long for anyone’s taste, but mostly his own, Harry noted footsteps running closer. The sound of his screams had finally reached someone important, it seemed, or perhaps Hogwarts played a part in sending a professor his way.

It was with immeasurable relief that he heard a deep, resounding, and unmistakably furious, “FINITE INCANTATEM.”

Gratefully, Harry passed out.

.

He woke in the infirmary.

“His skin’s been peeled off,” Madam Pomfrey was informing somebody gravely. “The regrowth is rather slow, and the... sheets, keep sticking.”

“How much longer?” Draco sounded agonized.

“A few days. Maybe more. Most of that will be rest, and staying away from the sun; he’ll be incredibly sensitive for the next month, before he acclimates. And there was…”

“What?” asked Draco harshly.

“Are you the one who gave him the ring?”

Draco recoiled. “Did it — did it make it worse?”

“No,” Madam Pomfrey said, sounding grateful and furious and terrified all at once. “He would have died without it.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“Are they being punished?” Draco asked, choked.

“Points,” Madam Pomfrey said, “and detention. For hexing a fellow student.”

“But they —”

“I know full well what they did, Mr. Malfoy,” she said sharply. “But they could not have known the effect that their combined spells would have.”

“But it did — it doesn’t matter if they meant it —”

She sighed. “As a staff member, and a trained Mediwitch, I am required to be unbiased in any and all matters regarding students.” Madam Pomfrey paused. “But I would have had their wands snapped for this.”

“They should be,” Draco said fiercely.

“Perhaps it’s time you contacted your father,” Madam Pomfrey suggested mildly.

“The owl’s already on its way.”

Harry couldn’t remember anything after that.

.

Harry awoke shaken from a dream that he couldn’t quite remember. The uneasiness that followed curled in his gut like an unwanted pet.

Luna stood above him, hair highlighted by the moon shining in through the windows.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, in a voice that didn’t belong to her. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew what they would do to you.”

Luna-that-wasn’t-Luna raised her wand. “I never meant for you to get hurt.”

She lifted him off the bed with an ease that wasn’t her, and whispered quietly in his ear. “You’re mine, now.”

Harry wished he could scream.

Chapter Text

Year Two, Part Two

Well, Harry thought, at least now he knew that the Chamber existed.

Luna — no, Riddle — had knocked him unconscious when they had started moving. Harry had woken in a well-furnished study, sprawled painfully on a black-leather chaise. The lit fireplace in the corner had shadows flickering over the walls, which themselves were covered floor-to-ceiling with bookcases.

The implied comfort of the room was disorienting; but Harry was positive that this room was the Chamber, or some sort of offshoot, because that was by far the likeliest possibility. He could still feel Hogwarts’ magic swirling around him, so he was well within the boundaries of the school; but the staff had yet to find him, and despite his personal beliefs, Harry could admit that they were not completely incompetent.

Mostly, perhaps.

He was alone in the room. He checked his pockets, wincing in both pain and disappointment when his wand was missing.

He didn’t need it, but the loss itself meant that Luna-Riddle wanted him defenseless.

There was only one door that he could see leading out of the room, and Harry watched it carefully as he sent a silent question to Hogwarts, hoping beyond hope that the semi-sentient castle would hear him.

It touched his magic briefly, and Harry was tempted to smile despite the rotten situation. He would have, if his face didn’t hurt quite so much.

Harry layed there for what could have been minutes or hours, in too much pain to bother keeping track of the time. He didn’t dare use magic to numb his nerves; he would have to sit through the pain, because he couldn’t, in any circumstance, give Riddle the advantage of knowing about Harry’s magic.

At least the chaise was comfortable, Harry mused bitterly.

Luna-Riddle strolled through the door without invitation, though Harry would have been surprised had she — he — they actually knocked.

“Ah. You’re awake,” Luna-Riddle said, their voice much too neutral to suit the blonde. That, more than anything, squeezed Harry’s heart uncomfortably.

“And you stole me away from my pain-potions,” replied Harry.

“Sorry.” Luna-Riddle said unapologetically. “I brought more.” Harry didn’t thank them as a familiar glass phial was offered, opting instead to look at Luna-Riddle flatly.

“If you return my wand, I can spell it directly into my stomach,” Harry tried. Even if he didn’t need the spare stick of wood, he needed to know what Luna-Riddle was willing to allow.

They only tsked and held the phial to his lips. “Drink carefully,” they instructed, and Harry’s throat burned at how natural the words sounded coming from the blonde’s lips.

“I don’t like you,” he said bluntly, after he had swallowed and his pain had begun to ease. “Petrifying people has made life very inconvenient.”

Inconvenient. He almost laughed. Hermione had stolen his wand and suspected one of his very well-kept secrets — Snape had an inkling that Harry was more than he outwardly portrayed — and he only had half of his skin. Inconvenient.

Luna-Riddle conjured a chair and sat by where he layed. “You must be mistaken,” they said smoothly, the young Dark Lord back in their voice. “That was the Slytherin Heir’s doing.”

Harry only gave them an unimpressed look. “I don’t know how you managed to leave the diary, Riddle, but taking Luna is two steps too far. What do you want?”

Their mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You’re different, Harry,” Luna-Riddle said. “The girl and I… we came to an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?” Harry hissed, then groaned as his small outburst caused his skin to pull.

“One similar to that which I’m offering you,” Luna-Riddle said.

Harry bit back a sharp retort. He was more collected than this — he had no excuse to lose his temper —

“What kind of agreement?” Harry repeated, after he had beaten back the darkness and regained confidence in his control. This was a situation that he could not afford to use force, not like his dark was screaming at him to do. Not when Luna’s life was at stake.

Harry wanted to curse. This was exactly why he didn’t make friends. He needed to get Riddle out of her and find a way to kill him, and quickly. The young Dark Lord was undoubtedly more than a trapped memory, as the diary had claimed to be. Riddle was dangerous, and Harry wanted him gone.

“I want to know why you’re different,” Luna-Riddle said matter-of-factly. “Plus, you’re behind on your teachings. Do you really expect to succeed?”

Harry tried to put aside the weirdness that was the Dark Lord wanting to teach him, and instead focused on what they were saying.

“What does this have to do with Luna?” asked Harry.

Luna-Riddle sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m not yet prepared to fully emerge from my diary.” That sounds like a lie, Harry thought caustically, but kept his mouth shut. “Lovegood has graciously allowed me use of her body.” They smiled; something sharp lined the motion. “You help me, I help you, and you get your precious friend returned to you in one piece.”

There were so, so many things that could go wrong. It would risk all that he’d built over the past eleven years. Playing along with Riddle’s game — it was a bad idea. He knew what the teenager would become, and it was something he wanted to stay far away from.

It was one thing when he held the advantage, but Harry had nothing here.

“Do I get a condition?” asked Harry, because he didn’t have a choice but he’d try to turn the deal into something he could live by. Luna-Riddle’s lip quirked.

“Depends. Ask away.”

“You let Luna attend classes.”

They gave him a look. “You want me to play the girl.”

“Or leave her body…,” Harry suggested.

“I’ll play the girl,” Luna-Riddle said. “We meet at night; go to your lessons during the day, and after curfew, come here.”

“I don’t even know where exactly here is,” Harry said.

Luna-Riddle waved a hand airily. “I’ll show you. Do you have any questions?”

“Will you continue setting your basilisk on the students?”

Luna-Riddle gave him a sharp grin. “Clever boy, discovering my friend. But you don’t get another condition. My activities are my own.”

Harry wanted to sigh, but Luna-Riddle would probably misinterpret the action, so he refrained. “It’s not that. There’s talk of closing Hogwarts.”

Luna-Riddle, despite themselves, looked thoughtful.

“I can find someone to assume responsibility,” Harry offered. “And come up with a different way to feed… your friend. But they’re going to shut down the school if the attacks don’t stop.”

Luna-Riddle studied him carefully, their gaze piercing. “You’ll have until the end of the week,” they said after a long pause, and when Harry only nodded, they shrugged. “And if you fail, well.”

Harry did his best to ignore their words and how wrong the simple action looked, because he was still lying prone on the chaise, and his skin hurt.

Luna-Riddle noticed his wince; they rolled their eyes. “Are we done negotiating?” They said the word like it tasted sour on their tongue. “As allies, I have something for you.”

“My wand?” Harry tried.

“Ointment. For your skin. Don’t be an idiot, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Thanks,” he said instead of retorting, because he didn’t have a reason to be rude, not anymore. He held out his hand for the small jar that Luna-Riddle pulled out of their pocket, and they smiled.

“I told you not to be an idiot,” they said, unscrewing the lid. “Lay back.”

They reached to lightly take hold of Harry’s arm; the solidified potion — because Harry was sure that that was what it was — cold against his newly-grown skin.

“Easy,” they said when he hissed, holding his arm steady so he wouldn’t pull back. “They did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Harry very purposely didn’t contemplate the absurdity of the situation.

“Once we finish here, we can get you back to your dorm.” Harry couldn’t tell if the ‘we’ implied himself and Riddle or Luna, too. He hoped it was the latter.

Then, Luna-Riddle gave him a crooked smile that had all of his nerves on edge.

“I hope you have a good excuse for your disappearance,” they said, the whites of their teeth glinting in the firelight.

Fuck.

.

“I — I was scared,” Harry said softly, willing tears into his eyes. “It just hurt so bad, and — and —”

Madam Pomfrey was still frowning, but her eyes had softened. “Promise to never do that again,” she asked, “because we were worried.”

“I’m — I’m sorry,” Harry cried, blinking quickly and wiping away his carefully-controlled tears. “I didn’t mean —”

Harry didn’t know how it had worked, but it worked.

.

“You’re a dirty, rotten liar,” hissed Draco, who had offered to walk him back to his dormitory — Harry’s skin was healing quite nicely, enough so that Madam Pomfrey let him leave. Harry didn’t think about the salve that Luna-Riddle had taken care to spread over his body. “Where were you really?”

“I can’t tell you,” Harry said. Draco looked offended; hurt, almost. “No, really. I can’t tell you.”

“You could have at least warned me before you’d disappeared. I thought you were dead. That they took you. For two days.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, this time genuinely. “I would have told you if I could.”

“I hate you,” Draco informed him, and brought him close in a frantic, tight hug.

.

As per their instructions, Harry met Luna-Riddle in the girls’ loo after curfew. He only had a moment to be curious before Luna-Riddle hissed “Open,” and a hole opened up in the floor.

“You first,” they grinned.

At least he wasn’t dead, Harry thought as he jumped.

.

He was right; the main part of the Chamber was just as dark and dreary as he had imagined, and the small study was in an alcove hidden in one of the walls.

The room was tense, at first, as he waiting for Luna-Riddle to sit down so he would know how to follow. They looked at him oddly but said nothing, and for that Harry was infinitely grateful.

The tense silence was broken when they asked, “What are you working on in Charms?” and Harry retrieved his essay.

He wanted to ask, Don’t you want to ask me why my magic is different? Aren’t you going to push? but Luna-Riddle’s gaze caught his and their eyes softened in understanding.

This is enough for now, they seemed to say.

.

The Dark Lord was such a perfectionist.

It had been different when Harry was only viewing memories of specific lessons; then, he was focusing mainly on Dumbledore, and he didn’t have to practice any of the assignments.

“You’re buying me more parchment,” Harry couldn’t help but grumble as Luna-Riddle scrapped yet another essay.

“If you’re trying to downplay your abilities, which — don’t play stupid, Harry — you obviously are, you’re at least going to turn in proper essays.”

His grades were rising exponentially, which was exactly what he had wanted to avoid; and there was no way to stop it.

Harry considered just giving up then. What did it matter if he was top of the class?

.

Then Harry remembered Hermione, and resigned himself to constant arguments with Luna-Riddle about the merits of mediocracy.

.

Snape’s ire had only increased since what Harry was dubbing The Potions Incident. Harry felt more than a bit bitter, especially as the man began to single him out in class, and promptly created a one-sided rivalry between him and a certain brunette.

The very brunette that he was actively trying to avoid.

It had started on a Thursday, when his professor assigned him a second potion to brew along with the class’. They were both relatively simple, so Harry didn’t have to worry about showing skills that he should not have — but brewing two potions was equally as advanced as some of said skills.

But he couldn’t very well fail, if the dark look on his professor’s face meant what Harry thought it meant. Because now, the man seemed to expect more from him.

Namely, perfection.

In any other case, Harry might have been flattered by Snape’s apparent faith in his abilities. As it was, he only scowled as he switched between stirring rods.

It was incredibly inconvenient, and Harry had to carefully reign in his frustration as a certain brunette glared a hole in the back of his head. He didn’t want to stand out. He wanted to blend in.

But what could he do about it, confront Snape?

Harry almost laughed at the thought.

.

“Just confront Snape,” Luna-Riddle said. “Don’t whinge on about it. Either go do something or shut up. And do you know nothing about Transfiguration, here, fix this sentence —”

.

“What do you want, Potter,” his professor drawled, not bothering to look up from his desk, where he was marking essays with an impressive amount of red ink, and, no doubt, increasingly-acerbic comments.

Snape had responded well to his matter-of-fact approach, but Harry was wary of making requests in that sort of manner.

Well, he was going to die anyway.

“I almost blew up your class today,” Harry said. “I can’t do two potions at once.”

“You won’t do two potions at once,” corrected Snape. “You can perfectly fine, but instead, you chose to watch Granger.”

Harry bit back the immediate Granger was watching me!, and carefully rearranged his features into ‘well-intentioned respectful protest’. “I’m not trying to go against you, sir. However, my concentration was shot and I nearly melted one cauldron and froze the other.”

“But you didn’t. Dismissed.”

Conversation closed, then.

“But sir —”

“I said dismissed, Potter. Unless you want points taken —”

“Yes, sir.”

Maybe if Harry did melt a cauldron…

.

“How did you get Professor Snape to give you advanced lessons?” Hermione demanded in Herbology.

“I saved the classroom from certain doom,” said Harry. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Hermione huffed.

Perhaps she belonged in Gryffindor more than Harry had originally thought.

.

Meals were odd.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna-Riddle said, sliding into the seat beside him. They loaded their dinner plate with fruit — one of the only foods the pair could agree on.

At least the young Dark Lord was playing nice.

“Hello,” Harry greeted in turn. “How were classes?”

Their sharp gaze was unamused. “At least no one will question me, because Lovegood’s already odd enough.” They paused. “Snape did give us a weird look, though,” they said thoughtfully, Luna’s casual disposition shining through.

Talk about a mindfuck. They even refer to themselves differently.

They’re working together, though, which is a miracle in of itself.

Harry wouldn’t complain.

.

He finished the second potion in a blur of stress, hidden in the Wish Room under his Invisibility Cloak.

But it was done.

Two potions and one curse. Done.

.

It was on his second week down that Harry brought out his little brown book.

“What’s that?” Luna-Riddle asked him curiously. They were sitting in a corner paging through a book of their own, half-curled in a position that Harry couldn’t connect with the Dark Lord.

“Research,” Harry hedged. Luna-Riddle must have caught something in his tone, because they smoothly stood up and walked over, peering over his shoulder.

“Are these…” they breathed.

“I’m trying out some new things with spells,” Harry said, not wanting to outright say ‘I’m creating my own.’

“No, you’re creating your own,” Luna-Riddle said, and Harry cursed the universe. “Can I see?”

Harry eyed them carefully. “Are you going to give it back?”

They looked almost insulted, of all things. “Of course. It’s yours.” Harry reluctantly handed his notebook over, suddenly glad that his worst spells and potions were encoded.

He watched Luna-Riddle’s expression as their eyes flickered over the pages, turning them almost reverently. “These are…”

“A work in progress,” said Harry sharply, “and most certainly not safe enough to use now.”

“I was going to say brutal,” Luna-Riddle said. “But that works too, I suppose.”

Harry held out his hand, and Luna-Riddle parted with it easily. “Impressive,” they said. “If you ever want someone to look over them in detail, I’d be more than happy to help.”

What had he done.

.

Harry woke up that morning exhausted. He had a bad feeling.

Perhaps he could stay in bed. No one would really notice, would they?

.

“You look like shit,” Luna-Riddle told him bluntly.

“Thanks.”

Harry piled more bacon onto his plate.

.

It wasn’t until his Defense lesson that Harry began to suspect he was actually clairvoyant.

“Duelling club,” Lockhart said with a shining grin. “Now, I’m an expert at duelling, myself —”

“Liar,” someone coughed. Lockhart continued unperturbed.

“— so just watch and learn. Professor Snape should be here any minute, I do hope he remembered the right time —”

The door opened and a familiar dark figure strolled in, robes billowing.

“Just a few minutes late! It’s alright, we all have our days —”

“Professor Snape’s never been a day late him his life,” Draco grumbled quietly beside him. Harry only looked to the ceiling; he would have to do something about Lockhart.

“Now, you hold the wand like this,” Lockhart was instructing verbosely, “and then you turn and bow to your partner —”

“Expelliarmus,” Snape said lazily, and their Defense professor flew backwards.

“Ha! What a wonderful demonstration, Severus. I had to throw that one to you, you see, to show the students —”

“Why don’t we give the students a turn?” Professor Snape drawled, leaving unsaid the They’d no doubt do better than you.

“Good idea! Here, let me choose, how about —”

“Bet you he’s going to choose you,” Draco whispered.

“No bet,” Harry said. And on cue, Lockhart said;

“Ah, Harry! Why don’t you come up? Harry and… yes, Bulstrode, you too. Now, remember, small jinxes only —”

Harry, resolutely ignoring Draco’s snicker, walked to the platform. He let his wand fall into his hand and bowed shallowly; Millicent — was that her name? He only knew her vaguely — gave him a dark look.

Harry ignored her, too; he had to decide how he was going to end the duel, now.

He couldn’t pretend to be incompetent; both Draco and his Potions professor would be suspicious. (At least Hermione wasn’t there, Harry thought wryly.) But if he was too competent, and won the duel quickly — or took too long showing off — the attention would no doubt be relentless.

It was a good thing he’d paid attention in class, then, and knew the words for the spells he would be pretending to cast.

Bulstrode — Millicent? — lowered her head in return, and Harry really wished he had chosen to stay in his dormitory.

“Rictusempra!” He shouted as they began, disregarding the way phantom pain sparked over his skin as he spoke the words. Tickling spell, please, He asked his magic, but a weak one.

Bulstrode fell to her knees laughing, her eyes alight with fury.

The combination was mildly terrifying, Harry reflected.

“Flipendo!” Bulstrode returned, and Harry — steadfastly ignoring his instinct to call for a shield, because that would be too much — dropped to the ground, letting the bolt of light fly harmlessly over his head.

“Expelliarmus!” He cried, delaying his magic for just a second, because calling her wand immediately to his hand might be a bit too advanced, even for a Ravenclaw.

He was a second too late. Shite, he had time to think, before Bulstrode called out a spell he’d never heard and a snake, of all things, appeared between them.

“Ms. Bulstrode!” Professor Snape barked, which was unusual in of itself, because he never called out members of his House.

“Worry not, Severus,” Lockhart said airily, “I’ll take care of it.”

The idiot brandished his wand with a flourish that only he could possess, and Harry had a stroke of brilliance.

Carry my words to the snake and the snake only, said Harry to his magic.

As Lockhart levelled his wand at the conjuration, Harry whispered in the hissing-language that he now knew as Parseltongue, “Rise up, and bow your head.”

Harry felt his heart skip a bear as the snake hissed, fangs glinting —

Then slowly rose up to its full height, and bowed before Professor Lockhart.

Relief nearly stopped Harry’s heart.

Lockhart laughed nervously, then, true to character, as Harry had hoped he’d be; “Little trick I picked up in India, yes —”

“Sway,” Harry whispered, and the snake did so.

“Now, Severus, would you like to do —”

Professor Snape banished the snake.

“— the honour?” Lockhart finished weakly.

“Lockhart’s the Heir?” Draco muttered incredulously.

Harry silently thanked his magic, then shrugged. “People can surprise you.”

.

Three hours later, the Aurors took Lockhart into custody; like magic, the attacks stopped.

.

“I heard Lockhart’s the Heir,” Luna-Riddle said humorously that night.

“What a turn of events,” Harry agreed.

.

Their new Defense professor was an Auror from the Ministry.

Professor Middleton was a relief, after the complete incompetence that was Lockhart. She taught from a book — graciously provided for them, since no one had their own — and was almost painfully rule-oriented, but she didn’t stutter and rarely brought herself into conversation.

But she had a sharp eye, which made Harry nervous; this year, he had a lot more to hide.

He would have to be extra careful, then.

.

The mandrakes would be ready in a week, to un-Petrify the victims of Riddle’s basilisk.

“You didn’t leave a trace, right?” Harry asked. Luna-Riddle only looked at him, insulted.

.

The youngest Weasley — newly un-Petrified — cornered him in the hall.

“Ginny,” Harry greeted, grin sharp and not at all kind, “how can I help?”

She looked nervous. Harry couldn’t imagine why.

“I —” She began, then had to visibly collect herself. “I wanted to apologise.”

“Luna’s not here,” Harry said blithely. The redhead’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“For my brothers, too,” she whispered. “What they did —”

“Was not your fault,” Harry finished, because if there was anything that could make his life more complicated, it would be a guilt-ridden adolescent. “You hurt Luna. They hurt me. You had no say in their decision; you did, however, make yours, and I’d suggest directing your apologies towards the person you hurt.”

Ginny looked torn. “I — okay. Do you — can you come with me? So she knows — that I won’t hurt her?”

Harry was briefly amused at the thought of Weasley managing to hurt Luna-Riddle.

It almost made the interruption worth it.

.

“Did you have experience in magic before you were a wizard?” Luna-Riddle asked.

Harry knew this was part of the deal; he knew that he had to play along during their nights together, and the young Dark Lord was still curious about how he was different.

But how could he explain the obscurus? How could he put into words the darkness that sat under his skin, writhing, waiting for his control to escape so it could slip out and destroy?

How could he explain the conflict he felt, that really, he didn’t want to kill, but the urge came so naturally that it was his first instinct? He liked seeing people in pain, but only those who deserved it — only those who had hurt him or the ones he found precious —  

He couldn’t explain it.

Besides, Riddle was the Dark Lord. How could he ever understand moral conflict?

“Magic didn’t like me,” Harry began softly. He shut his eyes; he didn’t want to look at them. “It thought I was too strange, I guess.” That was close enough to the truth. “It took a lot of ‘yeses’ and ‘pleases’ for it to come.” Also true. “Eventually, I think it just got used to me.”

“But it still didn’t work for you like it did the others,” Luna-Riddle murmured.

“Yeah,” Harry said hoarsely. “Yeah.”

.

Harry and Draco met in the library to work on their rather obscene amount of homework. Harry was part way through his History essay when —

“How’s your girlfriend doing? Lovegood, right?”

Harry wasn’t sure what he felt, hearing Draco’s curious, non-judgemental tone. “She’s — she’s not my girlfriend.”

Draco gave him a small smile. “Keeping it quiet, then? Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”

“No, she’s not —”

Then, with that irritating sixth-sense that Luna-Riddle seemed to have, they appeared behind him. “Rude,” they said softly, wrapping their arms around his torso, their chest pressed to his back. They were close enough in height that Luna-Riddle could rest their chin on his shoulder, and Harry didn’t know what he felt about that, either.

Harry, because he could, flicked her nose.

.

“Why do you still call me ‘Potter’?” Harry asked. Draco looked surprised before resignation settled over his features.

“I forget you’re not from our world,” the blond grumbled. “It’s polite. Before someone gives you permission to use their first name, you use their last. It’s just a thing, Potter.”

“Oh.”

Draco looked awkward. “So. Um. You didn’t know. So. You’re not — you know — keeping me at arm’s distance because of my family?”

“What?”

He shifted. “Well — you never gave me permission to call you ‘Harry’, which means you’re only really being polite, but you also call me ‘Draco’ instead of ‘Malfoy’ — I assumed that you just. Didn’t like my family.”

Harry stopped the boy and forced their eyes to meet. “Draco whatever-your-middle-name-is Malfoy, we may have gotten off on the wrong start, but I am your friend. I don’t make my scarves for just anyone, you know.”

The boy blushed.

“And I have no quarrel whatsoever with your family. Please —” He touched Draco’s shoulder when he tried to turn away — “call me Harry.”

Draco choked out a laugh.

“Lucius. My middle name is Lucius... Harry.”

.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Harry asked Luna-Riddle. It had been weeks of every night away, slipping quietly into the girls’ loo to meet them, who still, somehow, didn’t know he spoke Parseltongue.

Luna-Riddle had a habit of flittering from book to book, but they had been paging through the same one or over an hour, looking increasingly frustrated.

They looked up and watched him for a long moment. “You want her back,” they said haltingly. “And — if you try to harm me in any way, she will die.”

“You really don’t know how to work without threats,” Harry muttered. “Does this mean you’re going to tell me what you are?”

“I will kill her,” Luna-Riddle reminded unnecessarily. Harry suspected that the young Dark Lord might have become, against all odds, fond of his host.

“I was called into Dumbledore’s office today,” Luna-Riddle said. “He’s suspicious. Apparently Lovegood isn’t odd enough to suddenly become a different person.”

“Ah.”

“You must master Occlumency before I tell you anything,” Luna-Riddle warned.

“You want a way to leave your diary,” guessed Harry.

Fury flashed across their features, then —

“Occlumency. Now.”

“Actually, I’ve grown rather good at it.”

Luna-Riddle gave him a flat look, and Harry grinned. “Besides, it’s rather obvious you’re more than a ‘trapped memory’, like you told me, and you’ve already said that you’re not strong enough to leave —”

“That is not what I said —”

“I’ll help,” Harry said.

Luna-Riddle was silent.

“What.”

“I’ll help,” repeated Harry. “Show me your research. I’ll find a way to get you out without possessing anyone, or whatever this is, and you can leave Luna alone.”

Luna-Riddle glared at him.

Harry inwardly smiled victoriously.

.

He was very quickly regretting his so-called victory.

“From what I understand, you leech away a person’s life force,” like a parasite, Harry said. “Because you won’t tell me what you are, I have an incredibly limited amount of information, and you… probably won’t like my solution.”

“Tell me.”

.

“Not an option.”

“If you won’t tell me what you are, it’s the only option.”

“Not. An. Option.”

.

I hate you, Riddle wrote.

If Luna and I keep passing the diary between us, you should be able to steal enough strength within the week without causing permanent damage.

She doodles, Harry.

Yes, I’ve seen them. They’re very nice.

I can’t sleep.

Well, if you would have told me what exactly you are, we might have found another option.

I hate you.

.

You don’t hate us, Luna wrote beside a half-drawn peony.

If you call me ‘lonely’ again, I swear I’ll —

I wasn’t going to say that. You don’t hate us because we understand you.

I’m sure Binns is saying something much more important than this conversation, right now.

You don’t like to hear that you’re not the only one.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl.

It’s okay. I understand that, too.

.

The ritual to humanise Riddle was simple.

Stand back and try not to die.

.

Harry and Luna both felt the pull on their magic, seeping out of them and into the unassuming diary on the floor. A shadow of a figure — less real than a ghost — slipped from between the pages.

It rose in front of them, strong, more alive by the second; Harry began to feel lightheaded, and for a single, terrible moment, realised that his darkness might come out.

Riddle’s materialisation didn’t slow as the two weakened; instead, it seemed to speed up, and Harry felt his heart skip a beat —

Riddle smiled.

It was a smile he’d grown used to seeing on Luna’s face, he realised, Luna’s expression on different features.

Had it really all been Riddle?

The young Dark Lord watched them with dark eyes, then blinked twice.

“You’re not dead,” he said, sounding surprised. He stepped smoothly off the pages, fully tangible, Slytherin robes intact; his frame towered over Harry’s own, who barely refrained from stepping backwards. He was so used to Luna —

“That’s not very nice,” Luna said.

Luna.

For the first time in weeks, it was her, all her —

Harry fiercely pulled the blonde into a tight hug, not unlike the one he’d shared with Draco all those weeks ago.

“Touching,” Riddle drawled, and Harry had never wanted to hit someone quite so much.

.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny told Luna remorsefully, eyes wet. Harry stood beside them, wand in his palm, because he’d just gotten her back and he was not about to lose his first friend again. “So, so, so sorry.”

“You were cruel,” Luna said lightly. “But I accept your apology. Thank you. Would you like help in Herbology? You seemed awfully confused —”

And that was that, Harry supposed.

.

Hermione, surprisingly, was the one who brought the Weasley twins to apologise.

“We were wrong —”

“We really didn’t know what the spells would do, we would never —”

“You’re justifying again,” Hermione said. They swallowed.

“You’re right,” Fred said. “We... what we did was inexcusable.”

“We’ll never be able to make it up to you.”

“We don’t ask you to forgive us —”

“— but know what we’re both glad you’re okay.”

“Well, as okay as you can be after that,” Fred amended.

“Whatever we can do —”

“— if you ever need anything —”

“— not that you’ll even want us around, trust me, we understand —”

Hermione coughed pointedly.

“Anyway,” George said awkwardly, eyes wet. “We’re sorry.”

“Apology received,” said Harry, crooking a grin at them, because okay, maybe he still liked them a little, even after they literally ripped his skin off. “Acceptance pending.”

He’d spent years being decent to people who actively hated his guts. What was that compared to a little accidental torture?

.

“You’re actually sick in the head,” Riddle said disbelievingly. They were alone in Harry’s dorm; Harry sat cross-legged on his bed while the young Dark Lord was perched on his chair.

Harry shrugged. “They didn’t go after Luna.”

“Sick,” Riddle repeated. Harry waved him off.

“Where are you going to go this summer?” Harry asked.

“Here and there, perhaps, doing this and that.”

“What do you plan to do with the diary?”

Riddle gave him a curious look. “I’m not tied to it anymore. I don’t particularly care either way.”

“Can I have it?”

“If you want it.” Riddle took the black diary from his pocket and handed it to Harry, who held it gently.

“So much history for a book of blank pages,” Harry mused.

“Fifty years’ worth,” said Riddle. His voice was tinged with something Harry couldn’t recognize; it sounded sad, almost. “But it’s empty, now.”

Empty, Harry thought. A telling word choice.

.

It was the last day of his second year.

“Harry!” Draco called out, because it was indecent to run up to a friend in public, but forcing them to slow down themselves was acceptable. “You’re going to write me.”

“Thanks for asking.”

“Well, you were going to anyway, weren’t you?”

Yes, Harry supposed he was.

.

Harry had twenty minutes before the train left.

Better incant quickly, he thought, and kneeled next to the Headmaster’s chair.

Twelve minutes later, it was done. Satisfaction curled in his gut.

Once curse put into place. Two potions to go.

He couldn’t wait for next year.

Chapter Text

Year Three, Part One

Harry was… tired. 

It was days into summer and it had already been his longest yet. 

He owled Draco, asking his friend to forget what the Weasley twins had done. When his owl returned it nipped his fingers hard enough to draw blood. Apparently Draco hadn’t been pleased with the request, and he lectured the school’s creature in place of Harry himself. 

No, Draco’s letter said. 

Please? Harry asked. 

No, Draco replied. 

His head was racing, doing its best to run ahead of the pain. 

.

Harry began counting down the days as he placed a mandrake leaf on his tongue. 

He meditated and strengthened his Occlumency and felt his curiosity burning stronger than it ever had before, because this was an avenue that he’d been waiting almost two years to follow. 

There was something buried, hidden, in a place he’d likely never considered, and Harry wanted to know. 

It was nice, to have a few moments to focus on that, rather than being fully entrenched in… everything else. 

.

What Harry said in his letters to Luna: I hope you’re well. Say hello to your father for me. Smile at the stars and plant a few more flowers. I’ve been having a bit of a hard time. I miss you. Stay safe. Love, Harry. 

What Harry didn’t say in his letters to Luna: Why did you let Riddle take you? Why did you let him take me? Why did we let him go? 

Why? 

Why do I still trust you? 

.

It wasn’t like Harry didn’t know already. His trust in Luna and his protectiveness over Draco, his half-hatred-half-respect of Riddle — 

He knew, in the sense that it was half-formed instinct pulling in the back of his mind, but he didn’t know, not consciously, not in terms that could be put to words. 

Harry wasn’t used to feeling this much about others. He didn’t know why his past didn’t protest. 

.

Dudley left him alone. Petunia was petty, and Vernon was angry, but the Dursleys didn’t confront Harry directly. They couldn’t see the darkness under his skin, but Harry thought that they could feel it. 

It was getting stronger with every sunset. 

And then Marge came to visit. 

.

Days seemed infinitely longer. 

He needed to keep track of Riddle, he needed to keep Luna and Draco safe, he needed to avoid Snape and placate Hermione and perfect his rune warding and wand(less)work and finish his summer homework and — 

And Dumbledore, of course. 

It was always on his mind; he thought that he’d find it physically impossible, at that point, to forget. 

.

But the curse is in place and the potion is finished and I’m halfway to my second form. Breathe, Harry. 

It became his mantra.

.

He managed for almost two months. 

His head was pounding almost as hard as his heart. It was much more difficult to stay silent when he had little choice in the matter, and the sharp, bitter taste of the leaf in his mouth only grew sharper with every word that spilled off Marge’s lips. 

Her words didn’t hurt him — Harry’d had more than enough time to assure that, and practice makes perfect, after all — but he had spent nearly all summer planning out the exact details of someone’s excruciating death, and he didn’t find himself in the mood to listen.

Silent and still and meek. That was what she saw of him. 

He wished to be invisible, mediocre, not meek. 

Harry’s darkness roiled under his skin. 

“Your parents were rotten,” slurred Marge, not for the first time that day, “rotten and useless and deserved what they got.” The smell of cheap wine did nothing to help the taste in his mouth. 

Harry considered going upstairs, to his room with the cracked ceiling and stained walls. He thought about laying down on his bed with its broken springs and just breathing, focusing on his meditation instead o of the glorious way that she would beg for her life, for him to lessen the pain. Oh, how her tears would gleam —

Harry stopped that thought in its tracks. 

The darkness would be drooling, if it had a mouth of its own. He was becoming quicker to anger, more prone to imagined violence (torture) as a solution, and Harry… wouldn’t let that happen. 

That wasn’t him. He wouldn’t let it be. 

He needed something to curb this, something to ground him when he began to go too far. He would find a way, somehow, Harry resolved, and didn’t think about the extra task he’d just added to his list. 

“It’d serve you right, being outside in the cold with poor Ripper,” continued Marge, her tongue sounding thick in her mouth, her words tripping over themselves, “He marked up the couch, you mark up this home, why are you still taking up space?” 

Inebriation made her vaguely poetic, Harry reflected. 

“You deserve less than him,” Marge was still speaking. “Petunia, make him leave, he’s a stain that needs to be bleached from the house —”

Mentally noting down the metaphor, which painted an impressively vivid image, Harry looked up and made eye contact with Marge. 

He raised a single eyebrow and let what was likely too many of his thoughts show in his gaze. His drooling darkness. 

It gave Marge pause, at least. 

“Petunia,” she barrelled forward, hissing, spittle at the corners of her mouth. Harry was tempted to hiss right back Parseltongue, which was much more intimidating by far. He refrained. 

Instead he only looked at her. Looked, and let his unimpressed, warning stare speak for itself. 

(Distantly, he wondered if that was a habit that he’d picked up from Riddle.)

She didn’t listen, of course. 

Harry sighed. It wasn’t like he had expected any different. But a pickaxe seemed to be carving itself into his skull, unsteady, irregular, and all the more brutal for it, and Harry found the edge of his figurative rope. 

It had taken almost two months. 

Harry stood. 

Marge spluttered. 

Harry smiled, all teeth, and walked to his room. It took seconds to unlock the protective wards that hid his trunk. It took less time than that to begin walking downstairs with the entirety of his possessions held in his hand. 

He had been prepared. 

Each footfall felt final; they were silent out of habit, but Harry thought that he could hear the echoes of what they would have been. 

There was nothing in his chest. Another day, he might have felt worried about the lack of emotion. Then, he couldn’t muster up the concern. He felt stretched tight, like his skin was two sizes too small and threatening to tear at the seams. 

Drooling. 

Harry brushed past a red-faced Vernon and a spluttering Marge, sidestepped a blank-faced Petunia and a confused Dudley, and opened the front door. 

Vernon’s furious cursing followed Harry down the street, even as the man himself wouldn’t dare. 

Harry smiled into the dark. 

His head pounded and his chest was empty. 

.

He wasn’t going back. 

Harry wasn’t sure, yet, how he was going to pull it off. But he knew, as well as he knew himself:

Harry wasn’t going back. 

.

Harry sent two letters when he arrived at Diagon Alley: one to Luna, to wish her well and ask a question, and one to Draco, to assure his friend that he was alive and probably not in immediate danger. It was tiring and the most that he could do. 

The emptiness in his chest seemed overwhelming. His limbs felt heavy and he wanted to collapse, but he held himself tightly together until he was able to find an inn, stumble inside, and drop a few coins on the counter. 

Harry wondered what he looked like on the outside. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if nothing, outwardly, had changed. 

.

Luna’s response came later that day. The innkeeper knocked gently on the door to the room that Harry had rented for the night; less out of consideration, Harry thought, and more because he was so old that his bones creaked as he walked. 

But the room was cheap, though, so Harry didn’t particularly care either way. 

“Package,” the innkeep rasped. He held a small plain box in his shaking hand. Harry nodded in thanks and shut the door as quickly and forcefully as he could without seeming rude. 

Absentmindedly, he reset the locking rune on the doorframe. The box was wrapped in a fashion that only Luna could accomplish. A sort of haphazard order, Harry thought, eyeing the gift fondly. 

In the box was a necklace. It rested a few inches under his chin, a thin bronze-and-black band to work along with his earcuffs. They protected his mind; this would protect his words when his control began to slip. 

Hopefully. 

Luna was the only person that Harry would ever give this much power, and he wondered if the girl was even aware. Probably, he thought; Luna was aware of more than anyone gave her credit for. 

(Why do I trust you? he didn’t ask. 

Harry hoped that his silence wasn’t because he was afraid of the answer.)

Harry let his magic prod curiously at the choker, which hummed under the light touch. The material was warm and Harry felt just a hint of something in his chest. Then he nearly collapsed with the relief of it as it hit him. 

He’d missed feeling. The emptiness had faded at the edges. 

Luna’s written message was brief, for all its meaning:

Dearest Harry, 

Evil speaks where we might hear and goes where we might follow, but it does not live in our hearts or speak through our tongues. 

Have a good summer & see you soon!! Dad sends his hellos. The camellias wish you a happy birthday. 

Through the universe with all my love, 

Luna

P.S. It’s okay if you want to hide it. A tie will do. Either way, the color will look lovely with your eyes. 

Harry carefully folded the note and placed it in his trunk. 

He didn’t touch the necklace that now rested on his throat, but he could feel it all the same. 

Just a little more warmth trickled into his chest, and it eased the way for just a little more air in his lungs.

.

He had managed for almost two months. 

Now he had entirely too long and not enough time at all, before school began. 

.

(A ring, two earcuffs, and now a choker. 

Harry couldn’t place the emotion that they brought to the surface. 

He tried, late at night, examining his thoughts and strengthening his Occlumency, prodding at his own mind as it began to reveal his third, animal form. 

Harry had yet to succeed at either.)

.

Diagon Alley was quiet. Or, perhaps more accurately, it wanted to be. 

There was a name that hung off the walls: Sirius Black. Capitalized, bolded, and brandished as both a threat and a warning on black and white papers that covered nearly every available surface, along with a few unavailable ones.

The crowd was thinned from its usual bluster. They still came in droves but they were subdued, speaking in whispers as if the unstable, revenge-obsessed convict would be able to hear their words and decide that their lives belonged to his wand. 

Harry found himself mildly amused. He traced protection runes on his robes nonetheless, because gossip was unreliable at the best of times, but misleading information was better than no information at all. 

Sirius Black is going to kill Harry Potter, they whispered. 

So Harry kept carefully to the shadows and didn’t close his eyes for a second. 

.

Harry, 

I very much appreciate the extreme effort that it must have taken for you to send your last message. I am honoured to be one of the individuals to which you bestow such benevolence, and I would never dare even think of commenting on your timeliness or truly astounding eloquence. 

It pleases me to know that you are well. 

I’m fine too, thanks for asking. 

Your friend, possibly, 

Draco. 

p.s. seriously???? “I’m alive, probably not in mortal danger, staying in Diagon, see you soon”???? It pains me to know that this is all that our friendship is worth. 

p.p.s. Father is already speaking to the Ministry about the Weasels. He’s not having much luck. I’m telling you this because that’s what friends do. They tell each other things. 

.

Draco, 

Working on it. It’s been a long summer. 

Stay safe, and remember that you are my friend,

Harry

P.S.; I can handle Fred and George on my own. Please. 

. 

Along with the whispers of Sirius Black came the murmurs of a new unknown. 

The latter was present in Knockturn, where a significant glance towards a significant person could mean anything from a dinner invitation to death. 

As with everything, Harry listened. 

And when the pickaxe in his skull began digging into the soft tissue of his brain, Harry left. 

He had a very good idea of what, or who, their “unknown” might be, and Harry’s mind was already swirling; he wasn’t sure if he would be able to process this on top of everything else. 

Eventually, he wouldn’t be given a choice. 

Harry sighed. 

Of course Riddle couldn’t have waited. 

And Harry didn’t doubt that he was working to resurrect Voldemort, because if he was in Riddle’s place, what would Harry do? 

.

“Ha—!” 

A familiar voice caught off abruptly. 

“Ah, Lord Malfoy,” Harry greeted smoothly. “Draco. It’s a pleasure to see you both.” Draco grinned at Harry from behind his father’s back. 

Lucius smiled thinly in return. “Mr. Potter. I hope your summer was well.” 

“Very much so,” said Harry politely. “I thank you for your contributions toward the investigation involving the Weasley twins and myself, but I assure you, any further action is unnecessary.” 

“My son leads me to believe otherwise,” Lucius replied dryly. 

“The matter is being resolved internally,” Harry said. “But your assistance has been greatly appreciated.” 

Bugger off, Harry wanted to say. 

“Then allow me to continue,” Lucius said with a wicked gleam in his eye, one that likely had nothing at all to do with Harry. “If only in the name of justice, of course. We cannot allow this to set a precedent that may harm other students in the future, don’t you agree?” 

Harry was too tired for this. 

“The matter is being resolved,” he repeated, feeling the conversation slip from his control as soon as the words left his mouth. He was repeating himself, which suggested that he didn’t have much else to say, and was reaching, clumsily, for words. “If you’ll excuse me, the train will be leaving soon. Draco?” 

“Ah. I understand.” Lucius’ tone implied that he understood completely, which naturally meant that he was ignoring Harry’s meaning entirely, except Harry’s misstep. Lucius no doubt caught that. 

“I’ll keep you updated, Father,” Draco said, because he was a dirty traitor. 

“Thank you, Draco,” Lucius replied, all false warmth and fake smile. “Good day, Mr. Potter.” 

“My well wishes to you and your wife,” Harry said, and left before he somehow destroyed more. 

When they were out of earshot from his father, Draco smiled gleefully. “You’re a mess, Harry,” he said. 

“The matter has already been resolved,” Harry muttered. His voice sounded petulant even to himself, but the subtle material of Luna’s necklace against his throat grounded him. “Thanks for the thought, though.” 

Draco rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’re a mess,” he repeated, “but you have people who will stand up for you when you won’t do it yourself, so that’s okay.” 

Luna’s letter echoed in the back of his mind. It’s okay if you want to hide, she had said, and Harry wondered how much of himself that his friends saw right through. 

Too much, it seemed. 

They ducked into an empty compartment. “That said,” Draco continued, sitting down across from Harry, “you’re an arsehole.” 

For a moment Harry didn’t move, stuck processing the words, had he done something in particular—?

“Name-calling is rude,” Luna said from the doorway, and both boys jumped. 

“Merlin, Lovegood,” cursed Draco, “don’t you know how to knock?”

“The door was open,” she said easily. “Now, what were you saying?” 

“Nothing bad about your boyfriend,” Draco muttered. “He just doesn't know how to write proper letters.”

I do too, Harry didn’t say, because he was petulant but not that childish, but Draco seemed to read it off his face anyway. 

“He has a murderous godfather on the loose,” Draco told Luna, ignoring Harry entirely, “and he sends me things like — and I quote — ‘I’m alive, probably not in mortal danger, staying in Diagon, see you soon’.” 

Oh. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” 

“You’re normally better at, I don’t know, basic courtesy,” Draco muttered. “Did something happen? You never said why you were even in Diagon, by the way.” 

“Um,” said Harry with no intent to answer. Not after Lucius, not after the revelation with Riddle, not after he was still reeling from Marge and the Dursleys. 

“Can I tell him?” Luna asked, which Harry found entirely unfair. He found it hard to say no to his sister in all but blood, not when she was looking at him like she had been concerned as well. 

(In the back of his mind, the half-formed instinct whispered. 

She was his sister, chosen by change and forged by magic. 

She would agree, Harry knew.)

“Tell him what.” asked Harry. It wasn’t much of a question. 

Then the door was sliding open and their conversation halted all at once. 

“Harry,” a certain bushy-haired brunette announced, “I need to talk to you.” 

“No, Granger,” interrupted Draco. “We were in the middle of something.” 

“It’s about your wand,” Hermione said. 

“What about his wand?” Draco asked warily, and Harry felt touched by the defense; it was a new feeling and he thought that he liked it. The emptiness in his chest faded just a bit more. 

“Harry,” repeated Hermione impatiently. 

“Not right now,” said Harry. “Like Draco said, we were in the middle of something. Later.”

“Harry.” 

“No,” Harry said, with just a touch too much steel in his tone, because Draco shivered to his right and the choker around his neck pulsed with comforting warmth. 

“I know,” Hermione said, like the words meant something. “I know it’s — Harry, I know about it.” 

“I don’t know what you think you know, but you need to leave,” Luna said coldly. She stood to her feet. “If Harry wants to talk to you, he’ll find you later.” 

Hermione huffed. “I wouldn’t think you’d need keepers,” she muttered. This time, Harry only ignored her, and couldn’t bring himself to care about how that was likely the wrong reaction. 

Hermione slid the door shut softly on her way out, giving one last long look in Harry’s direction. 

“Was it just me or was that weird?” Draco asked the silent compartment. 

“Weird,” Harry agreed. He could only assume that she recognised his wand, the stolen twig, for what it was. It would be a slight obstacle if that truth was revealed, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Just another item for his list. 

The emptiness was back in his chest. 

“Where were we,” prompted Draco. “Something about telling Draco something?” 

Luna hummed. “Harry?” 

“I trust you,” he told her. 

“He had to leave his previous muggle household because he’s been having trouble regulating his emotions,” Luna said to Draco. “The pretty choker — I gave him that, see? — is a way to ground himself to his body instead of… other things.” 

And by ‘other things’ she means the dark, which is growing more persistent by the hour, Harry thought wryly, because of course Luna knew. How did she know? 

Yet another question to join his unsaid things. 

“He what?” Draco’s already-pale face had drained of blood. “Harry, if you need a focus to help you keep your temper, that’s —”

“I know,” Harry said tiredly. “But it’s complicated.” 

“Tell me,” Draco said. 

If his voice had been demanding, Harry would have refused. But Draco was looking at him neutrally, withholding judgement, only gathering information. 

Draco was looking at him like someone who cared. 

Harry glanced at Luna, who gave him a small, gentle smile, and sighed. 

“Okay. Well.”

And his magic had never steered him wrong, never about things like this, so Harry sent out a tentative question and it responded with an encouraging brush. 

“Do you want the whole story?” Harry asked Draco and Luna together. “It would probably help explain the, well, severity of everything.” 

“Whatever you’re willing to tell,” Draco said, and Harry sighed again. 

“From the top, then. It started when I broke a vase, and caught it with my magic — I was so proud, you see —”

.

Harry’s throat was sore as he talked. It might have been lack of water or it might have been unshed tears after years of loneliness. 

For once, Harry didn’t particularly mind either way. 

The words spilled from his lips almost unbidden, like they had been waiting to be said for as long as they had existed. 

Watching his friends, for the first time in a long while, Harry felt young. Even with the darkness bubbling under his skin, so close to the surface. 

.

He didn’t tell them about Dumbledore or Riddle. 

He barely mentioned his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys, but so much of that was implied. He spent only a second on his defensive runes, which even then were etched inside of his robes. 

Instead he told him about the dark; and his need to be unseen, and his desire for flight and freedom, his strange magic and his tree-twig wand. 

He spoke of the shadows that lived and breathed under his skin, and their recent worsening, and the way they wanted. 

They watched and listened and didn’t speak as Harry talked, and for a moment, painfully long for all its brevity, Harry thought that he was going to tell them. 

About the slow death he had planned for an old man who’d done too many wrongs. And the strange mentorship with the boy who grew to become a Dark Lord. And the way his body hummed nervously, unsettled, when it was in an empty room or undefended space, without protection. 

(And how he felt increasingly sure that it was linked to Riddle, somehow.)

.

He was going to tell them, Harry thought, as he looked into their eyes that remained understanding. 

Then the windows iced over. 

.

It was a curling of frost, ferns which spread out slowly and grew into delicate crystals. Draco noticed first. 

“Ah,” he said, the first one to speak since Harry had begun. “Um, sorry, but.” 

The train had fallen silent. Nothing moved but the frost, slowly crawling across the windows. 

.

Harry… didn’t quite remember what happened next. It was an odd sensation, not remembering, and he found that he hated it. Luna and Draco were watching him with concern etched in their expressions. 

They were both shaken in their own rights and they were still watching him as if he’d explode. 

Harry didn’t remember anything beyond —

.

red hair green light 

flashing screaming 

STAND ASIDE 

a child’s cries 

NOT HARRY

green eyes red eyes PLEASE NOT 

STAND ASIDE

pleasepleasepleasePLEASE

notharrynotmybabyboypleasenoanythingbut

choking, around his neck burning get it off get it off

getoffofmegetoffofmegETOFFOFME

rUN

TAKE HAR—

donttouchmegetoffgetoFF

stand aside, girl. not harry not him stand aside. no not har— stAND ASIDE

“petunia look what i did!” “getawaybackinyourcupboard baCKINYOURCUPBOARD

back in your cupboard, boy. 

stand aside, girl!

sCrEaMiNG

back in your cupboard, boy. 

.

“Harry?” 

.

“Harry.”

.

Luna was holding him up. He was cradled in her arms, his head tucked over her shoulder, and Draco sat beside them both. His hand rested lightly on Harry’s back, not trapping, just holding, like — another focus. 

Harry slowly reached up to touch his neck. (hecouldntremember)  

“No, it’s okay,” Luna said soothingly, her fingers tangled in his hair. Harry had never felt so weak. “Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe.” 

“Should I count?” Draco asked Luna, his voice hushed. “I… when I was younger, my mum used to…” 

“If you think that’d help.” 

Harry could feel Draco’s hands shaking, and he couldn’t let this draw out, whatever this was. It wasn’t fair to either of them. 

Harry closed his eyes and took a single, shuddering breath before sitting up. 

“Harry,” Draco breathed. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said. His voice sounded raw and he winced. “Thanks.” 

“That was a dementor,” said Draco disbelievingly. “What.”  

Luna hummed in agreement; it wasn’t a happy hum. Harry’s mind felt scattered, all the progress he’d made with Occlumency… gone. He’d read about dementors, but he hadn’t expected to ever see one. 

(except — he hadn’t seen it, he didn’t remember, it was only a shadow and cold pressing in before the flash of green light and the screaming began, he could still hear it echoing in his ears —)

There was a shuffle near the door. A man in a ragged robe stood uncertainly, holding himself like he’d prefer to run but felt obligated to stay standing awkwardly in the doorway. It was decidedly uncomfortable to watch, but that might have been the residual tinge of panic that lay low in Harry’s stomach. 

The man hesitated before moving forward. Harry wondered why he was there, why the man felt obligated, before finding that he couldn’t muster enough energy to care. 

Luna’s fingers ran through his hair again. It hurt to pull away, but if he stayed leaning on her and Draco...

He might never leave. 

That wasn’t fair to them. Not when his unformed obscurus whirled, not when he felt like he was teetering on the edge of some dark abyss. 

Harry pulled himself from her fingers and Draco’s palm, giving them both a soft, grateful smile to soften the blow. Luna looked concerned; hurt swam in Draco’s eyes before the blond blinked it away. 

“Take some chocolate,” the man said gruffly, either interrupting their silent conversation or speaking without realising he was interrupting at all. Harry blinked and cleared his throat. 

His eyes felt crusty, similar to sleep, or… 

Had he been crying? 

“Who are you?” Harry asked the man, putting his new wave of anxiety (hecouldntremember) aside. The man, who had already been turning to leave, paused. 

“Remus Lupin,” he said. The words had to be dragged from his lips. “I’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year. I… produced the Patronus.” 

Harry took the chocolate. He didn’t open the wrapper; he couldn’t imagine eating right then. 

“Thanks,” he repeated blankly. The numbness in his chest throbbed. He —

Harry breathed. 

.

A country away, the stomach of another man dropped in horror that didn’t belong to him. The man smiled. 

He was pleased. He liked being right. 

But he wouldn’t allow harm to come to the boy, so he began the long journey backward. 

.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked after Remus had left. “I’ve never seen that before. That reaction, I mean.” 

“The obscurus, probably,” Harry said. It was an infinite relief to be able to speak his thoughts, even if he couldn’t share his full concerns. “I… don’t remember.” 

“You fell,” Luna said gently. “You started shaking. Then you ripped off the necklace —”

“Did I say anything?”

“No,” Draco said. “You didn’t say anything.” 

Luna gave Harry another gentle smile as she moved to clip his necklace back into place. He made sure his expression was equally soft as he took it from her hands, taking care not to touch her skin. 

Her eyes were understanding, and Harry thought it was fitting that the first emotion that bled back into his chest was guilt. 

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Draco asked. It was strange, Harry thought, how close he and the blond had become in such little time. His mind felt distanced from the rest of him and his thoughts were more objective in they had been in what was likely longer than he realised. 

But despite himself, Harry wasn’t concerned; Luna and Draco both resided in unprecedented territory, but before anything else, the foundation of growth was familiar. Harry trusted his magic with more than his life. 

It never led him wrong, and if it had decided to lead him in this direction, Harry would follow. 

But for now, Draco was worried. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Harry answered. He gave Draco a small grin, because anything larger might be a lie. Unsurprisingly, neither Luna nor Draco looked particularly convinced, but where Luna had agreed to let him be, Draco was… persistent. 

“You should eat something,” Draco said, and when Harry pointedly raised the chocolate bar that was still in his hand, the boy scowled. “Something that’s not just sugar.” 

“I’ll eat a whole two servings at the Welcoming Feast,” Harry reassured him. “Until then, it’ll be fine. Thanks for worrying, though.”

It seemed that guilt would be the most prominent emotion for the night. It was a useless feeling, honestly, because it wasn’t like Harry had known the dementor would be there, or collapsed out of choice, or had any control whatsoever over Draco’s thoughts. 

The guilt throbbed, regardless. 

“Besides, we should probably ask why there was a dementor on the train to begin with,” Harry changed the subject with all the subtlety of a frying pan to the head. Draco sighed. 

“Some Ministry idiot probably thought Sirius Black would be on the train,” he said, entirely unamused. For a moment, he reminded Harry of a younger, more casual version of Lucius. The moment passed too slowly for Harry’s liking. “Because, you know, he’s supposed to be out for your blood.” 

“Huh,” Harry said, both to Draco’s words and everything that remained unspoken. 

The ride went quickly after that. 

. 

The horses that pulled the carriages were bones and no skin, swathed in shadows. 

.

Harry sat relatively unnoticed at the Ravenclaw table. It was a benefit to mediocrity; no one paid attention when things weren't quite right. 

He clapped routinely as each first-year was sorted. There were only a handful of Claws, which didn't much surprise Harry. It might have been the most strategic House to choose, but they often went forgotten, and besides, it seemed that the realisation of choice was found few and far between. 

Harry, as he’d promised, ate two servings. Guilt weighed down his arms, which was completely irrational but present anyway, because it was either his body be dragged down or his mind be dragged away. Harry knew the dangers of dissociation when his skin had begun to itch again, the same stretched feeling that came with a restless obscurus. 

The food did make him feel a little bit better, though.

.

As they walked to their dorms, Harry was infinitely glad to have a room  to himself. It would be best to rebuild his Occlumency shields in silence, and he found himself missing the security that they brought. 

Of course, because the universe found itself hilarious, Harry opened the door and stopped at the threshold. 

“Hello, Harry,” said Tom Riddle. 

.

The pickaxe was back. Harry wondered why it had taken that long; if his theory was correct, it would have warned him of Riddle’s presence three corridors ago. 

Harry needed at least three more hours of sleep, to deal with that. 

.

“Hello,” Harry replied, the words coming out more tired than he’d like to show. If he had a few minutes alone to rebuild his shields, he would be fine. But he didn’t, so. “Why are you here instead of Diagon?” 

Riddle briefly looked surprised before falling back into his default neutral expression. 

“Why do you think I was in Diagon?” he returned smoothly. "Do you really believe me to be that obvious?"

“Powers of deduction,” said Harry. Riddle looked unamused, which was expected but disappointing nonetheless. An amused Riddle might have been more inclined to listen. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something, I assume. What do you want?”

Riddle raised an eyebrow. Harry could almost hear the Why do I have to want something? that rested on his lips, very nearly audible, but Riddle seemed to decide on a different approach. 

“Something happened on the train.” 

Ah. 

He had said it like a statement, so Harry didn’t feel obligated to respond. He considered acting dumb, or pretending like he didn’t know what Riddle was talking about, but the weight in his chest steadily grew heavier and left his tired body feeling more worn by the moment. 

“A dementor,” Harry said eventually. “Or at least, I only know of one. There might have been more.”

Something passed over Riddle’s face. “I heard that it singled you out,” he said. 

Harry waved Riddle’s probe off and watched as the older boy’s face darkened. 

“Ah, I barely remember,” Harry said airily before he had time to regret the dismissal. Riddle’s eyes narrowed, and —

"Somnium.” 

The spell hit Harry so hard that he stumbled backwards, but where the force has remained, the magic itself had dissipated harmlessly as it hit the protective runes in Harry's robes. 

“Touchy.” Harry didn’t grin, but it was a close thing. “If you’re trying to leave, I’m not about to stop you.” 

Riddle didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Lumos,” he said, and hummed curiously when his wand began to glow. He murmured something too quietly for Harry to hear. 

Harry gave Riddle a dirty look when his nose began to tickle. 

“Your robes, then,” Riddle said delightedly. “Clever, Harry.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, his tone wry as not to show the spark of pride that followed the older boy’s words. He wasn’t proud, not of this, and certainly not because Riddle looked impressed. 

Harry rolled his eyes at himself; first, collapsing, then having to witness his own pathetic attempts to lie to himself. It was a trained reaction left over from the previous year’s ‘tutoring’, where Riddle’s approval meant he was finished for that night. 

Or something else. Harry decided to take the hesitant warmth for what it was rather than question its origin. 

The guilt in his chest throbbed painfully. 

“I was going to take you to the Chamber,” Riddle told him, unusually open. An amused Riddle, Harry thought: might be more inclined to listen. 

“To ask me about the dementor?” 

“Among other things,” Riddle allowed. 

“You could just, I don’t know, ask me here.” Harry could feel the heat in his own gaze. “Instead of trying to knock me out.” 

“It is time to negotiate a new truce,” Riddle explained to Harry like he was a child. “The Chamber provides security, and, well, it wasn’t like you were going to go willingly.”

Harry sighed. 

“Brilliant start to a negotiation,” he said. “At least you haven’t stolen any bodies, yet.”

“Yet,” Riddle repeated. “What did you think I was doing in Diagon, Harry?”

“Hopefully not stealing bodies,” Harry said dryly, “but between those awfully persistent, distractingly painful headaches, optimism seems an unnecessary risk. Appreciated, by the way.” 

Harry thought he recognized that look in Riddle's eyes, like he’d discovered something interesting but not entirely unexpected. “Further discussion will take place in the Chamber,” he said decisively. “Are you coming or will I be tearing off your robes?”

“That’s a bit strong,” Harry muttered, shuffling towards the door and wondering when he’d lost any sense of self-preservation. Then, louder, “Look. Going. Willingly. Faster than you, even.”

Riddle, annoyingly, didn’t look irritated, which in hindsight was probably a good thing. “You know the way,” he said. 

Harry didn’t bother to look back; he could feel the shift in Hogwarts’ magic as Riddle disillusioned himself, disappearing as thought he was never there. 

Harry, for what seemed like the first time in too long, led the way.

.

It wasn’t as if he was particularly displeased with the company, Harry mused, as he listened to the soft footfalls on the stone floors. He was just tired and worn, and wished that it didn’t put him at the disadvantage that it did. 

Harry didn’t like Riddle, but he didn’t hate him, not after he’d left Luna to herself. He certainly didn't trust the other boy, not by a very long shot, especially knowing his future —

But Harry knew that it was possible to avoid a future that seemed so certain. He’d done it, in his own way, after all. 

He felt his blood flash dark at the thought, and Harry wondered again why he was even awake. 

Riddle’s shoulder brushed his and oh, right. 

“Second thoughts?” He asked when Harry hesitated a second too long. 

“Yeah, about my bed,” Harry agreed. It wasn’t something he needed to hide. 

“The Chamber to talk, then you may sleep,” Riddle murmured, and his gentle, almost considerate tone caught Harry off guard. 

“Thanks,” Harry said genuinely as they reached the entrance. 

.

The Chamber hadn’t changed. It was still cold and dreary and objectively miserable. 

The small study room also hadn’t changed, but that, unlike the Chamber itself, was far from miserable. It remained warm — the fireplace brightened as Riddle flicked his finger, the disillusionment charm dripping off to reveal neat-pressed monochrome robes — and the books and furniture had kept their welcoming aura. 

Harry almost hated how the comfort of the room immediately surrounded him. The warmth began to slowly pull his eyelids closed and he really, really wanted to collapse on the black-leather chaise lounge that he’d all but claimed as his own. 

Rest for a week, and then work on his Occlumency shields, and then find out exactly why the dementor had affected him the way that it had, in order to assure that it never happened again. 

Then finish his animagus form, and ensure Dumbledore's fate was sealed, and avoid the attention of Professor Snape, and ensure that the protections around Draco and Luna were stable and functioning, and find a solution for housing next summer. 

Soon, Harry reassured himself, soon. Just get through this, enough to satisfy Riddle, and then you can begin on that… very daunting list. 

“So, negotiation?” Harry asked. The question broke through the comfortable quiet of the room, the fire crackled softly in the corner. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me not to use my reputation to interfere with your plans, whatever they may be?”

Riddle was silent for a long moment, then, “Yes.”

Harry made a noise of acknowledgement. Not agreement, because he had a feeling that Riddle’s ‘plans’ were more nefarious than most. His future as a Dark Lord may not have been set in stone, but Harry wasn’t naive enough to believe his eventual ascent to a genocidal warlord wasn’t a long time coming. 

Besides, perhaps he was still a bit bitter over Luna’s possession. Luna might not be, but…

Well, Luna’s priorities were different than his, and he would do anything to keep her safe. And then it seemed that his circle of ‘people to protect’ had extended to Draco. 

Harry already felt off-balance in their negotiation. “As last time with the basilisk, obviously there will be conditions,” he said bluntly, not entirely sure how to put his ‘conditions’ in words that wouldn’t somehow be exploited, or tell Riddle more than Harry wanted him to know. 

Riddle hummed. “No need to worry about your headache problem,” he assured, “I’ll fix that soon.” 

Which really wasn’t a relief at all. Rather ominous, actually, and Harry felt decidedly wary of the gleam in Riddle’s eyes. 

“Do you know what it is?” He asked. Harry hadn’t meant the question to come out, but it hung between them regardless. 

He sat down on the lounge and Riddle on the chair across from it. It was a familiar position; Harry thought back to the countless essays that Riddle had thrown into the fire, and his little book of ideas that he had twisted into spells, and the rare quiet contentment that he usually only found in solitude. 

“I have an idea,” Riddle said vaguely. “Any other… conditions?” 

Harry straightened his spine and pulled his face into something that spoke of his usual competence. “Yes,” he said, thinking furiously. “Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to tell me what you plan to do?” 

“Spread my name, regain political power, and divorce the concept of ‘Lord Voldemort’ from the name Tom Riddle,” Riddle said easily. 

That was… entirely too appealing, and Harry wished that he could believe it. 

“No harm comes to me or mine,” Harry began, voice soft but sharp, strong for all its fatigue. “I will not be used to further your agenda, and — honestly, I’m not stupid — I refuse to work for your older self, once you inevitably end up resurrecting him.” 

Riddle, to his credit, did nothing to deny the claim. 

“I want him nowhere near this school,” Harry continued, “or our residences. I can’t control what you do,” he admitted, because it was the truth, “but I hope you’ll at least give me this.”

The fire popped and Harry flinched, hardly daring to breathe. His headache spiked, cold and sharp, before settling down. Dangerous territory, Harry thought, and he had no idea how to traverse the unsteady ground that they had gained. 

“I’ll make no vows,” said Riddle, and something in his tone sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, even with the warmth in the room, or perhaps because of it. His voice contained a sort of coldness that it never had before, not here, not in their space. “However, your concerns are noted and will be taken into account.” 

I won’t promise anything either, Harry didn’t say, but he thought Riddle heard it anyway. 

The pain spiked again. 

“Come here,” Riddle said suddenly, all coldness gone. Harry eyed him warily. Riddle only gave him a flat stare, wholly unimpressed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Riddle said, exasperated. “Really, I’ve spent more time healing you than anything else.” 

Harry hid his caution well before standing up and stepping forward. 

“Here,” Riddle gestured, somewhat impatiently now. “Apparently this isn’t a conversation that can be had with your current issue.”

“Issue?” Harry asked, knowing full well what Riddle was referring to, but he was curious about what the older boy would say anyway. Riddle didn’t reply at all except to stand and move closer, his tall frame towering over Harry. 

What are you doing?” Harry asked, glad when his voice remained steady. 

“Stop moving,” Riddle murmured in reply, and Harry stilled. Riddle’s fingers brushed against his cheek before resting lightly on his temple. 

He might be cradling Harry's face, Harry thought half-hysterically, frozen in place, if Riddle moved his palm just an inch closer. 

The heat was… supremely uncomfortable. 

Harry wasn’t used to feeling embarrassed, and now it was even threatening to overwhelm the guilt that had claimed the emptiness in Harry’s chest. Quite a feat, that. 

“I’m fixing it,” Riddle said, rolling his eyes. The action didn’t fit him; he was trying too hard to put Harry at ease, and however talented he may have been, it still spoke of wrong. “Calm down, Harry,” Riddle said softly, which wasn’t calming at all. “Oh, what are these?” 

Riddle’s fingertips brushed against Luna’s ear cuffs, and Harry, heart pounding, knocked away Riddle’s hands and stepped backwards. 

He was terrified and hated the irrationality that he could feel himself falling into. It wasn’t a baseless fear but it was a useless one, and Harry, once again, mourned the loss of control that came with his fallen Occlumency shields. 

“You have yet to tell me what it is, exactly, that you feel you have to fix.” 

Harry’s voice was unwavering, even as he felt his heart trying to beat out of his chest. Darkness writhed under his skin and there was desperation there, too, and Harry knew all at once that he needed to leave. He couldn’t explain the ear cuffs and he wouldn’t explain how a condensed form of suppressed, violent magic wanted to tear Riddle to pieces. 

He’d admitted to Riddle last year that magic treated him differently. Harry didn’t know what Riddle would do if exposed to what he actually was. 

“Tomorrow, please,” Harry asked quietly. The choker around his neck, growing heavier by the second, was a welcome reminder, as was Hogwarts’ magic tightening around him. It sensed his distress. 

“Apologies that I don’t work off of your schedule,” drawled Riddle. “I’m helping.” 

“And I’m leaving,” said Harry. “We can talk about your plans, and my uninvolvement, another day. Please.”  

It was his pleading that softened Riddle’s face. The young Dark Lord liked to feel he was in control, Harry thought, and this gave him some measure of power, and perhaps Harry could get back to his room before his black blood began to burn. 

“Fine,” Riddle said finally. “I’ll find you tomorrow.” 

“Thank you,” Harry breathed. 

He didn’t run through the halls, but it was a close thing. 

It felt anticlimactic, his departure, and he didn’t want Riddle to change his mind. 

.

Harry shut his door gently and listened to the lock click into place. Every muscle ached from the tension and his mind was exhausted. 

His hand moved unthinkingly to trace a protective rune on the door. 

With no one else there but him, Harry let himself break. 

.

Harry woke six hours later. He didn’t feel perfect, but it was… better. Looking around the room, he winced, and asked his magic very politely to mend his torn sheets and fill in the hole in the wall. 

He had decided to be dramatic, apparently, Harry thought, watching the room fall back into order. He focused inward on his tattered Occlumency shields, which had begun to reform naturally. It was a relief. 

Harry needed another week of rest, but he had — he checked the time — exactly one hour and twelve minutes before he needed to present as a functional human being. 

It could have been so much worse. Instead of crawling back into bed, Harry dragged himself to the showers and did his best to look outwardly okay. 

He did so well that he almost felt it, too. 

.

Draco caught him before breakfast. 

“How was last night?” he asked, and Harry shrugged. 

“I got to sleep,” Harry said, the guilt in his chest coming back, but Draco didn’t know about Riddle and the boy was in the school. Knowing Draco, he might seek the young Dark Lord out. Harry would do anything to avoid just that. 

Draco looked unconvinced at his brush-off, but let the matter drop. 

“Well, I slept terribly,” he said, in that pompous, purposely distracting tone of his. “In fact, Crabbe was snoring all night, so much so that Nott just left…” 

Draco’s words washed over him and Harry let his mind relax. 

.

Draco went to sit with the Slytherins and Luna appeared beside him. Harry, without speaking, leaned into her side. 

Luna, who seemed to understand, let him. 

“Riddle was here,” Harry murmured softly after tracing a silencing rune on the table. “In the castle. He wanted to talk.” 

“What did he say?” 

“We need to negotiate our ‘truce’,” Harry said, and maybe he was still more tired than he had assumed, because the words came out with a waver. “Ah, we didn’t get into it, much.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Harry paused. 

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“At lunch?” Luna asked. 

“Mm. Have I told you about the Wish Room?” 

He hadn’t. 

.

Harry pushed nearly as much onto Luna’s plate as he did his own, which was a feat in of itself. She didn’t mind. They’d never spoken about that habit of his, but if she had been at all opposed, she would have gently pushed his hands away. Harry took her silence as an unspoken gesture of support. 

“Luna?”

“Hm?” 

“Thank you.” 

.

Harry’s mind had settled down into something that resembled stability, and his mind felt safer than it had since the beginning of summer. 

As he’d been avoiding, Harry let his eyes wandered to the Head Table. 

Dumbledore was smiling, bright and genial as ever. 

Harry could see the small, subtle tremble in his hands. 

Bitter satisfaction joined the guilt and pain in his chest. 

.

The halls felt less crowded than they had last year.  

Sirius Black, people whispered there too. 

.

Harry’s first class of the year was Divination. He’d chosen Arithmancy as his second elective, because he knew Runes, and like Charms, he didn’t want to warp his knowledge. 

He’d heard that Hagrid was teaching Care of Magical Creatures, this year. Draco’s rants had been incensed. Harry had laughed and decided to avoid the class entirely. 

Ravenclaws and Slytherins don’t share that class anyway, He had said when they were choosing, as he was faced with Draco’s indignant scowl. 

You could commiserate, Draco had replied. His bitter tone was only mostly feigned. 

Harry shook his head to clear the memories and focused on the rope ladder in front of him. It swayed precariously as he climbed. 

The smell of the room hit him before anything else, likely because the fog was obscuring the rest of the room. It crawled down Harry’s throat, sliding into his lungs, and he barely held in his cough. 

“Welcome, welcome,” a tonal voice rasped, “to the gateway of your Inner Eye.” 

Harry moved forward, barely out of the door threshold. At the front of the classroom stood a woman in brightly-colored clothes and draped in scarves.

“Hello,” Harry replied. 

The woman met his eyes. For a moment, the room seemed to stop, becoming entirely still, like the fog and dust had frozen in place. 

“Harry Potter,” the woman whispered.

Her eyes were dull and watery, framed by thick-rimmed glasses, and Harry found himself still along with everything else. Her lips were pale, like she'd been pressing them together, her face startlingly white, her fingers shaking. 

"...Professor?" Harry tried. He made sure his voice was as soft as he could make it, because this woman — he was almost positive she was Professor Trelawney, he couldn't think of anyone else — was obviously terrified. 

Of him? 

No, that was impossible. Why would she be? Harry Potter had made himself utterly unremarkable, save for his extreme reaction on the train.

It was much more likely that she was exaggerating a reaction, because Harry was the Boy Who Lived and he'd never spoken to her directly. The thought was more than a bit uncomfortable. But he could still switch to self-study like he'd done in Potions, so at least the subject wouldn't be a total loss. 

Draco would be smug. 

(Harry ignored the part of him that didn't agree, that said this wasn't just dramatics, that she wasn't another Lockhart.)

Harry sighed and stepped fully inside. 

.

Sybill watched the boy with raven hair and bright eyes. She didn't have a choice; she couldn't move. It was all around her, that thing, that sense, pressing in on her lungs like it was trying to press her out. 

It was… dark, so dark, and she'd never felt anything like it. 

Sybill didn't move but for the first time in a very long time she thought she wanted to cry.