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Chapter Text

Death stares down at the soul standing before him. It was a male human, once – magical, to judge by the flare to his light. “Yes?” they say, raising a deliberate eyebrow down at him.

The soul squares his shoulders – a remarkable feat, considering the obvious fear in his eyes. “I want you to protect my son,” he says.

“Hilarious,” Death says drily. They wave what now looks like a skeleton hand in a dismissive gesture. “Why would I do that?”

“He has your cloak.”

Death straightens. “Excuse me?” They don’t wait for an answer, gliding down from what looks to be a throne. “That would mean…” Humming softly, they touch a bony finger to the souls’ cheek, tilting his head upwards. Meeting his gaze, Death delves deep into his conscience.

Everything settles into place.

“James Potter,” they murmur, stepping back from him. “Descendant of Ignotus Peverell, temporary holder of the Cloak of Death.” They crack a smile and savor the way their bones bend strangely at the move. James Potter, in his defense, barely winces. “Though you have called it by a different name, have you not? The Invisibility Cloak. A fitting name.” Tilting their head, they search through the knowledge they took. Then they hum, sinking back into their… throne. How boring some human minds were, to not be able to imagine something more interesting than that…

they allow themselves to bask in the memory of the Christians who had imagined them as their God or their Devil. It was fun to have skin for once. Ah, and to see their terror or joy, of course.

“Your world is in a terrible state,” Death says, twirling their staff between long fingers, “and usually I would not care.” They snap their fingers closed around the staff and glance over at James Potter, leveling him with a heavy look. “You, however, were on your path to becoming my Master. Had it not been for this… Dark Lord,” – they say the name with scorn – “you would eventually find yourself with all three Hallows. And your son…” Death chuckles softly, pleased to note James Potter’s shudder. “I shall give you a choice.”

Death stands once again, making a sweeping motion with their staff. Mostly for show, but the light crackles around it, and soon the room with no walls darkens, leaving only Death and James Potter highlighted. They’re surrounded by mist, floating and flowing shapelessly around, waiting only for Death’s command. “Your son is destined to greatness,” they begin. A young shape runs through the mist, a distant echo of children’s laughter ringing through the air. “Shall you refuse my offer, his death will be soon and brutal.”

The shape fades.

James Potter looks at Death with wide and terrified eyes. “What – what is the offer?”

Death carefully keeps their eyes trained on him. The shape returns, older now, moving slowly through the mist. “As long as some who love him are dead, he shall return from death as long as they deem intelligent.” The shape staggers, fading to red as it falls to its knees. James Potter takes half a step forward, then clenches his hands and keeps still. “They may part with a sliver of their soul so it keeps the body and spirit sown together.” A soul shard, light blue of color, settles across the shape’s shoulders. The redness to it retreats and it stands once again, standing defiantly, staring bravely at something neither Death nor James Potter can see.

Hm… curious. The images are not purely controlled by Death. The boy will meet a mighty foe – greater than any of them anticipates.

“He will carry with him some part of the shard he got.” The figure in the mist raises a hand, and it glows the pale blue of the soul.

James Potter swallows. “This… part, what is it? What does it… consist of?”

“It all depends on who and how much was given – and how much was taken.” Death gives another small, dangerous smile. James Potter glances at them just in time to see it and hurries to turn away. “It might be knowledge – of magic, of history, of language. Anything, really. It might be experience, or a taught skill, or simply mental age.”

“Will it… change him?”

Death would roll their eyes if this form permitted it. “Of course it will. You are changing the very fabric of his life.” They recognize James Potter’s fear, however. “It will never change who he is, however. His personality, his core, and his deepest desires will remain unchanged.”

James Potter’s shoulders sag in relief. Then he straightens. “And the price?”

A wise man. Death smiles, cold and dangerous. “His humanity.”

The figure falls to its knees again, struggling against invisible restraints, twisting and twitching. It fades to an ugly green-like yellow, remaining hunched over, its arms and legs longer, back strangely shaped.

James Potter lets out a choked gasp. “But how will – ”

Death holds up a hand to silence him. “You humor me. It will only enter his body after his first death – and I shall let him control it to some degree.” The figure in the mist flinches, chokes, and then heaves to its feet again. The yellow twists into a green-blue shade. It looks human once again, except for the glint of yellow eyes. “Though it will forever remain part of him, and it shall color his every move.”

There’s a moment of silence. James Potter stares at the figure.

He swallows.

Then turns back to Death. “There is nothing else?”

“There is nothing else.”

James Potter closes his eyes. “I accept.”

Death thumps their staff against the floor. The mist is sucked away, as though it was never there in the first place. “It has been done. You may return to your rightful place.” They know he will go to the Mirror, will go to see his child and anyone else who might remain in the charred coal and smoke. Perhaps he has yet to even realize his love has joined him in death.

James Potter inclines his head. “Alright.” He turns to leave through the massive doors he himself conjured, but before he leaves, he turns back to them. “Wait! What – what kind of creature will he be?”

Death smiles, and it’s not a kind smile. “A demon.”

James Potter pales, but doesn’t comment.

The doors close behind him.

Death stands, bones breaking and molding as the room shifts and turns around them. They sprout feathers of fire and amber, soaring up to perch on the branch shaping up in the tree growing on the riverbank. Closing their eyes, they chirp gently, carefully tucking in their wings.

Time will show whether the world requires their interference again, but for now…

they exhale.

For now, they relax.

Chapter Text

The first time Harry dies he’s two years old. Dudley plays a bit too roughly with him, he stumbles, and his head hits the edge of the table wrong. While Dudley only reacts by grunting at him and waddling away, Harry doesn’t even bleed. He just lies very, very still for a good minute.

And then he sits up, blinking his green eyes up at the harsh lighting. He shakes his head for good measure, staggers to his feet, and walk casually out of the room. No one is there to witness it, except for the echoes of his parents. Their gazes follow him in worry.

They did not part with their souls.

*

The second time Harry dies, he’s four. It isn’t an accident.

The starvation takes only two weeks. Petunia is the one who finds him, dead in the cupboard, and she stares at him for a moment before moving to write a note to Vernon. When she comes back to the cupboard to see if it’s possible to make it look like an accident, Harry stares back at her, and his eyes are yellow.

Petunia drops the notepad in shock.

“Food?” Harry asks, his eyes fading to innocent green. His voice is soft, and Petunia doesn’t notice, because he so rarely speaks, but it’s colder than ice.

Dazed, Petunia nods, walking numbly to the kitchen to find some food for the thing that should not be.

She doesn’t tell Vernon. Only says she can’t bear to have his blood on her hands and begs to instead let him do chores around the house.

Her dreams are haunted by yellow eyes.

*

He dies again when he’s six, suffering from internal bleeding after Dudley taught his friends some good punching techniques. It’s a quiet passing, happening in the cover of night, with no one present to hear the stilling of his heart.

When he wakes again the next morning, he’s as good as new, if not a little bruised.

*

Not much happens after that. Harry begins to attend school more regularly, and Petunia worries what might happen to Dudley if Harry comes to class covered in bruises. She has a stern talk with Dudley and doesn’t budge even when he wails. Her family’s safety is the one thing she will not risk.

Later she talks to Vernon, as well, making him promise to cease the comments whenever they’re in public.

“He’s a freak,” Vernon tells her, the anger boiling behind those words.

“He is,” Petunia agrees. “But do think, dear! If people know we treat him different they might think he’s different, and then they might investigate.”

Vernon gave in, in the end. She did have to threaten him with sleeping on the couch first, though.

And then, after Dudley’s very normal and quite mundane twelfth birthday party, the Dursleys have other things to worry about than being caught.

Chapter Text

Harry stares down at the letter in his hands. The paper – parchment, part of him thinks, that’s surely parchment – is thick and heavy.

“What’s taking so long, boy?” Uncle Vernon calls, and Harry casts a quick glance over his shoulder before refocusing on the letter.

Mr. H. Potter stares up at him in green ink.

Harry has only received letters once or twice before, and they were always from school or the library. The few times it had happened, Uncle Vernon had confiscated it immediately. They had only been handed over to Harry after being thoroughly squinted at.

Something about this letter seems terribly, incredibly important. Maybe it’s the weight of it in his hands. Maybe it’s the seal at the back. Maybe Harry just wants something personal, for once.

“Coming, Uncle Vernon!” he calls, quietly slipping the letter in through the blinds on his cupboard door. He’s going to read that later, when he has time, and when the Dursleys have left the house for the evening.

He suffers through the day, working quicker than usual to finish his assigned tasks. Aunt Petunia squints suspiciously at him, but she shrugs it off and lets him go. Finally, finally Harry’s allowed to retreat to the familiar darkness of his room.

The letter turns out to be way shorter than expected. It’s also a bit underwhelming. Why would they write with green ink anyway? It makes it so much harder to read in the dim darkness…

Harry should probably find a letter telling him he’s a wizard to be a bit more concerning than he does. He should also probably think it’s a joke. Or someone messing with him. Or – well – something, surely!

Instead there’s something that just… clicks. He nods to himself. It feels… right.

We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Now, that doesn’t feel quite as right. An owl? Where do they expect him to find an owl? Is he supposed to go into the wilderness and catch one?

He worries his lip for a bit. Maybe he can mail it back – but no, he got no return address.

Right. Maybe it is a trick, after all. Nothing but a dumb joke played by Dudley and his friends.

Harry stuffs the letter into his pillowcase, knowing Aunt Petunia won’t change his bed anyway. He can’t bring himself to get rid of it completely – and neither can he rid himself of the nagging feeling that the letter is genuine.

But, Harry reminds himself as he desperately tries to extinguish that flare of hope, he can’t contact this Headmaster Dumbledore either way. His heart does sink, a tiny bit, but it’s a lost case. There’s really no way for him to do anything.

He closes the cupboard door behind him and does not look back.

*

Three days later Harry sits on his knees in the backyard, dirt up to his elbows as he works on repotting some of Aunt Petunia’s favorite flowers. The sun’s been beating down on his neck the whole day, and he hasn’t been allowed any sunscreen, so he’s sure to develop a sunburn now.

Grumbling darkly to himself – Harry never liked those flowers anyway – he resigns himself to have a burning neck for a few days.

“B – Harry!” Aunt Petunia calls.

Harry looks up, surprised. She only ever calls him that when they have guests – and if they have guests, she’d want him to be a bit more respectable than he is now…

Grimacing down at his muddy pants, Harry tries his best to brush off the mud before rubbing his hands together to rid them of excess dirt. Then he hurries into the kitchen, careful to leave his shoes by the door so he won’t stomp filth all over the floor.

Aunt Petunia is white as a sheet when she gives him a nervous little smile.

Glancing behind her, Harry can see why.

He blinks at the very, very small man sitting on the couch, then hurries to look at Aunt Petunia again. She doesn’t like it when he stares at strangers.

Aunt Petunia looks even more strained now than before. “This is Mister… Flitwick,” she says, and despite her best efforts her mouth tightens a bit at what she likely finds to be a terribly abnormal surname. “He’s here to talk to you about… school.”

Something tells Harry that the only reason Mister Flitwick was allowed inside was because the neighbours would stare otherwise. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he says, nodding in Mister Flitwick’s direction. Manners are important, he knows.

“And I you, Mr. Potter!” Mister Flitwick says in a very, very small voice that fits his very, very small body. “I am to be your Charms Professor at Hogwarts – and I must apologize, on behalf of Headmaster Dumbledore, for sending you a letter and not a representative right away.”

Harry perks up, chest expanding to make space for the burst of light within him. “You’re from Hogwarts?” he asks, and his voice trembles. Then he hurries to add a meek, “sir,” upon feeling Aunt Petunias’ burning gaze on his already sore neck.

Apparently, Aunt Petunia’s anger hadn’t been because of Harry’s lack of manners. “But – but – but we never said – ” She cuts herself off, pressing a hand to her throat. When she speaks again, her voice raises into a sharp squeak. “You got a letter?”

Oh, no – he’s going to be punished for that now. Ducking his head to avoid her gaze, he allows himself a small nod. “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

She mumbles something suspiciously like ‘so glad Vernon is at work’ under her breath. “Mister… Flitwick,” she says, louder now – and again making a face as though she just bit into a lemon. “The – Harry, here, will not be joining your school.”

Harry’s suddenly thrown back to what feels like ages ago, sitting in the cupboard on bruised knees reading green ink and tasting such wonderful, glorious hope on his tongue. Then the bitterness drowns it, the disappointment and anger with himself for believing, and now – now he’s been given that hope back, and Aunt Petunia tries to take it away from him?

Mister Flitwick glances over at him, and perhaps he sees the way Harry’s fingers have tightened on the cloth of his pants, for he dips his head and looks back to Aunt Petunia. “You say that as though you have any choice in the matter,” he says cheerfully. “Lily and James wanted him there, and so do the teachers.” He looks over at Harry and shows him the most genuine smile Harry has ever seen. “All of us.”

Aunt Petunia stares at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. When Mister Flitwick pulls out a wooden twig – a wand, Harry’s mind helpfully supplements him – she seems to sink into the chair. “Yes, well, when you put it like that…” she very nearly squeaks.

Chuckling, Mister Flitwick gives his wand a little twirl, after which a scroll of… not paper, but parchment, appears in the air. He plucks it down and unrolls it, quickly skimming through its contents. “I came here with the orders to discuss the plans for young Harry with you, Mrs. Dursley,” Mister Flitwick says, and from his position by the door, Harry can see the way his lips curl in an amused smile. “Though now it appears I’m here to tell you about the plans.”

Aunt Petunia pales a few shades more – and surely, she must be about to reach maximum paleness – but nods, nonetheless. Admittedly, the nod is a bit shaky, but at least it’s a nod.

“Right,” Mister Flitwick says, clearing his throat. “I will return in two days’ time to bring Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley – that is, a Wizarding shopping street where he will be able to purchase everything he’ll need for school. He will be handed a ticket to the Hogwarts Express, which leaves for Hogwarts the 1^st of September at 11 o’clock precisely. It leaves from King’s Cross in London, at Platform 9¾.” Mister Flitwick looks up at Aunt Petunia, his eyes sharp. “You will make sure Mr. Potter gets to the platform on time. If he does not arrive to school, one of my colleagues or I will bring him there.” He looks down again, but Harry can still see the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Not brining him might have… consequences.”

Aunt Petunia nods hurriedly. “Of course,” she allows shakily. “Two days’ time. London the 1^st of September.” She swallows, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. Her knuckles go white where she tightens her hold on the armrests of her chair. “If – if you’ll excuse me, Mister F… Flitwick – my husband will return home soon, and – he would not like seeing you here.”

“I see I have overstepped my welcome,” Mister Flitwick says, hopping down from the couch. The amused creases around his eyes show that he is likely fully aware that he was never welcome in the first place.

Harry notes that he isn’t as short as he seems when he’s standing. He would probably be about Harry’s height, actually.

Mister Flitwick turns to Harry with a bright smile, bowing at the waist. “I’ll see you in two days, Mr. Potter,” he says, and then he spins on his heel and disappears with a crack.

Harry stares at the spot where he stood for a moment.

And then he turns on Aunt Petunia. “You knew?” he says, hands balling into fists.

“Hush, boy,” Aunt Petunia replies, but it lacks the usual malice. She’s still pale, hands trembling slightly as she stares into absolutely nothing. “I… I have to tell Vernon…”

Recognizing a lost fight when he sees one, Harry walks off, grumbling darkly to himself about aunts who can’t take a bit of a surprise.

His heart is already dreaming of magic, and owls, and spells.

*

Later that day, after he’s finished in the garden and dinner and sweeping the hallway he lies in his cupboard and listens to Uncle Vernon’s bellows of rage, followed by Aunt Petunia raising her voice to screech at him – a seemingly fruitless attempt at explaining, or perhaps placating.

Harry rolls over and closes his eyes. It’s not his problem. He’ll be going to school no matter what the Dursleys settle on.

They yell far into the night, and when Harry is torn out of sleep to make breakfast the next morning, Aunt Petunia is grim and Uncle Vernon isn’t looking at either of them.

Still, Harry supposes, it’s better than being thrown out on the street. He eats his bacon in peace.

*

Harry waits anxiously the next day. It occurs to him, while he’s fixing breakfast, that Mister Flitwick hadn’t mentioned when he was arriving – only that he was.

Aunt Petunia seems just as anxious as him, glancing at the clock every ten minuets or so.

Around noon someone knocks on the door. The whole house holds its breath.

“Boy –” Uncle Vernon says.

“I’ll get it!” Harry runs for the door, nearly tripping in his haste. He rips it open, lowers his gaze, and finds that his predictions had been right. The very, very small man called Mister Flitwick is just a little bit shorter than him. “Hello,” he greets, offering him a smile. “Are we going to that street now?”

Mister Flitwick smiles at him. “Diagon Alley, yes,” he says, nodding once. His gaze shifts to something behind Harry, and some of the warmth in his smile dwindles. “Ah, hello again, Mrs. Dursley! I will be taking Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley, now, as we agreed.”

Harry strains his neck to look at Aunt Petunia, who’s clutching the doorframe as though it’s the only thing holding her upright. She looks incredibly disappointed. “Yes,” she says. “Make sure you do. And that you return him in one piece.” There is an attempt – which Harry has to admit is quite the failure, thanks to how she has once again paled – at looking down her nose on Mister Flitwick. “We know how this – this pesky wand waving business is. Dangerous, that is! So. Make sure he comes back whole. Or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Mister Flitwick chuckles. “Of course, Mrs. Dursley. We’ll return no later than twilight.”

It gives them lots of time, Harry notes. It’s summer – twilight won’t arrive for another seven hours, at least. Aunt Petunia looks like she might complain, but Mister Flitwick grabs Harry by the arm and spins with him, and then there’s a terrible sensation of being flushed down the toilet, and then Harry’s standing in the middle of a busy street.

He lets out a yelp and stumbles a bit, but Mister Flitwick merely chuckles and pats his hand a bit. “Not to worry, Mr. Potter,” he says, “everyone reacts a bit poorly to their first apparition.”

Harry isn’t quite sure what to say in response to that, for he’s a bit busy staring at the street unfolding before him. There are people everywhere, wearing tall pointy hats and long robes and chattering on about a dozen different topics. There is a shop for owls, and there one for cauldrons, and there one with books –

“Let’s see, then,” says Mister Flitwick, pulling a piece of parchment out of his robes. “I think we’ll go through this list in order, and then you can go shopping for whatever you like afterwards – how’s that, hm?” He hands Harry the list as he speaks, and Harry takes it with eager hands.

Robes, gloves, cauldrons, books –

a wand.

And he’s allowed to shop freely afterwards? Wherever he wants? Harry takes in the street with something akin to hunger in his stomach. “I would like that very much,” he manages to say. “But – Mister Flitwick, sir, I don’t have any money…”

Mister Flitwick nods, as though he had expected this. “That there,” he says, pointing down to a large marble building further down the street, “is Gringotts, the Wizarding bank. Your parents left you a vault.” He begins to walk down the street, and Harry, not wanting to be left alone in the hustle and bustle of this new and exciting world, hurries to keep up. Not that he needs to hurry a lot – Mister Flitwick has shorter legs than him, after all. “Oh, and Mr. Potter? That’s Professor Flitwick, to you.”

Harry would be ashamed, if it weren’t for the good natured way Mister – Professor Flitwick had said it. As it is, he only nods, mumbles some form of apology, and keeps up.

At the entrance to Gringotts stands two even shorter creatures. “Goblins,” Professor Flitwick explains, exchanging a bow with the goblin to the right. Harry, not wanting to accidentally offend them, bows as well. Professor Flitwick gives him one of his amused looks, but doesn’t comment, so he must’ve done something right.

The trip inside of the bank is, to be quite honest, a bit boring. There’s some to-the-point talk between Professor Flitwick and a goblin, and then they’re walking a bit. The most exciting part has to be the ride down to the Potter vault (Harry doesn’t bother keeping in his whoop of excitement) and the absolute mountains of coins Harry is met with when the vault door opens for him.

He turns to Professor Flitwick with wide eyes. “How – how much can I take?” he asks meekly.

“Wise question!” Professor Flitwick says, his voice rising in pitch with his eagerness. “You should take enough to last the schoolyear, as well as this shopping trip – here, let’s look at it together, shall we?” He walks over to Harry and picks up some of the coins, pointing out a Knut and a Sickle and a Galleon and explaining their worth. Harry nods along, though he doesn’t think he’ll remember how much a Knut is to a Sickle and a Sickle to a Galleon – as long as he remembers which is which, it should be easy enough.

When they leave, Professor Flitwick assures him he has enough for the schoolyear – and probably a little bit extra, he says with a wink.

Harry can almost swear that the goblin escorting them rolls his eyes.

*

Harry squints at the bright light outside of Gringotts. He hadn’t realized it was that dim in there. “What now?” he asks Professor Flitwick, his pouch of newly acquired money jingling by his thigh.

Professor Flitwick hums, pulling out that list again. “Ah, that would be robes,” he says. “Madam Malkin’s would be best for that. Follow me.”

Not long after they’ve found their way into a small shop full of racks and mannequins with all different sorts of robes. Some are long, some short, some simple and some terribly flamboyant. Harry, busy staring around the room, barely hears Professor Flitwick telling the lady at the counter that he’s a “Hogwarts student, the full set.”

They’re both taken to the back room, where Harry is put on a stool. The lady – Madam Malkin – slips a black robe over his head and begins to pin it to the right length. “Which House, dearie?” she asks, not looking up at Harry as she works.

Harry throws Professor Flitwick a flabbergasted look.

Professor Flitwick chuckles. “A first year, ma’am,” he says, and Madam Malkin nods, as though that explains everything. Professor Flitwick then patiently explains the four Houses of Hogwarts, into which all the first years are sorted on their first day. “What house do you think you’ll be in, Mr. Potter?” he asks, something like curiosity to his voice.

Before Harry can open his mouth to answer (“I don’t know”) Madam Malkin stiffens. “Mister – Mister Potter?” she repeats, looking up at Harry as if he just saved her dog from drowning. “Harry Potter?”

“Uh,” says Harry. “Hi?”

“Madam,” Professor Flitwick says courtly, “The robes, please.”

Madam Malkin blinks, then hurries to continue with the robes.

Harry frowns at Professor Flitwick.

“Ah,” he says, and the usual humor in his eyes flickers and dies. He sits down on the stool standing beside Harry’s. “Twenty years ago, there was a terrible war. Your parents fought in it, along with many, many others.”

Harry stares at Professor Flitwick with wide eyes. This is more information that he’d ever dreamed of learning of his parents.

“Our side fought against a terrible foe,” Professor Flitwick continues. “A Dark Lord, who we today know as You-Know-Who, or He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“What’s his actual name?” Harry asks curiously.

Professor Flitwick visibly grimaces. Then he glances around before leaning forward. “Lord… Voldemort,” he whispers. He shudders after saying the name. “He was a terribly evil man. Hundreds of lives were lost. Nothing seemed to be able to stop him.” There’s a heavy pause. Professor Flitwick levels him with a solemn gaze. “Until you.”

“M – me?” Harry squeaks.

“You-Know-Who came to your parents house late at night during Halloween, 1981,” Professor Flitwick continues. His voice trembles, just slightly, with some withheld emotion. “Lily and James did not survive. But when he leveled his wand on you…” Professor Flitwick pauses again. “The Killing Curse is supposed to kill instantly.”

Numbness creeps up Harry’s arms. The hairs on his back stand up, and he flexes his fingers against a sudden uneasiness. “Why didn’t it?” he whispers.

“No one knows,” Professor Flitwick says quietly. “But when we came to the house… all that was left was you and a dusty robe with You-Know-Who’s magical imprint on it.” He shakes his head. “You’re known as The-Boy-Who-Lived, Mr. Potter. Everyone in this world knows about you.”

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. “O – oh,” he says. Then he quiets, not sure how to react to all of this. Professor Flitwick looks so terribly sad, so old and worn – Harry would like to say sorry, but it would probably be taken the wrong way, so he says nothing.

“There,” Madam Malkin says, her voice thick with emotion. When she straightens beside Harry, her eyes are wet with tears. “Free. Savior of the wizarding world discount.”

“What – no! I can’t do that,” Harry exclaims, pushing aside the robe to tug open his pouch filled with money. “That’s – here,” he says, shoving a handful of Galleons at her. “Is that enough? Do you need more?” He gives Professor Flitwick a look which hopefully isn’t as desperate as he thinks. “What’s the price?”

Madam Malkin makes a keening sound at the back of her throat, and then she swallows, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. She looks down at the golden coins in her hands, then carefully counts out three Galleons and five Sickles. “There,” she says, voice wobbling slightly. She hands back easily ten Galleons. “I don’t need more.” She holds out her free hand after Harry puts the rest of the coins into his pouch.

Harry blinks at it for a moment, then, realizing what she wants, he rushes forward to shake it.

“You are a kind boy, Harry Potter,” Malkin says. “Thank you.”

Once outside, after Professor Flitwick has shrunk Harry’s bags and put them in a larger bag and handed it off to him, Harry sighs. “She shouldn’t have treated me like that,” he mutters. “I haven’t… done anything yet.”

“While that might be true,” Professor Flitwick says patiently, “there are many people who will react in similar ways. You are loved here, Mr. Potter. I would advice you to get used to the thought.” He gives Harry a small beam. “And I’m saying this only because I think you ought to know, but the Hogwarts student pack costs 15 Galleons, usually.”

Harry freezes. “What?” he exclaims. “She took – she took two!”

Professor Flitwick nods. “And she was very much aware of what she was doing,” he says. “Don’t hold it against her. She’s grateful.” His eyes cloud as he stares at something far, far away. “We all are.”

Clearing his throat, Harry shifts from one foot to the other. “Well, er… what’s – what’s next on the list?”

“Ah – er,” says Professor Flitwick, fumbling for the list. “Books! Course books, that is. Flourish and Blotts is where most students go – this way!”

Harry follows, relieved to see the Professor smiling in that quickly-becoming-familiar way of his. Books aren’t his greatest pleasure, as he never quite got the hang of reading, but if it’s required, it’s required.

When they enter the shop – a store filled with shelves stacked to the ceiling with books upon books upon books – Professor Flitwick puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry almost manages to keep from twitching at the sudden move. “Take a look around, Mr. Potter,” Professor Flitwick says with a smile, “and I’ll talk to the clerk regarding your schoolbooks.”

Harry nods absently, wandering off towards the back of the store. He reads the backs of some of the books as he goes, and a few of them piques his fancy. Pulling one of them out of the shelf – Curses and Countercurses – he begins to flip through it, humming in interest at some of the odd things the book promises to teach him.

A curse that twists a person’s tongue? Harry thinks wistfully of the way he’s sometimes wanted Uncle Vernon to just shut up about his dad.

“Hello,” a voice says, and Harry spins around, nearly dropping his book in surprise. A pretty boy with silver-white hair and pointed features stands by the other shelf, holding a leather satchel in his other hand. “First year, you too?”

Flushing slightly at the state of his own clothes – Dudley’s hand-me-downs aren’t exactly the prettiest dress clothes out there – Harry nods.

The boy’s gaze lands on the book in Harry’s hands, and he wrinkles his nose. “You don’t want to buy that,” he says. “It’s a terrible boor, my father says. And most the curses are practically useless, too.”

Harry looks down at the book again, frowning slightly. The Jelly-Legs curse doesn’t seem useless, to him. “Why?” he asks. If the book is bad, he’d like to know the specifics, so he knows what to avoid in others.

That seems to throw the boy for a loop. “Er, well – because it is, of course,” he says, raising his chin dauntingly.

“Right,” says Harry, feeling very much not impressed.

“Anyway,” the boy says, “my parents are just up the street looking at trunks for my year. I hope they find one with a few extra compartments – and it better have the Slytherin crest on it, too – I mean, it’s obvious I’m going there, we don’t need to wait for the Sorting to know that.”

Harry nods warily, glancing to the right to see if it’s a suitable exit route.

The boy gives him another daunting look. “Not the talkative sort, are you?” He then gets an utterly horrified look over him. “You are the right sort, aren’t you?”

Not quite sure what the ‘right’ sort is, Harry nods eagerly. “Oh, yes, of course,” he says, eyeing the gap between the two bookshelves. Maybe he’d fit there, if he sucked in his stomach…

“Oh. Well, then.” The boy looks about. “Who are you with, by the way?”

“You know,” Harry says cheerily, “I think he just called for me! I have to go. See you at Hogwarts!” And with that he bolts for the gap between the shelves, sucking in his stomach just to be sure. The boy doesn’t even have time to react.

Harry browses for books a bit more, picking out a few more as he walks. Powers You Never Knew You Had and What To Do With Them Now You've Wised Up looks interesting, so he tucks it under his arm. Runic Dictionary has a rich red color to its cover, and Harry ooh’s and aah’s a bit over it before he brings that, too. Curses and Countercurses remains in the bunch, purely out of spite.

By the time Professor Flitwick calls Harry back to the counter, he hasn’t picked out any more books. He offers Professor Flitwick a bashful smile, but he only chuckles a bit, looking almost pleased with him.

“Come on, then,” Professor Flitwick says good-naturedly, “next on the list is your wand.”

 “Is there a trunk on the list, sir?” Harry asks.

Professor Flitwick squints down at the paper. “…no,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “We’ll have to get you that, as well.”

Harry nods absently. “Wand first, though, right?” he asks eagerly.

“Indeed,” Professor Flitwick says with a smile.

Ollivander’s has a narrow outside and a tiny, dim and dusty inside. It reminds Harry somewhat of his cupboard.

A tiny bell rings somewhere in the shop as Harry and Professor Flitwick enter. There are small, rectangular boxes stacked atop each other along the walls and on the shelves. Harry stares at them, wondering which might hold the wand he will end up with.

“Good afternoon,” a soft voice interrupts.

Harry jumps, turning to face the owner of the voice. He comes face to face with an old man whose hair looks like cobwebs and eyes like moons. “Hello,” he greets cautiously.

The man – Ollivander? – smiles. Harry isn’t sure if he likes that smile or not. “Ah, yes. Yes. I’ve been waiting for you. Harry Potter.” Harry nods slowly. “You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow.”

Nodding in understanding, Harry adds, “Nice for charm work, right?”

Ollivander beams. “Oh, yes, absolutely,” he agrees.

Harry blinks. He hadn’t even guessed on that. He’d just blurted it out. A quick glance at Professor Flitwick shows him to be just as confused as him.

“Your father, however,” says Ollivander conspiringly, walking closer to Harry, “favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power – ”

“And excellent for Transfiguration,” Harry buts in.

What on Earth is transfiguration?

“Oh yes, quite so!” Ollivander says. “Ah, well, I say your father favored the wand – but it really is the other way. The wand chooses the wizard, after all.”

Harry nods.

Ollivander’s eyes drift, settling on Professor Flitwick, who’s still standing by the door with a small smile. “Ah!” Ollivander exclaims. “Filius, what a joy, it’s almost as though it was yesterday… aspen, dragon heartstring, nine inches?”

“Oh, yes, right as always!” Professor Flitwick says. “Works as a charm.” He adds a wink to the end, which Ollivander chuckles at.

Charms, Harry’s mind supplements, aspen is good for charms.

“Now, yes, young Mr. Potter – wand arm?”

And so passes almost twenty minutes of Harry being handed wand after wand, all of them rejecting him the moment they touch his fingers. His heart sinks a little with each discarded wooden stick, but Ollivander only seems to grow more and more excited.

“Tricky customer, hm?” he says, eventually, giving the tall pile of wands an amused look. “No matter, no matter – every wizard has his wand. Let’s see, now…” He goes fluttering over by the shelves, muttering to himself.

As Harry has already seen this happen seven times, now, he turns to Professor Flitwick with an expression he knows is hopeless.

Professor Flitwick offers him a reassuring smile. “I took almost an hour,” he whispers. “I thought there might’ve been a mistake. Not to worry, Mr. Potter. You’ll find your wand.”

Ollivander returns shortly after, shoving a new wand into Harry’s hands. “Holly, phoenix, eleven inches, nice and supple,” he says.

Harry sighs, taking the wand in hand and expecting it to be snatched right out again.

He blinks, however, at the sudden and immediate surge of power that rushes through him – from his very toes to the roots of his hair.

“Hm,” says Ollivander, “no, I don’t think – ”

Harry snarls, taking a step back and clutching the wand to his chest. Ollivander blinks, taken aback. “No,” says Harry hotly, “I want this one.”

“But – ”

“This one,” Harry repeats, and his scar tingles. “Or nothing.”

There’s a moment where bone-deep terror flickers in Ollivander’s eyes. A brief second it doesn’t seem like he’s in the tiny shop anymore, but rather somewhere very far away. Then Ollivander blinks and the look is gone. “Ah, Mr. Potter, are you certain?”

Harry straightens, wand still in hand. His scar stops tingling. “Yes. It chose me.”

Ollivander seems resigned. “Very well,” he mutters. “Seven Galleons.”

Nodding, Harry hands over the seven golden coins. He bids Ollivander farewell – which he responds to, admittedly somewhat shakily. Back out on the street, Professor Flitwick gives Harry a strange look. “What was that, Mr. Potter?”

“The wand felt… right,” Harry tries to explain. “I’m not sure, sir. I just… I just knew that I couldn’t leave the store without it.” He ducks his head bashfully. “I… I’m sorry, if I embarrassed you, sir – I don’t know what came over me…”

And true, he doesn’t know what that was. There was just this… this intense, feral anger at the thought of losing the wand that so obviously had chosen him.

“Apology accepted, Mr. Potter,” Professor Flitwick says easily. “Well, let’s go, then. We still need to finish the rest of your shopping.”

The Apothecary is a fascinating, curious place, and Harry spends most of the time peeking into barrels and boxes and drawers full of strange, slimy stuff. Jars of herbs and roots line the walls while feathers, claws, and fangs hang from the ceiling. Harry ooh’s and aah’s for a bit and almost manages to keep in his disappointment when the basic potion ingredients he needs for school don’t include neither unicorn hair nor vampire fangs.

After they finish in the Apothecary, they stop by the last obligated shop to get Harry a cauldron, glass phials, a telescope (which Harry almost manages to break), and a set of scales. “What now, sir?” Harry asks, shifting to get a better grip on the bags he carries. “A trunk?”

Chuckling good naturedly, Professor Flitwick steers him towards the trunk shop. “First year,” he tells the clerk, as Harry once again drifts through the shop. They have trunks in all the colors he can think of, and then a few more – large trunks, small trunks, trunks that look like books, trunks that are made of books.

Harry leaves the shop with one of the better trunks designed for First Year students. It has three compartments (all of which have their own passwords) and a Hogwarts crest at the top lid. “The House-Elves have seen this model before,” the clerk assures him, “and will Charm your House crest onto it once you’ve been sorted.”

Harry nods, making a mental note to look up House Elves later.

“Now, Harry,” Professor Flitwick says, after they’ve put all his bags into the trunk and Professor Flitwick cast something he called a featherlight Charm on it. “Where to?”

With a start, Harry realizes they must have finished the list. His stomach swoops. He’s never been able to shop like this before. “Uhm – the list said – we can bring a pet?” he asks, crossing his fingers eagerly. It’s almost too good to be true.

Professor Flitwick nods. “A toad, a cat, or an owl are the most common,” he says. “I know of a pet store right around the corner. Come on.”

*

Harry watches the toads through the glass, but shakes his head and moves on quickly. Toads aren’t really… his thing. He’s surprised toads are anyone’s thing, to be honest. The cats aren’t really interesting either – he’s fine with cats and most cats are fine with him, but they watch him with creepily intelligent eyes as he passes them. Besides, he’ll be reminded of Mrs. Figg every time he looks at it if he gets one. He has to restrain a shudder.

A low hoot gets his attention. There are a few owls gathered at the back of the room. Most of them have dusty coats, but there are a few peculiars in there – a jet-black one, and one looking as though it’s trying to impersonate an eagle –

and… a snow-white little angel.

Harry feels as though all the air has been punched out of his lungs. “Hey, there,” he whispers, walking over to the owl’s perch. “Aren’t you a beauty?” The tag beneath the perch reads Snow Owl – loyal, protective, and headstrong. Carries your mail like no other. Harry looks up at the owl with a wide smile. “Think we’ll work together?”

The owl hoots, fluttering its wings a little before taking flight. A moment later it settles on Harry’s shoulder.

Professor Flitwick looks terribly amused when Harry makes his way over to the counter. Harry doesn’t ask why.

*

They return to the Dursleys somewhere around dinner time, and Harry has stuffed his trunk full of all kinds of interesting things. There’s wizarding candy, the books he’d bought, some small knick-knacks that look strange or make odd sounds, a proper box for his wand along with an instruction pamphlet and a set of polish, a wand harness Professor Flitwick said was smart to get, a Bottomless Bag, quills and parchment, owl food and so on and so on.

Upon arriving back at the Dursleys, Harry realizes that he might have a bit of a problem.

There’s nowhere to put his things.

This problem, however, is not a long-lived one. Not long after Harry comes in – wizarding trunk and owl and all – Uncle Vernon clears his throat briskly. “We’ve talked about it,” he says, and Harry gets the vague impression that Uncle Vernon would rather be anywhere else than here, “and you might be getting a bit too, er, big, for the cupboard. Which is why you’ll be getting Dudley’s second room.”

A pause, and then Harry nods. “Thank you, Uncle Vernon.”

That sure solves the problem of space. Well, almost. The room is full of Dudley’s broken toys, but that’s alright. Harry will look through it to find what he’d like to keep in the room and what he should throw out.

Later, when Harry’s gone to bed and Dudley has not gotten his room back, he lies and stares at his trunk and owl into the late hours of night.

*

A month later Harry stands by Platform Nine, King’s Cross, holding the ticket he got from Professor Flitwick tightly. The Dursleys left a few minutes ago, looking terribly amused but apparently not daring to laugh at him.

Harry looks up at the brick wall in front of him. “You just walk straight through,” Professor Flitwick had said, when Harry asked. “Just walk. It’s as easy as that.”

Watching the wall now, Harry isn’t quite so sure. Nevertheless, he takes a step forward and reaches out, pressing his fingers to the bricks.

Except his fingers go straight through.

Hiding a small smile Harry looks about, making sure no one who shouldn’t see this is watching him. Then he steps fully forward, pulling his trunk after him. Darkness engulfs him for a few long moments, but it ends as quickly as it came, as he suddenly stands on a completely new place.

Harry blinks. Powerful magic, he thinks, to transport someone this far…

The platform is packed with people, cats running about and owls soaring above them. Children and teenagers flutter from group to group, loud chattering and laughing filling the air. Adults stand scattered on the platform as well, talking together in tones that aren’t quite as loud as the children.

Harry rushes for the train, ducking his head in an attempt to not meet anyone’s eyes. He hoists his trunk into the train – with some difficulties, since Professor Flitwick’s Charm had worn off after some time – and climbs in after it. After a brief search he finds an empty compartment, where he sits down with a heavy sigh.

He leans his head back against the headrest behind him and closes his eyes. Peace. His stomach clenches painfully against a wave of nervousness, and he opens his eyes again. What if he won’t be sorted? What if it really is a mistake?

A boy pokes his head into the compartment before Harry can follow that train of thought any further. “Hi,” he says cheerily, “can I sit here? Everywhere else is full…”

Harry gestures for the seat opposite of him. The boy – a head full of ginger hair and the whole night sky scattered across his face, along with kind dark eyes – nods gratefully and sinks into the seat, pushing his worn trunk beneath it.

A tense pause. “First year?” the boy asks. Harry nods. “Me too. I’m Ron Weasley, by the way.” He doesn’t hold out his hand to shake, and Harry likes him a little bit more for it.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says. “I’m Harry Potter.”

Ron instantly looks as though the sun just exploded. “You – I mean – are you? Really?” Harry nods. Who else would he be? “And you – do you have the… the scar?”

Harry smiles, in spite of himself. Poor Ron, too flustered to string together words properly. “Yeah,” he says, pushing his curls away from his forehead.

“Wow,” says Ron.

“Not really,” says Harry, letting go of his bangs again.

Ron blinks, then bursts into surprised laughter. “Suppose not.” Then he sobers again. “Do you… I mean, do you remember any of it?” Harry shakes his head, which seems to disappoint Ron, for he slumps a bit over in his chair. “Oh,” he says. Harry shifts, uncomfortable with Ron’s small sigh. He almost considers making something up, just to cheer him up again. Then Ron perks up. “Want to play Exploding Snap?”

The next hour or so is spent in cheery company, Ron gleefully explaining the rules of the card game to Harry, who listens with rapt interest. When Harry learns the rules and the game begins to go smoothly, they talk about themselves – Harry manages to get Ron on a roll, talking about his brothers and parents and his little sister Ginny. Ron asks a question here and there himself, but Harry answers as vaguely as he can. He’s not sure if Ron really would appreciate all the stories of his childhood.

At one point a girl with dark skin and wild, bushy hair bursts into the compartment, blabbering about a lost toad. When she sees Harry and Ron playing, however, she quiets down and enters the compartment. The quiet doesn’t last long, though, as she hurries to bombard them both with questions about the game. Harry, still not fully certain about the rules, is happy to let Ron explain.

The girl introduces herself as Hermione Granger, after which Harry and Ron introduce themselves as well. Hermione gapes at him for a moment, before leaving Ron and bombarding Harry with questions instead. He can’t answer even half of them (“Is it true that your favorite candy is ice mice?” – Harry doesn’t even know what that is), which he tells her, and she pouts but accepts that.

By the time the sun tips towards the horizon and the skies turn dark, Harry has made relatively good friends with the both of them. Hermione is a bit over the top enthusiastic about her hobbies, and Ron is a bit over the top enthusiastic about Harry, but he can live with that. They’re both kind, and nice, and seem like good people.

“I’d love to be a Gryffindor,” Ron tells them, proudly puffing out his chest as Harry hands him another Chocolate Frog. “My whole family has been Gryffindors.”

Hermione bites her lip. “I’ve heard so much good about Gryffindors.” Then she seems to pale. “As long as I don’t end up in Slytherin…”

Ron nods vehemently.

Harry frowns. Professor Flitwick had said every House was just as good as the others… “I don’t know where I’ll go,” he says, fiddling a bit with his sleeve. “I think all of the Houses sound just fine.”

Hermione and Ron stare at him for a bit. Then Ron ducks his head, muttering something vaguely agreeing, and Hermione nods thoughtfully.

“Well,” she says, biting her lip, “I guess we’ll just have to see.”

*

The boy from the book store in Diagon Alley corners Harry later, when they’re standing and waiting for the Sorting to begin. “You didn’t tell me you were Harry Potter!” he exclaims.

Harry blinks. “You – you didn’t ask,” he says, taking a step back from the eager expression on the boy’s face. “And you didn’t tell me your name!”

The boy straightens up as though this feat requires his full attention. “My name is Malfoy,” he says. “Draco Malfoy.”

Harry nods to this. “Hi, Draco. Nice to meet you.”

Before they can say anything else to each other, Hermione appears through the crowd and pulls Harry away, chattering eagerly about the ghosts that just floated in through the wall. Harry throws Draco a quick wave.

Ron greets Hermione and Harry both beneath one of the lanterns. His face is pale, making his freckles stand out, and it looks like his hands might be shaking just a little bit. “What’d you reckon the Sorting will be?” he asks. “Fred and George – my brothers – said we’d be wrestling a troll…”

But before either Harry or Hermione can answer that, the doors to the Great Hall swings open.

Harry stares in awe. The ceiling is scattered full of stars and a cloud here and there – rows upon rows of floating candles clutter the air above the four long tables positioned in the room. Hermione leans forward and whispers, to them both, “The ceiling is enchanted to look like the outside sky – no matter the weather!”

“Wow,” Harry breathes.

A fifth table stands upon a little podium at the end of the room. A very important looking man sits at its centre, along with several other, slightly less important looking people flanking him on each side. When Harry finds Professor Flitwick among them he realizes it must be the teachers’ table.

Professor Flitwick meets Harry’s gaze and offers a reassuring smile, to which Harry nods his thanks.

There’s an old, rugged hat standing on a stool beside the Professor who’d introduced herself as McGonagall. Once all the children are positioned inside the room, its brim rips open – and it begins to sing.

Harry is too fascinated and intrigued to truly listen to the words the hat sings, but at least the melody is catchy.

There’s no speech or anything when the hat finishes – just a cleared throat from Professor McGonagall and some rustling of paper –

“Abbot, Hanna!”

A girl with pigtails breaks free from the crowd, stumbling up towards Professor McGonagall. Once there, she sits down on the stool and pulls the hat onto her head.

A pause, and then – “HUFFLEPUFF!”

Harry holds his breath as they move down the list, students being sent off to –

“RAVENCLAW!” – a boy with jet-black hair and rectangular glasses, Professor McGonagall had said his name was Terry Boot –

“GRYFFINDOR!” – Hermione sags over in relief and scurries over to the table clad in red –

“SLYTHERIN!” – that’s Draco, looking utterly pleased with himself –

They’re closer, so much closer than just five students ago, and Harry feels far more nervous than he has any right to be.

Then, finally – “Potter, Harry!”

Ignoring the many whispers spreading through the hall, Harry takes a deep breath and marches towards the Sorting Hat.

Chapter Text

“Ah,” the hat says the instant Harry slips it on, “what do we have here?”

“Uh,” says Harry. “Hi?”

The hat chuckles. “Now, we don’t have time for pleasantries. You’d do well in all houses…” It trails off. “Oh… oh well, now, what’s this? Ah, you’re not quite as you seem, then, young boar. Very well. I’d best put you in GRYFFINDOR!”

The last part is shouted aloud, and the Hall explodes in cheers and whistles. Harry notes drily that they seem to be coming mainly from the Gryffindor table. Tugging off the hat and handing it back to Professor McGonagall – who now smiles at him – he moves to his new table. He’s joined by Ron, later, and they’re both grinning widely at each other when Harry scoots over to give him place. Hermione sits on his other side and listens intently as the older students fill them in on teacher names and classes and schedules and hallways.

Later, when they’ve all found their way into their respective dormitories, Harry lies in a bed larger than his cupboard has ever felt. He doesn’t stay awake very long – long enough to hear the other boys’ breaths turn even as they fade into sleep, but not a minute longer – and when he sleeps, he sleeps calmly and well.

*

The first week at Hogwarts is… strange. The classes are interesting – Harry finally gets an answer to what Transfiguration is – and at least some of the teachers are alright. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall soon become Harry’s favorite teachers. Professor Flitwick because of his never-ending cheeriness – and, alright, Harry’s not gonna lie and say that his threatening Aunt Petunia doesn’t play into it – and Professor McGonagall because she’s one of the few teachers who don’t treat Harry different from other students.

Harry flits from class to class with Hermione and Ron by his side – sometimes they have to stop and ask portraits and ghosts for direction, which they do with enthusiasm (they’re moving! Moving portraits!). Magic flows through the air wherever they move, crackling against Harry’s skin in the most delicious way, and Harry bathes in the sensation. He talks to Hermione and Ron about it, but Ron explains that since he grew up among magic, he’s become somewhat numb to it. Hermione, however, nods eagerly to Harry’s words.

He sees Draco around, but Draco apparently decided that Harry wasn’t worth his time when they were sorted into different Houses. Harry doesn’t mind – he’d reminded him of Dudley, in the way he spoke. Ron tells him, one evening while attempting to teach Harry chess, that the Weasley and Malfoy family have been fighting for a long time. “Good thing we didn’t become friends, then,” Harry says, moving his Queen.

Ron laughs. “That, plus he’s a gigantic git.” He moves a horse. “Check mate!”

All in all, Harry has a good time. There’s food when he wants, friends who spend time with him, and teachers who don’t ask too many questions. It’s a bit uncomfortable, of course, what with all the people staring and whispering his name behind their hands – but Harry’s been at the end of unwanted attention before and does what’s always worked best – ignores it.

After a Flying class where Harry saves a boy’s – Neville’s – Remembrall, Neville tends to stick around their group. Harry doesn’t click with him quite as he clicked with Hermione and Ron, but he’s still a kind, quiet boy, and they share a few warm conversations.

*

Glancing at the clock Harry bites back a low curse. His jog morphs into a sprint as he bolts down the hallway. He’s going to be late to Potions – Snape is never going to forgive him – will probably dock fifty points from Gryffindor, as well –

Harry had been having a pleasant conversation with a painting of a young girl regarding the topic of wand lore (which he’d read several books on since he came here – he hadn’t found out why he knew tidbits of information from before, but the topic was fascinating nonetheless) and they’d gotten a bit carried away. By the time Harry remembered what time it was and where he was supposed to be, they’d strolled through half the castle and up a few staircases. He’d apologized profusely to Zahira and ran back down the hallway.

It doesn’t seem like that’s going to be enough – class has already started, and Harry hasn’t got further than halfway. Hoping he’ll reach the damp dungeons before the feared five-minute-mark (after which points will be docked by any teacher, and many points will be docked by Snape), Harry speeds up, feet slamming against the floor as he plummets forward.

There – that’s the staircase that goes to the second floor –

Gritting his teeth Harry bursts down it, jumping two steps at a time and nearly paying for it with his bag. He’s half-way down the stairs when his foot slams against nothing, then seemingly gets stuck – he loses balance, topples forward –

he barely has time to put up his arms to brace for the fall. There’s a moment of painpainpain bursting through his arm, fire bursting up in his head – he bangs against one step, two steps, a third step – and with a final sickening crunch that reverberates down his spine he slams into the floor.

Now I’ll never get to Potions on time, Harry thinks, before his vision goes blurry and fades to black.

*

Harry cracks his eyes open and squints against the stone ceiling. Where is he?

Oh, right! He’d been running for potion – and had stumbled down the stairs –

he sits straight upright, only to yelp out in shock as an intense flare of pain bursts up his left arm and side. Gasping after air he leans over and vomits onto the floor. When he regains his composure, he realizes that the vomit is stained red.

He blinks for a moment. Then he looks down on himself, reeling at the bloodstains on his shirt and arm. When he lifts his hand to his face, he has coagulated blood caking his left temple and even more drying in his hair.

All thoughts of Potions evaporate as Harry stares at his slick fingers in shock. Then he heaves after air. Hospital Wing, a frantic part of him screeches, you need the Hospital Wing!

Harry staggers to his feet. Pain shoots up through his left side once again – but his legs, while in pain, do at least work. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out at each new step Harry slowly, painstakingly, makes his way towards the first floor and the Hospital Wing.

The first portrait he passes gasps out. “Wait – stop! Child!” they cry out, coming closer to the frame to give Harry a wide-eyed, worried look. Harry stops to glance warily at them. It took so much to start walking – he’s not sure if he’ll be able to start again, if he sits down. “Stay here!” the portrait commands, and then they run off.

Harry watches as they rush through frame after frame down the hall, until they disappear completely.

He begins to walk anew.

Before he gets very far, however, hurried steps make their way towards him. “Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall exclaims, sounding both shocked and terribly worried. “What in Merlin’s name happened to you? Oh, nevermind that, follow me. Are you hurt?” While she says this she flicks her wand at him. Harry instantly feels a little lighter.

Where should he even begin? “I tripped down the stairs,” Harry explains quietly. Guilt squeezes around his already bruised insides. “I was late for Potions, so I was running.” He limps forward, struggling to keep up with Professor McGonagall’s long strides despite whatever she’d cast on him.

“I repeat, Mr. Potter,” says Professor McGonagall, but her voice is softer than normal, and she slows her pace. “Are you hurt?”

“When I woke up, I vomited blood,” Harry admits. “And – my left side hurts.” He’s been cradling his arm against his chest this whole trip, his good hand pressing against his bad wrist to keep it from jostling around too much. There’s something familiar about the pain. “I think my arm is broken.”

“Very well,” she says brusquely. “Nothing Madam Pomfrey cannot fix, I’m sure.”

When Harry stumbles into the Hospital Wing Madam Pomfrey rushes to his side, tutting at him and ordering him into a hospital bed.

“I see you are in good hands,” Professor McGonagall says, offering Harry a small nod. She goes to leave, but before she strides out through the doors, she casts a glance over her shoulder. “And Mr. Potter, do watch out for the vanishing stairs, please.”

Madam Pomfrey sighs, waving her wand in intricate patterns over him. “Vanishing stairs, hm? I’ve told the Headmaster he needs to get rid of them – I get first years in here often who have stumbled in them and bruised up.” A scroll of parchment appears in her hands and she squints down at it. “But you seem to have gotten more than just ‘bruised up’,” she says drily. “Fractured ribs, internal bleeding, broken arm, and…” She squints down at the parchment. “A… a cracked skull?”

“Ah,” says Harry quietly. “That’s where the blood came from.”

Madam Pomfrey quickly gestures with her wand again. “But – your skull isn’t cracked now?” she says, sounding terribly confused. “Did Minerva – Professor McGonagall, that is – heal you before you came here?” Harry shakes his head. “Let me see,” Madam Pomfrey demands, and without waiting for a response she marches over. She runs her hands along Harry’s scalp, plucking a bit at the dried blood in his hair. “No bumps,” she mutters. “And no wounds, either.”

Harry watches curiously as her face contorts in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” says Madam Pomfrey, though she still seems confused. “Most likely it was accidental magic keeping you alive – you could have died from that damage.”

Paling at the notion of dying now, after only one and a half month at school, Harry swallows. “But – I’m fine now, right?”

“Of course.” Madam Pomfrey begins to move methodically around him. “I’ll patch you up in no time – though you’ll have to stay here for a day or two, to let your bones and muscles heal and rest.”

Harry sinks into the pillows and nods wearily. It does sound like reasonable logic. “Fine,” he says. “As long as I can clean this blood off first.”

Madam Pomfrey smiles. “Certainly, Mr. Potter.”

Ron and Hermione burst into the Hospital Wing an hour or so later, when Harry’s gotten changed into more comfortable clothes, Madam Pomfrey has healed his arm and gotten it into a simple cast (“You young boys, always moving about and never keeping still – I hear you saying you won’t cause trouble, but they all say that!”), and they’ve both gotten most of the blood off his face and hair. “Harry!” they call, crossing the room quickly.

“What happened to you?” Hermione asks, a worried gleam in her eyes.

“I’m never walking down a staircase ever again,” Harry replies.

Ron cracks a grin. “Tough luck, mate. When are you being released again?”

“Tomorrow.”

Ron pulls a face. Hermione nods, apparently finding that completely reasonable. “I’ve read that healing magic sometimes takes time to settle,” she says.

Rolling his eyes, Ron leans against Harry as though he’s departing with some huge secret. “There she goes again,” he whispers loudly.

Hermione scoffs, but before she can reply to that the doors swing open again, and Neville pokes his head through.

“Harry?” he calls. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alive!” Harry calls back, his chest warming at so many people coming to see him. “Will nurse a healthy fear of staircases, I’m afraid, but definitely alive.”

All three of them give him an odd look.

Harry stares back. “What?” he says.

“Did you hit your head?” Hermione asks, eyebrows knitted together in something like concern. “You don’t usually… speak like that.”

Harry shrugs. “Well, I did now,” he says, and all three of them seem to accept that.

*

News of Harry’s little trip down the stairs soon spreads around the whole castle. Zahir finds Harry the day after the accident, apologizing and worrying the hem of her blouse and muttering all sorts of things. A few of the other Gryffindor first years asks Harry how he is, but not a lot of people really seem to care all that much. The only reason it spread at all, Harry reckons, is probably because of his bloody title.

*

Halloween comes. Harry lies for a long time and stares at the roof of the dormitory.

Today’s the tenth anniversary of his parents’ death.

By the time he gets down to breakfast, the hollow feeling has almost left. Sticking by Ron and Hermione’s sides throughout the day helps immensely – Hermione, at the very least, seems to understand that Harry feels down, even if it flows right over Ron’s head.

None of them are partnered up together in Charms. Harry ends up with Neville, Ron with Dean and Hermione with Seamus. Class passes somewhat awkwardly, neither Harry nor Neville being quite able to make their feather float.

When Harry finds Ron after Charms they’re both somewhat worried at Hermione’s disappearance. It’s not the first time she’s disappeared, however, and they reason that she’s probably just gone off to the library to squeeze in a minute or two of browsing.

She doesn’t show up to the next class, however, and that is really troublesome. By the time the Halloween Feast rolls around they’re both good and well worried.

“I dunno,” says Seamus around a mouthful of potatoes, when Harry asks if he’s seen her, “she seemed pretty upset at the end of class.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

Seamus shrugs. “I told her she was a stuck-up know-it-all,” he says, with absolutely no shame.

Not a full week ago Hermione had told Harry, tearfully in front of the fireplace, that he was her first friend ever, and that the reason she shoves her knowledge around all the time is because she’s desperately looking for appreciation. “It doesn’t matter from who,” she’d whispered, a tear quivering on her lips, “and – and adults are so much easier to impress with knowledge, I don’t understand people our age – ”

“What?” present Harry sneers, feeling himself tilt forward, fingertips itching. Something yellow reflects in his glasses for a brief moment, and with a snarl he turns away from Seamus’ perplexed expression.

Ron storms towards Harry a moment later, a small frown on his face. “Parvati says she’s been crying in the restrooms,” he says, “and that she doesn’t want to be bothered…”

Harry sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “Well – well, we’ll be here when she comes back out, yeah?” he says. “If she doesn’t want to be bothered…”

Ron nods. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

Shooting a fierce glare in Seamus’ direction, Harry grumbles, “Seamus insulted her pretty badly.”

Ron isn’t as fond of Hermione as Harry is, but she’s still his friend – even if Harry is the thing that ties them together more than anything else – and he rounds on Seamus with a scowl to rival Snape’s.

Seamus’ gaze flickers to Harry and he defensively holds up his hands. “Won’t happen again,” he squeaks, which seems to be enough for Ron.

Their peace is not long lasting, however. They’ve barely gotten to sit down by the table when Professor Quirrell bursts through the doors, his turban askew. “Troll!” he shouts. “TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!” He takes a deep breath. “Just – just thought you ought to know…” And with that he collapses on the floor.

Harry looks at Ron.

“What?” says Ron, as the hall erupts into chaos.

“Hermione,” Harry whispers intently. “She doesn’t know!”

Ron pales, then stuffs a chicken leg into his mouth before jumping off the bench. “We have to find her!” he exclaims, around the chicken leg.

“What about the troll?” Harry calls after him as he sets off towards the doors.

“Hermione won’t be crying in the dungeon bathrooms,” Ron calls back, throwing the now clean chicken leg over his shoulder. “And the troll is in the dungeons!”

Nodding at that reasoning, Harry slips out of the Hall after Ron. They blend in with the Hufflepuffs, following them for a few turns before breaking off and sprinting down the hallway. They don’t get very far, however, before the patter of hurried steps echoes from behind them.

“Percy!” Ron gasps, paling further as he and Harry slip into a shadowed alcove. Backs pressed flush against the stone they desperately try to still their breath.

But it isn’t Percy who rushes past them.

It’s Snape.

“Snape?” Harry whispers. “Where is he…” He gasps. “He’s heading towards the third-floor corridor! You know, the forbidden one? Didn’t your brothers say there was something dangerous there?”

Ron nods absently. “Three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor,” he says, “but I wouldn’t trust their word for a hundred Galleons.”

“Fair enough,” Harry admits. “Well, either way, he’s gone now – ”

“Do you smell something?” Ron interrupts.

Harry sniffs – and sure enough, a horrible stench of old socks, rotten eggs, and public toilet fairly attacks his nose. “Is that – ” he says, but Ron has gone terribly pale. Harry turns.

A huge, towering gray boulder is moving down the hallway. Its great club drags along the floor behind it – its arms are too long for its body, head far too small and feet too big –

“Mountain troll,” Harry blurts, and the knowledge rushing to his mind pools like molten lava at the bottom of his stomach. “Hugest of its kind, feral and vicious – twelve feet tall and weighs a tonne!”

“That’s all good and well,” Ron mumbles, and the white is showing all the way around his eyes, “but shouldn’t we be a bit more worried?”

The troll grunts its way into an open room. “Look,” Harry whispers, pointing to the door to the room, “there’s a key – we can lock it in.”

Nodding, Ron creeps towards the door. Harry follows, and with teamwork like no other they manage to slam the door shut and twist the key around. “Thank Merlin,” Ron breathes.

They both turn around and begin to walk back towards the Great Hall. They’ll have to tell a teacher they found the troll – perhaps Professor McGonagall, or Professor Flitwick if he’s available –

his thoughts are interrupted by a terrified shriek.

Harry’s blood turns to ice.

“Oh, no!” Ron blurts.

“Hermione!” Harry cries, and as one they spin on their heel and rush back towards the room. There’s no time for anything else. Ron fumbles with the key, his hands trembling – “Come on!” Harry yells. “Open it!”

“I’m – trying,” Ron grunts, and finally the key slides around. Harry bursts through the opening, twisting his wrist the way Professor Flitwick taught him, and his wand shoots into his hand.

Hermione is curled up against one of the walls, eyes wide and face as pale as the faucet next to her – she’s clutching a book against her chest in a vice-like grip, the only shield she has against the gigantic troll stumbling towards her.

The utter, complete terror on Hermione’s face causes something in Harry to snap in half.

He growls, raspingly, low in his throat, dark – and with a mighty push he’s upon the troll’s back, his hands darker and clawed and his glasses are gone –

his balance is off, but the troll’s back is knotty enough for his feet – his hooves – to find support, and as he springs further up to the troll’s shoulders he twists his head and shoves a tusk into the thick hide of the troll’s neck.

Muffled, as though heard through a window, he hears Ron screech that “It’s a mountain troll! What do you know about mountain trolls!?” – he doesn’t hear Hermione’s response, and doesn’t really care for it either, for now the troll has noticed his presence and is trying to club him down.

Harry whines as he’s forced to pull back, and he’s slipping, falling from the troll’s shoulders – he grapples for something to hold onto and finds the troll’s arm, where his sharp hooves leave deep grooves. The troll roars and raises its club. Harry stumbles to the floor, growling up at the creature who dared think about hurting Hermione –

the troll lets the club fall.

Except the club doesn’t follow. Harry glances up. The troll also glances up.

And its heavy club falls right into its face.

Harry stands stock-still as the troll falls over.

There’s blood in his mouth, and blood on the floor, and blood on his hooves –

he makes an unearthly noise when he realizes that he has hooves.

Ron has rushed over to Hermione and helped her to her feet – and now they’re both staring at him.

“H – Harry?” Hermione whispers.

Harry tries to speak, but not a single sound comes out, so instead he just manages a little nod. He feels dirty – the knowledge of what he’s done and the wild rage that had controlled him settling like grime across his body. He’s probably lost both his friends, now, as well –

Hermione flings herself around his shoulders, her arms encircling his neck. Harry realizes numbly that her arms don’t reach all the way around. “Thank you,” she whispers, “thank you thank you thank you thank you – ” She chokes off and begins to sob, her whole body trembling.

And as he sits there, as his heart calms, as Hermione’s gratitude bleeds into him – when Ron steps across the troll and places an uncertain hand on Harry’s head…

Harry closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he hugs Hermione back with very human arms. He breathes in once, twice –

and then he bursts into hysterical sobs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pulling Hermione closer, “I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t know what – I don’t know why – ”

A second pair of arms encircle them both, and that’s Ron’s warmth, Ron’s cheek against Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he mutters. “It’s okay.”

By the time the teachers arrive, Harry’s washed the blood off his hands and cheeks. Some of the color has returned to Hermione’s face, and Ron has stopped shaking. Professor McGonagall docks points for their recklessness but awards them some for the feat they’d done. Hermione takes the blame for it all – including the troll blood and gashes – and the teachers seem to accept that story.

The three of them stumble up to Gryffindor Tower, sinking into the couch in front of the fire in a great heap. Harry is still shaking. It feels like blood coats his teeth even now, his fingers strange and too light –

“I don’t know what happened,” he whispers, quietly enough that only Ron and Hermione hear. “And I…” He swallows. “I’m scared…”

Hermione shifts, looping an arm behind Harry’s neck and pressing her forehead against his shoulder. Harry, to his own great surprise, doesn’t even wince at the casual show of affection – Hermione’s open hug earlier must have shifted some unconscious part of him.

“I don’t know, either,” Hermione says. “But…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ron continues for her, leaning heavily against Harry’s other side, his hand reaching across Harry’s lap to rest on Hermione’s elbow. “Together.”

Harry closes his eyes and breathes.

*

One unfortunate afternoon in November, Harry stumbles upon Snape talking to Filch and sporting a bleeding wound on his leg. “Blasted thing,” Snape says darkly, accepting bandages from Filch, “how are you supposed to watch all three heads at once?”

Harry backtracks so quickly that he almost falls over. He runs to the Common Room and relies this new information to Ron and Hermione in hushed tones.

“Would he be after whatever is in the corridor?” Harry asks quietly.

Hermione frowns. “We don’t even know if there really is anything in the corridor. Maybe Fred and George were lying – no offense, Ron.”

“None taken,” Ron says. “But what should we do? Go check the corridor for ourselves?”

Hermione and Harry look at each other.

Ron instantly pales. “No. Guys, no. You aren’t seriously thinking about doing this, are you?”

Later that night, when they’re standing before the door to the third-floor corridor, Ron doesn’t look any less pale. “I can’t believe you seriously thought about doing this,” he says.

Hermione points her wand to the lock. “Alohomora,” she whispers.

Not even a full minute later they’re all as pale as Ron, breathing hard as they stand pressed up against the door. “I can’t believe we seriously thought about doing this,” Hermione says shrilly.

“Did you see if it was standing on anything?” Harry asks.

Hermione and Ron groan loudly.

The three of them have a quick round of stone-paper-scissors to determine who’s got to check again. Hermione loses. When she returns, her skin has paled several shades.

She looks at them both and nods.

The dog is guarding something – and Snape is after it.

They can’t really investigate much more after that, as Christmas time rolls around and Hermione leaves to celebrate with her parents. Harry and Ron are both ecstatic at the invisibility cloak Harry gets at Boxing Day, and they owl Hermione about it right after breakfast. She seems about as excited as the two of them when Hedwig returns with her answer a few days later.

The holiday ends eventually, and Hermione comes back to school positively bursting with energy. “I have so many ideas!” she exclaims. “We need to find out what you are, Harry – and what to do about that dog!”

Harry doesn’t particularly like being called a ‘what’ but he supposes Hermione is right. And they do need to find out more about the dog – and, potentially, what Snape might be after. They’d discussed before the holidays if they should tell Dumbledore, or perhaps Professor McGonagall, but they’d eventually decided against it. They wouldn’t be believed, Ron had said, and Harry had joined in with “They might be more willing to listen if we come to them once, when it really counts.”

And that’s how they find themselves in the library. They search through books upon books upon books on magical creatures, trying to find both an entry on three headed dogs and… whatever it is Harry turned into.

“You had black fur,” Ron tries to explain, “and it spiked on your back – there were yellow stripes on your sides, and you had tusks.”

Hermione leans forward. “It was a bit like a wild boar, except larger, and even wilder.”

Harry, who’s never seen a wild boar in his life, nods solemnly and returns to the book. Black fur with yellow stripes, tusks, hooves and spikes on its back should be enough to find on its own.

But whatever Harry had transformed into never shows up in any of the books they look through. Eventually Hermione moves on to study for their upcoming tests – the only thing that keeps her from making them study as well, Harry fears, is probably that they’re still looking for him and the dog.

It’s Ron who ends up finding something of interest. “Look!” he exclaims, pointing eagerly down at the page. “Three Headed Dog,” Ron reads aloud. His eyes bounce down the page. “Where’s… weakness – ah! There! ‘Will fall asleep if it hears the sound of any type of music’!”

Hermione puts down her book. “We have to investigate,” she says.

Harry and Ron look at each other.

“Oh, come on – if we’re going to the teachers with this they need proof we really know what’s going on, or they won’t believe us – you said so yourself, Harry!”

“Alright,” says Ron, “but if we die it’s your fault.”

*

They take the invisibility cloak over their shoulders and creep through the hallways in forced silence. Once they get to the door both Ron and Harry look at Hermione. She rolls her eyes but complies, whispering an impossibly soft ‘alohomora’ before tugging it open.

Harry blanches at the instant and disgusting smell of rotten meat. “It’s asleep,” he says.

Ron creeps forward, brandishing his wand like a sword. Hermione keeps casting nervous glances between him and the three dog heads; Harry is gripping his wand so tightly he almost worries it might break.

“The trapdoor’s blocked,” Ron relies, taking two hasty steps back. “The paw covers it.”

Harry steps forward, now, emboldened by the dog’s state of sleep. “Let’s move it, then,” he whispers. “Hermione, be ready to sing.”

“Me?” Hermione breathes. “That can hardly be considered music – ”

But Harry and Ron aren’t listening. They’re pushing at the dog’s gigantic paw – and with a mighty heave and shove they manage to move it away. Its nails scrape against wood, then stone, and Harry shudders.

Harry and Ron look at each other. “Well, come on, then,” Ron says, gesturing towards the trapdoor.

Swallowing, Harry leans forward and tugs the trapdoor open. “…nothing,” he says, peering into the empty darkness below them. “I see nothing.”

“G – guys,” Hermione stutters. Then she breaks into quivering, chunky song.

The dog lets out a growl that twists into a roar as Hermione shrieks and stumbles away. Harry and Ron scramble to lean up and away from the trapdoor, grabbing Hermione by the elbow and bolting out the door.

At once Harry wishes they’d stayed inside the room.

“First years out of bed, hmm?” purrs Filch, his lantern gleaming in his bared teeth. “Come with me.”

They’d forgotten the invisibility cloak in the corner of the room.

They lose Gryffindor 150 points and are promised hefty detention. “That didn’t go so well,” Hermione mutters, when they’re back in the couch in the common room. “I told you I couldn’t sing.”

Ron still looks shocked. “I can’t believe you can’t sing,” he says. “Aren’t girls supposed to be good at that?”

Hermione gives him a dry look. Then it melts away and she regards them both with sharp eyes. “Can either of you sing?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve never really tried,” he admits. Hermione gestures for him to go on. Harry clears his throat and tries to recall a song he’d learned in school. “Uh – Mary had a little lamb – ”

Ron instantly slaps a hand over his mouth. “No,” he says, sounding amused. “You can’t sing.”

“Can you?” Harry mumbles curiously around his hand.

Ron reddens. “Uh, well,” he says, “I don’t really… know any songs…” He frowns before lighting up. “Wait, yes, I know one!” He clears his throat, and out of his mouth comes tunes softer than Harry could ever have imagined. “On a field in moonlight pale, stands a boy so young and brave… he was once a toy, a fool and a joy – ” Ron cuts off, rubbing his neck self-consciously. “I know it’s not that good… you don’t need to tell me.”

Hermione swats his shoulder. “Not so good?” she nearly shrieks. Harry desperately gestures for her to hush, and she covers her mouth with her hands. “Not so good?” she repeats, quieter this time. “Ronald Weasley, you are a marvel. Next time we see that dog, we’re counting on you.”

*

The next day, Harry’s invisibility cloak returns with the anonymous note ‘just in case’.

*

The detention is to be served in the forest with Hagrid, the Keeper of Keys. He tells them that someone’s been killing off the unicorns, and that they’re going to try and find the newest victim and see if they can save it.

Draco has been assigned detention with them, for “sneaking around at night,” as he mumbles to Harry when he asks.

They’re separated into two groups – Hermione and Ron, and Harry and Draco. Draco is foolish enough to call dibs on Fang, Hagrid’s dog, who Hagrid assures them is a coward –

and then they’re off.

Harry and Draco walk in silence – Harry intent on watching the splatters of moonlit blood on the path, Draco even paler than usual in apparent fright. “Think it’s something dangerous?” Draco whispers quietly, when they’ve gone for a while without much happening.

Harry nods. “It’s killing off unicorns,” he says, frowning at the biggest spot of blood so far. “It’s dangerous, alright.”

“P – Potter,” Draco stutters, having gone stock still next to him. Harry follows his gaze, and his heart nearly stops.

There, in the clearing before them, lies a brilliantly white horse. Except, Harry can’t quite call it a horse – it’s too elegant, too balanced, too astonishing – it’s beautiful, so beautiful every inch of him aches.

And there’s a gaping wound on its flank, silver blood pooling around the body.

He should be angered, he should be terrified, but all Harry feels is a bone-deep, gnawing sorrow. Such a beautiful, innocent creature…

A hooded, cloaked creature comes crawling across the ground like some form of shadow shrouded beast. As Harry and Draco watch, the creature bends its head over the unicorn and begins to drink its blood.

Draco lets out a bloodcurdling scream and disappears back to where he came from.

Harry can’t breathe, his throat tightens closed around his windpipes, he can’t breathe –

the creature turns towards him and blood drips down its front. Bile rises in Harry’s throat, sharp and acidic on his tongue, and he stumbles backwards –

a centaur chooses that moment to burst into the clearing, scaring the creature away. Harry is too numb and shocked to care as the centaur – Firenze – lets him clamber onto his back before then getting into an argument with two other centaurs. All their talk of planets and stars go way over his head, but he catches onto the fact that something bad is coming.

Eventually Firenze storms away from the other centaurs. Harry clings onto his back and squeezes his eyes shut.

When Firenze slows, he asks the question which burns the fiercest in his mind. “What was that?”

"Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?"

"No," says Harry, startled by the odd question. "We've only used the horn and tail hair in Potions."

"That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn," says Firenze, his voice dark with sorrow. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips. "

"But who'd be that desperate?" Harry wonders with a frown. "If you're going to be cursed forever, death's better, isn't it?"

"It is," Firenze agrees, "unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to drink something else -- something that will bring you back to full strength and power -- something that will mean you can never die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?"

Harry blinks. “No,” he admits, a bit embarrassed they haven’t been able to figure it out. “But it’s important.”

Firenze dips his head. “The Philosopher’s Stone,” he says, very quietly, so quiet that Harry almost doesn’t hear.

He remembers the Philosopher’s Stone – a muggle children’s tale, if he’s not mistaken – though he isn’t all that surprised it exists for real. Suddenly the heavy guarding makes far more sense. “The Elixir of life,” he breathes. “But – but who would – ”

Firenze is solemn when he replies.  "Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?"

It’s as though Harry is hit by lightning. An iron hook fastens in his heart, pulling, tugging –

Voldemort. He’s read about him, every now and then –

and it makes so much sense.

Harry doesn’t have time to reply, for Hermione’s running down the path towards them, sobbing his name as Hagrid follows. “Malfoy said – he warned us – he was so scared – ”

Sliding off Firenze’s back Harry utters a grateful thank you before stumbling against Hermione in a tight embrace. He’s so tired – that creature – whatever it was – it had sapped all the energy out of him –

He leans against Hermione as they stagger up towards the castle again, Ron on his other side with an arm around his waist. “It was Voldemort,” Harry whispers, once he’s sure Hagrid won’t hear, “the thing in the forest…”

“What?” whispers Ron in disbelief, paling rapidly. “Harry, what are you saying?”

“Firenze told me,” Harry says. “The centaur? He – ” Harry closes his eyes. “He said the dog is guarding the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Hermione gasps. “And V – You-Know-Who is after it?”

“Wait – but Snape is after the stone,” Ron exclaims.

Harry almost doesn’t feel tired anymore. “Snape works for Voldemort!” he says, straightening with new fierce determination.

Ron blanches. “We have to tell Dumbledore – he has to know he’s after the Stone!”

Hermione nods, and then they’re off, running up to the castle. It’s not that late yet – some teacher must be around somewhere, and they can show them to Dumbledore or at least tell him –

They crash into Professor McGonagall almost immediately after bursting the doors. She starts. “What are you three doing in here?”

“Coming from detention,” Harry rushes, exhaustion all but forgotten, “but – Professor, we need to talk to Professor Dumbledore – ”

Professor McGonagall blinks. “Professor Dumbledore?” she repeats. Then she frowns. “Why?”

The three of them look at each other.

“Well, see,” says Ron, “it’s sorta a secret.”

If Professor McGonagall had wanted to help them before she definitely won’t do it now. “Professor Dumbledore left the castle at noon,” she says, looking at them all as though she expects them to get into trouble right here and now, while she watches. “He received an owl from the Ministry, requiring his presence.”

“He’s gone?” Hermione cries. Harry, for his part, only feels as though the bottom of the world just fell out beneath his feet. “Now?”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very important man,” Professor McGonagall says stiffly. “He has other businesses elsewhere.”

Ron opens his mouth as if to argue further, but Harry grabs his shoulder to still him. “Alright, Professor,” he says quietly. “Will you tell him we’d like to talk to him, please, when he comes back?”

Professor McGonagall stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yes, Mr. Potter, that I can do. Now, scurry off – to bed you go!”

They slink away from her, down the corridor, around a corner –

and Harry breaks off at a run, Ron and Hermione following. “He’s in,” he whispers, “Snape must’ve sent that owl and now he’s in there and he’s taking the stone – ”

Hermione stares at him, then she shakes her head and runs off in another direction.

“Hermione!” Harry whisper-yells after her. “Don’t you get it – this is important – if we don’t try and stop him – ”

Hermione stops, her hands on her hips and an exasperated expression. “The cloak, you morons!” she whisper-yells back. “Do you want to be caught?”

Five minutes later they’re back down in the third floor, invisibility cloak thrown over their shoulders.

The door to the dog stands open.

“Ron,” Harry breathes, “get ready to sing.”

Ron nods grimly. The dog can’t see them, but it sniffs frantically in their direction – the harp by its feet stands still and quiet.

Ron takes a deep breath. “On a field in moonlight pale stands a boy so young and brave,” he begins, and the dog instantly backs off, its eyes slipping close. “He was once a toy, a fool and a joy, but now he stands defying it all.”

“Keep singing,” Hermione whispers, as Harry makes his way over to the trapdoor.

“He’s clad in darkness great…” – and Harry tunes Ron out, despite wanting to listen to the haunting tune. He heaves the trapdoor open and peers into the darkness.

When he looks up again, both Hermione and Ron are staring at him in worry – Ron still singing. “I’m going first,” Harry says.

He plummets through the darkness, falling down, down, down – and he lands on something soft. He blinks against the gloomy lightning of the room, but he can’t quite see what he landed on – only that it’s a plant –

“Devil’s Snare?” he asks nobody in particular. It does – it does seem like that – but where has he learned about it? “Devil’s Snare,” he repeats, “ – Devil’s Snare!”

He jumps to his feet and stabs a few vines with his wand before scrambling over to the nearest clean block of stone. “Lumos!” he casts, and his wand lights up. “You guys!” he calls up. “It’s a safe landing, but hurry over to the wall – there’s a Devil’s Snare down here!”

Hermione falls the next moment, landing in a heap on top of a soft vine. Hurriedly she stumbles to her feet, rushing over to stand next to Harry. She adds her own Lumos charm. The nearest Snare vines make a low-pitched hissing sound and cringes away from them.

A second later Ron joins them. “Come on,” he mutters, pointing down a stone archway.

The next room is filled with flying keys and broomsticks. They look at each other grimly before grabbing a broomstick each, mounting them and zipping through the room. Eventually they manage to corner a key with a broken wing, Hermione catching it and looking terribly surprised as she does so.

“Chess?” Hermione breathes, when they enter the next room.

The door behind them slams shut, and Ron, startled, tries to open it. “Locked,” he mutters.

They look at each other. “Did no one think to bring the key?” Harry asks.

Ron curses. “Chess it is,” he says, turning back to the gigantic chessboard. “I think we have to play our way across.”

Hermione and Harry share a look. “Take the lead, Ron,” Harry says, gesturing for the board. “You’re the master of this sea.”

Nodding grimly, Ron steps towards the board. He directs them to the places they’ll go, and they stand tensely, waiting for the white pieces to move.

A pawn moves two steps forward.

It begins.

“Is it wizarding chess?” Hermione whispers to Harry, the first time they stand shoulder by shoulder.

Ron directs a knight forward. “Yes,” Harry says numbly, when the knight is reduced to nothing but rubble.

They don’t complain when Ron orders them about, going to the places they must, watching in terrified silence as the other pieces – both black and white – are crushed and dragged off the board.

The three of them are spread evenly across the board when Ron makes a thoughtful sound. Harry looks over at him. His hair looks almost like it’s on fire, framed as he is by the torches hanging on the walls. In his face is nothing but determination. “I’ve got to be taken,” he says.

“NO!” Hermione shouts. Harry only stares in cold terror.

“It’s chess!” Ron shouts back, his knuckles tightening around the horse’s reins. “You’ve got to make sacrifices! If the Queen takes me, you’re free to check mate the King, Harry!”

Harry stares at Ron, doing his best to search his gaze from this distance. “There is no other way?” he asks quietly.

The flame flickers across Ron’s face. Slowly he shakes his head. “There’s not.”

Hermione whimpers.

“Are you ready?” Ron asks. He doesn’t wait before he sends the knight forward.

The white Queen pounces and slams her stone arm into Ron’s head.

Ron collapses to the floor.

Harry determinedly does not look at him, instead watching the King.

He takes three steps to the left.

The King throws his crown at Harry’s feet.

They have won.

“Ron!” Hermione yells, bolting across the floor. Harry follows, watching nervously as she searches for a pulse. “He’s alive,” she breathes, sinking onto the floor. She only stays there for a moment before she staggers to her feet. “Okay – okay, come on.”

A mountain troll is the next protection they face. It lies facedown on the floor, a small pool of blood around its head. Harry grimaces, steps over it, and pushes through the next door.

Instantly flames roar up behind them – and before them.

Between them and the next doorway stands a table.

“Potions,” says Hermione.

“Snape,” Harry breathes.

They pick up the paper by the bottles. “Oh,” says Hermione, sounding relieved. “It’s a riddle!”

“Can you solve it?” Harry asks, peering over her shoulders.

“Give me a minute.”

Hermione marches up along the row of bottles for some time, pointing at different ones and squinting at the paper, murmuring softly to herself. Finally, she takes a step back and smiles. “Got it – it’s this one!”

Harry stares at the tiny bottle. “There’s not enough for two,” he says quietly.

Hermione’s relieved expression fades. “But – we can make it work?”

“What if there’s not enough? What if you need the whole bottle?”

Hermione looks down at the paper in desperation. “Well – maybe – ” But she stills, then hangs her head. “You’re right.”

“Take the one that gets you back,” Harry says. “Get help – and Ron to the Hospital Wing.”

Hermione picks up the bottle. And then she throws herself at Harry, wrapping him into a hug just as tight as the one she’d given earlier this day. It feels like years ago. “Oh, please, Harry,” she whispers, “be careful!”

“I will.”

Letting her go, he picks up the smallest bottle, pulling out the cork and pouring it down his throat in one smooth move. He says nothing, only inclines his head – and then he walks through the flames.

There’s someone in the last chamber. But it isn’t Snape. It isn’t Voldemort, either.

“You!” Harry gasps.

Professor Quirrell turns around with a sick smile. “Me,” he says.

Attack, some part of Harry whispers, attack – attack! You don’t have time to waste!

Harry raises his wand, stumbles for a spell he can use –

Scoffing, Professor Quirrell conjures ropes and tightens them around Harry’s legs. “Be quiet, now, Potter. I need to examine this mirror – carefully.”

There’s nothing terribly special about the mirror in the middle of the room, but if Professor Quirrell is trying to figure something out about it, it can’t possibly be good.

“The stone is in it, somewhere,” Professor Quirrell mutters, prodding the edge of it curiously. “But where?”

He can’t get the stone, Harry thinks desperately, looking about the room for something that could help. He tries to edge towards the left to get a better view, but the ropes are too tight, and he falls over. Oh, damnit – he can’t get the stone! Voldemort can’t come back!

But what can he do? How can he break through the rope? He doesn’t have anything sharp – he can’t make his legs thinner – he can’t make them big enough to break through the rope –

in a flash he remembers Halloween eve and husks and hooves.

He’d been angry, then – raging at the fact that something would dare hurt his friends –

he can do angry – if only he can twist the fear and worry around –

squeezing his eyes shut he forcefully tries to remember that night. Hermione’s terror, the troll’s roaring, the first time he’d been properly hugged. Hermione’s terror. Hermione’s terror. If he doesn’t do anything she’ll – they’ll all die –

“Where are your pathetic friends, anyway?” says Professor Quirrell absently.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic.

(pathetic freak from Aunt Petunia and useless boy and Dudley pounding into him again and again and again and again and)

The ropes snap in half and Harry jumps to his feet.

Professor Quirrell spins around, his eyes widening. “What in Merlin’s name – ”

A second voice, raspy and choked, cries, “KILL HIM!”

Harry lunges towards him, tilting his head just so to sink a husk into Professor Quirrell’s shoulder.

“D – diffindo!” Professor Quirrell shrieks.

Blinding hot pain flies down Harry’s flank. Anger flashes through him and with a grunt and heave he tugs the husk out of Professor Quirrell’s shoulder, rearing up on his hind legs to shove him over –

Professor Quirrell backs off, trying to regain his balance, but he stumbles in his robes –

with a choked-off yelp Professor Quirrell thuds onto the floor, head slamming onto the stone staircase leading down to the mirror. His turban unfolds and slips off, revealing a screeching face of rotting flesh and drawn skin.

Harry exhales, legs buckling, hooves fading – he falls to his hands and knees, wheezing heavily. What had been nothing more than a scratch on whatever he just was is now a deep gash running down the entire length of his torso, by the feel of it. Blood gushes out of the wound and pools on the floor, and Harry barely has time to give it a helpless, terrified glance before he faints.

*

Harry wakes abruptly and sharply, sitting up in an instant. He remembers what had happened – the chessboard, Professor Quirrell – fire and rage and that screaming face.

“Ron,” he blurts, attempting to sit again. “Hermione!”

Almost instantly a blurry shape stands by his side. “Mr. Potter!” it says, sounding fairly scandalized. A moment later his glasses appear in front of his nose. He puts them on and squints up at Madam Pomfrey.

“…hello,” he greets. “Are Ron and Hermione fine?”

Madam Pomfrey nods brusquely, waving her wand across his torso in a complex pattern. “They’re in perfect health, Mr. Potter,” she says. “You, however…” She plucks a scroll of parchment from the air and shakes her head at it. “According to my diagnosis, you should have died yesterday. Care to explain why you didn’t?”

Anger and hooves and blood on his face –

Harry shakes his head. “I’m as clueless as you. Dead, you say?”

She gives him a scrutinizing look. “Do you remember, Mr. Potter, when you came here sporting a broken arm – and more importantly, covered in blood without any wounds?” Harry nods. “I’m given the same results here.”

“Accidental magic?” Harry asks, recalling the conversation they’d had back then.

“Perhaps.”

It is then, before Harry can ask any further questions, that Headmaster Dumbledore decides to show up. “Harry, my boy,” he greets, as Madam Pomfrey fades into the shadows.

Harry inclines his head. “Headmaster – it was Professor Quirrell – he attempted to steal the stone – did he succeed?”

Professor Dumbledore blinks, but doesn’t miss a beat before chuckling humorously. “No, Harry, indeed he did not – mainly thanks to you. Do you know what you were going up against?”

“Well,” says Harry, “he was on Voldemort’s side, was he not?”

“Indeed. He bore a remnant of Voldemort’s” – Harry notes the use of Voldemort’s name – “soul within him, serving as a vessel to keep his Master alive.”

Harry blinks. “The face,” he says, “he had a face on the back of his head.”

Professor Dumbledore nods. “Quirinius was not dead when I found him, but he redeemed himself in his final moments – struggling against great pain cast upon him by Voldemort, no doubt.”

Harry looks down at his lap. He can’t quite forgive Professor Quirrell after what had happened to his friends – and himself. “And Voldemort?”

“Roams as a spirit, unable to harm anyone. The stone has been destroyed as well. You needn’t worry, my boy.”

“Alright,” Harry says. It’s a lie, of course – the rage that had coursed through him when he flung himself at Professor Quirrell hadn’t been pure hatred for what had been done to him, nor the fate that could befall his friends. It was hatred for all that would cause pain. Voldemort, still on the loose, still out and about…

Professor Dumbledore leaves, afterwards, and Harry soon finds himself in company of Hermione and Ron. He retells his adventure to them, whispering in hushed tones whenever Madam Pomfrey walks by. “It happened again,” he says, “the thing with the husks, remember?”

They both nod grimly.

“I think it’s triggered by anger,” Harry continues. “Maybe I can learn to control it.”

Hermione worries her lip. “I don’t know, Harry… it sounds dangerous.”

Harry nods. “It probably is,” he allows. “But if Voldemort is out there – nothing’s more dangerous than him, right now.”

And neither Hermione nor Ron can come up with a good argument to that.

*

At the end-of-the-year feast, Professor Dumbledore awards 50 points to Hermione, Ron, and Harry each – and then an additional 10 points to Neville, who apparently had been the first to run for a teacher when Hermione dragged an unconscious Ron into the Common Room.

Gryffindor House wins the House cup, to loud cheers and yelling from the whole Hall.

Harry can’t care less, as he sits there, tucked in between his first two friends in bubble of safety. He eats his carrots in silence, pondering about all he’s learned this year. Not magic in particular – but things he’s learned about himself and who he is – about who he can be –

and – he shoots a grim thought in Voldemort’s direction – what his destiny has become.

Chapter Text

Harry stares at the creature standing on his bed. It’s a House Elf, he knows, and his wide eyes are alight with awe when they land on Harry.

“Mister Harry Potter sir!” the House Elf exclaims, clasping his hands together beneath his chin.

Harry hastens to shut his bedroom door behind him. “Er – not to be – rude, or anything, but this isn’t really a good time to have a House Elf in my room.”

The House Elf lowers his head, worrying the hem of his worn pillowcase in spindly fingers. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir,” he says, still not looking up, “…Dobby does not know where to begin…”

“Alright,” says Harry, nodding as he draws out his chair to sit down. “Well, just – take it slowly. May I ask some questions first, while you gather your thoughts?”

The House Elf – Dobby – stares with wide and watery eyes. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir!”

“What’s your family name?”

Instantly, Dobby lowers his head in shame. “The Malfoys, Harry Potter, sir.”

Harry blinks. “Do they know you’re here?”

“Oh, no, sir!” Dobby exclaims, shaking his head so roughly his ears slap him in the face. “Dobby will be punished severely, oh yes, Dobby will…”

That doesn’t sound all too good, but Harry doesn’t know enough about House Elf culture to tell him he shouldn’t be. “Alright, then,” he says. “Why are you here?”

“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!”

“What?” breathes Harry. “But I’ve got to go back—term starts on September first. It’s all that’s keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here. I don’t belong here. I belong in your world—at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” Dobby insists, “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.” 

“Why?”

“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispers Dobby, trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!” 

“What sort of things?” Harry asks, thinking back to what happened last year – his own bloodied hands and the intense rage that had coursed through him. “And who’s plotting them?” 

Dobby bangs his head against the wall.

Harry bursts forward to stop him, pulling him away from it and into his chest. “Okay,” he says, shakily, nervously holding Dobby on an arms-length away when he stops trembling, “so you can’t tell me. But Dobby, I have to go back to Hogwarts. It’s the only place I have friends.”

That seems to stop Dobby for good. “Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. When it resumes its march, it pours ice through his veins. “How do you know that?” he whispers, releasing Dobby and taking a step back. The whole summer has been completely silent – not a single word from his friends. “Dobby, have you been stopping my letters?”

“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry, sir,” Dobby whispers, shuffling his feet. “Dobby did it for the best…” Out from his pillowcase, he pulls a thick wad of letters. Harry can make out Hermione’s neat writings, Ron’s messy scrawl, a single letter from Neville, and some he can’t recognize.

Harry thinks back to the days spent in the backyard, away from prying eyes, crying into the flowerbeds as the bitter acid of rejection burned through his bones. He’d thought himself alone and deserted – that the long hours by the Gryffindor fireplace meant nothing to Ron and Hermione, that he meant nothing –

and now, Dobby is here –

A growl is torn from Harry’s throat, and with a snarl he lunges, hands-turning-hooves stretched before him. Dobby’s eyes widen in terror, and with a squeak, he’s gone.

On Harry’s bed, Harry sits, bristle strands of fur scattered on his hands. His nails have hardened and darkened, but still remain nails, and his fangs have elongated. Harry stares at the window. His reflection stares back with yellow eyes, his scar pulsating with the same sharp shade. His tusks, however small they are, poke out from his lower lip and are dark against his skin.

“Oh,” he whispers, softly, ever so softly, and the word is oddly shaped against his new teeth.

He changes back slowly, watching as the light fades from his eyes, his scar calming, his tusks and fur retracting.

On his bed lies the wad of letters, and Harry, deciding to ignore his transformations, turns on them in feral hunger.

*

Harry goes to bed early, lying beneath his sheets and reading the letters in dim light. He starts with the one he thought to be a stranger – he blinks in surprise when he recognizes Professor Flitwick’s wide loops. It’s a polite and humorous letter, stating that the portrait of a young girl had sought him out and asked him to pen a letter to Harry. The young lady said her name to be Zahira; she was supposedly a Ravenclaw herself, in her time. Her message is friendly, asking if his months are as boring as hers and hoping he has a good time. Professor Flitwick adds in his own little greeting, hoping Harry’s summer is pleasant and that he’s studying hard.

Harry snits open Neville’s letter afterward, squinting at the uncertain handwriting. It’s a sincere thank-you note, stating that, I know I’m not your friend, but you’re mine, and the House of Longbottom is in your service. I can’t do much, but if there’s anything you need help from, I’ll do my best, if you accept, of course, which you might not, since it’s me. But – I’ve enjoyed this year anyway. Thank you. There’s more – a blubbering mess, most of it, but Harry’s honored and touched at the sentiment. He tucks the letter in the pocket of Dudley’s old hoodie and decides to pen a reply sooner or later.

And then he goes to read Ron and Hermione’s letters. They’re cheery and light-hearted at the beginning, saying they’ve arrived safely home, and that they hope Harry has, as well (Hermione makes sure to ask three times about homework in her very first letter). By the fourth letter, they’ve both grown worried, asking him time and time again why he isn’t answering. Ron is worried for his safety, Hermione thinks he might’ve dropped her. They don’t say it, but Harry knows his friends, and he can read between the lines well enough.

He curls up against his battered pillow and cries bitter tears, thinking of all the worry he’s caused them – except no, it wasn’t him who caused it, it was Dobby, that blasted House-Elf –

at the thought of the Elf, a fresh wave of anger roars through him, and he grinds his teeth as his fingers curl around his sheets. His teeth gnash oddly together – his tusks, once again solid against his lips, are in the way.

The sensation squeezes his heart in a merciless grip. Harry folds against himself, hardened nails scraping down his arms, ribs constricting. What is he? Clearly not human – a monster – he’s taken lives, he’s killed –

he bites down on a sob just in time to hear the very notable sound of a revving car engine outside his second story window.

Harry stiffens. A beat. Two. Wiping at his tears he shuffles forward, peeking out from beneath the sheets – and he comes face to face with Ron Weasley, peering in through his window.

“ – Ron,” Harry whispers.

Ron zeroes in on him and he nearly falls out of the car he sits in. “Oh, Harry,” he says, his voice quivering, “it happened again?”

Every second of doubting Ron’s friendship evaporates at his tone, at that desperate and hurt tone, and Harry – teary-eyed and terrified – nods.

“Alright, then,” Ron says. “We’re getting you out of here. Come on.”

One flying car ride later Harry sits at the Weasley table, body back to normal, cheeks aching from smiling. Mrs. Weasley dotes, Ron laughs, Mr. Weasley talks to him as an equal.

And the house is full of warmth and safety and home.

*

Some days later they gather in Diagon Alley to get the yearly shopping out of the way. Harry wants some new textbooks – particularly books on creatures – and needs new boots, among other things. When they go into Gringotts, however, his heart twinges painfully.

The Weasley vault is barren, only one gleaming golden coin and a handful of sickles.

When they go to his vault, Harry determinedly fills far more into his pockets than is necessary. He slips in quietly, and when he comes out again, he’s already planning his note. Afterward, he slips out to the bathroom, quill and parchment in his pocket. Twenty minutes later, when they’re gathered at Flourish and Blot’s, Harry slips the bag of galleons into Mrs. Weasley’s cauldron along with the anonymous thank you note.

Far later that evening, when they return to the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley is near tears while counting the coins. “We can’t accept this,” she whispers repeatedly, fingers running over the gold as her eyes run over the penned letters. “We can’t accept this…”

“What should we do, then?” says Percy briskly, watching over Mrs. Weasley’s back. “There’s no name nor address.”

Mr. Weasley appears relieved. “I think we have to accept, Molly, dear,” he says, rubbing Mrs. Weasley’s shoulders.

Harry, happy his plan worked, slips quietly out of the room. He treads lightly up the stairs, into Ron’s room, and sits down on the mattress on the floor. It’s far better than what the Dursleys ever offered him. He crawls over to his trunk and folds some of the clothes lying near him – they’re leaving soon, and he’d rather be prepared for that. As he folds Dudley’s old hoodie, a letter falls out of the pocket.

Harry Potter, it says, in Neville’s hesitant scrawl.

Harry curses under his breath. Between the flying car and the expansive house and the slipping-his-friend’s-family money, he’d quite forgotten about Neville’s letter.

Casting a glance out the window, he deems to wait for the sun to set, and for Mr. Weasley to be mostly alone. Mrs. Weasley is a kind, generous woman, but Mr. Weasley’s calm warmth is what he wants for this task.

“I wanted to ask your dad something,” Harry says later when Ron and he finished the third round of Exploding Snap (Harry won all three rounds). “I’ll be back.”

Ron nods absently, murmuring to himself as he looks over the rules of the game. Harry had assured him several times he wasn’t breaking any rules, but Ron seemed determined to find some loophole for Harry’s cheating.

Grinning fondly at him, Harry shakes his head before venturing downstairs, wearing his pajamas and clutching Neville’s letter in hand.

“Mr. Weasley?” he calls, padding into the living room while pressing Neville’s letter to his chest. Mr. Weasley looks up from the newspaper – the Prophet – and meets Harry’s gaze in open curiosity. “I – got a letter, a few days ago, from Neville – could you help me write a response? It’s important.”

Mr. Weasley raises his eyebrows, but nods and scoots over in the couch. “Of course, Harry,” he says, petting the seat beside him. “Come sit down, and we’ll take a look.”

If his eyebrows had been raised before, they’re even more raised by the time he finishes reading the letter. “You were right,” he mutters quietly, scanning the parchment once more. “This is important. A House Debt is very serious business, Harry.”

Harry nods. “I got as much,” he admits. “What should I say in response? Agreeing would be tactically smartest, would it not?”

Mr. Weasley inclines his head absently, still reading. “Yes,” he says, “yes, it… would… Harry – ” He cuts off, then shakes his head and pointedly puts down the parchment. “Alright. His letter isn’t very formal, but I think yours should be anyway. Come on – let’s find some parchment for you.”

It takes almost two hours for them to finish. By the time Harry has signed the letter and put it aside for the ink to dry, the grandfather clock by the fireplace chimes midnight. Harry thanks Mr. Weasley profusely, bows a little for good measure, tucks the letter into an envelope and sends it off with Hedwig, and goes to bed.

Hogwarts begins in three days.

He’s ready.

*

“Uhm,” says Harry, pressing his hand flat against the extremely solid brick wall.

Ron has his hands fisted in his hair. “What do we do? The clock’s not eleven yet!”

Shrugging, Harry takes a step back. “Guess we’ll wait for your parents. They’ll be able to get us there in some way or another – or at least send a letter to Headmaster Dumbledore.”

“A – a letter? What about the Sorting Ceremony? What about Ginny?” Ron asks, hands flapping around.

“We can’t walk,” Harry says drily. “They’ll be back soon – they’ll know what to do. Breathe, Ron. We’ll be fine.”

Ron gulps down some air, then visibly forces himself to calm down, hands raking through his hair. “Yes,” he says, “yes, yes, we’ll be fine, we’ll – ”

Harry walks over to him and takes his hands in his, squeezing them tightly. “Be fine,” he finishes quietly. “Breathe.”

Ron’s fingers tighten around Harry’s even before the panic bleeds out of his eyes.

But then he nods.

Half an hour later they’re standing in Professor McGonagall’s office, brushing the soot off each others’ shoulders.

“Excellent,” Professor McGonagall says, flicking her wand at them. The soot instantly disappears. “The Sorting Ceremony has yet to begin. You may stay in the Common room until someone comes to fetch you.”

Harry and Ron thank her, then scurry off, running unashamedly towards the Common Room. Some portraits yell out greetings as they pass; Harry recognizes one or two of them and flings some greetings back. Their laughter rebound off the walls.

An amused Fat Lady lets them into the tower, where they run around in glee for another half-hour, exploring the Common Room now that they’re completely alone in there and don’t have to worry about prefects.

When they calm down, Harry pulls out a battered Muggle card deck he’d nicked from school when he was six. He settles down with Ron in front of the cold fireplace and teaches him the few Muggle games he knows.

At some point, food appears on the table in the middle of the room – sandwiches and toast and some grapes, pumpkin juice and treacle tart. Harry and Ron, who hadn’t been able to eat much that morning because of the chaotic household, gobbles it down with childish glee.

Several hours later, when the sky outside has gone dark and the stars are winking in, Professor Flitwick knocks on the portrait and gives them a wide smile. “It’s time to go, lads!” he says cheerfully.

The other students have arrived.