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Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you’re abandoning me to double Snape all on my own,” Harry grumbled for the third time since waking, aiming as powerful a glare as he could muster at 7.30 on a Monday morning towards the Ron-shaped lump lying in his best friend’s bed.

“Eugh, Merlin,” Ron’s miserable voice responded from somewhere within the blankets, sounding pitifully weak. “Don’t mention Snape, Harry, I’ll vomit again.” Harry let out a sigh. It was disappointingly hard to be mad at Ron when his friend sounded this pathetic.

“I don’t suppose you could cough on me a bit, so I could get sick and skive off the rest of the morning?” Harry asked the air with a tinge of desperation. Ron’s only response was a painful sounding moan that might have started its life as a laugh. Harry decided to channel his Gryffindor courage and admit defeat.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Madam Pomfrey should be here within an hour, right? I think Gryffindor was first on her rounds today. I’ll check on you at lunch time. Maybe smuggle you out a few sausages?” A slightly more hopeful-sounding moan escaped from the area of Ron’s bed.

“Maybe a pasty, too?” the other boy sniffed. Harry picked up his things and headed for the door with a laugh. “See you later, mate. Hope you feel better, too, Neville.” His other remaining roommate gave him a weak smile from where he was bundled up in his own bed, dozing off over his Herbology textbook.

It was hard not to notice the air of despondence that had taken over his House during the last few days. The first Monday of a new school year always seemed to bring a bit of melancholy with it in Gryffindor, but combined with the flu that had swept across the school since their arrival on Wednesday, the House had become positively morose. Only around a fifth of students had actually come down with the bug, but it had hit Gryffindor particularly hard, and considering the sick included both his best friends, Hermione and Ron, Harry felt he had a better reason than most to be grumpy today.

The Great Hall did nothing to lift Harry’s spirits. Prominent gaps were visible across all tables, but Gryffindor looked particularly barren. Spotting Seamus and Dean near the end of the table, Harry slid in across from them and carried on an only somewhat enthusiastic conversation about this year's Quidditch cup until it was time to leave.

“Cheer up, Harry,” Seamus said as they made their way down towards the dungeons. “Maybe Snape’s gotten sick and he won’t be able to teach today. Or the whole week, if we’re lucky.”

Harry noted the wistful look on his friend’s face and decided to keep the thoughts about his famously bad luck to himself. By the time they reached the classroom (a little late, after a bit of healthy feet-dragging) most of the class were assembled outside. Harry noticed, with a sudden burst of cheer, that Malfoy seemed to be missing. Maybe his luck wasn’t so terrible after all.

The door to the classroom swung open moments after they arrived and Professor Snape appeared in the entrance, towering over the students. “Enter," he said, sounding about as cheerful at the prospect of another year with them as they were. Harry could see Seamus squinting at the Professor’s back with a considering expression as they followed their classmates in. If he was trying to determine if the man looked sick, Harry thought he might be in trouble. With his normally sallow skin and general miserable appearance, Harry thought even Pomfrey might not be able to tell what a healthy Snape looked like.

The problem became apparent almost immediately after arriving at the Gryffindor side of the classroom. Harry always paired with Ron in potions, which was one of the only things that made the class bearable. But one furious headcount later, and Harry realised that with three Gryffindors and one Slytherin down, each group would be missing a partner. This fact seemed to have occurred to his housemates, as Lavender and Parvati, as well as Dean and Seamus behind them, all shot him sympathetic and slightly guilty looks from their seats safely in the Gryffindor zone.

Harry swivelled towards the other side of the classroom and scanned the rows for the odd student out. He quietly thanked Merlin that Crabbe and Goyle were partnered together and felt a sweep of relief to see Theodore Nott sitting alone at the back of the class. At least if he had to work with a Slytherin it wouldn’t be someone he was on active bad terms with, like Pansy Parkinson or, Merlin forbid, Malfoy himself. He even had to rack his brain for a second to come up with Nott’s name. He had a few vague memories of Nott sneering in the background as Malfoy made some snide joke about Harry or one of his friends, but he couldn’t recall ever even speaking to the boy. Still, no need to draw attention to himself by standing around. He hastily took a seat behind Dean and tried to look small. Maybe he’d get lucky and Snape wouldn’t even—

“Potter,” a slow, sarcastic voice sounded from behind him. “Are the basics of arithmetic too advanced for you? There is an empty seat next to Mr. Nott. Perhaps you’re trying to save him from having an incompetent potions partner, but no need. I’m sure Mr. Nott will be able to handle your ineptitude for one lesson.” Harry clenched his fists tight under the table as someone giggled, and he tried not to look at the Professor’s sneering face.

“Yes, sir," he mumbled, picking up his things and trailing towards the Slytherin side of the classroom. He felt as if he were heading for the gallows. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot Dean giving him a commiserating look, and Pansy Parkinson ahead of him was clearly smirking to her partner, Daphne Greengrass. Not sparing a glance at his new partner, Harry dumped his bag under the desk and sat on the edge of his seat, glaring at the stone floor.

As Snape prattled acerbically on about that day’s potion, Harry found his attention drifting. The lack of windows in the dungeon often led to wandering eyes. At least with Ron beside him, they might be able to risk some eye-rolling or silent communication, depending on how brave they were feeling; without him as a distraction, though, Harry found himself considering his new Potions partner with speculation. He knew he’d be in for it if Snape caught him zoning out, but he couldn't help but find himself sneaking peeks at Nott out of the corner of his eye with a growing curiosity. It was strange to be on the Slytherin side of the classroom, and stranger still to be working next to one. Especially one he really didn't know. Harry wondered if he’d ever given the other boy a single thought since the Sorting. Probably not. Not that it was entirely his fault - Nott almost seemed to intentionally make a point of not standing out. The other boy remained as stringy as ever, but something about him made him seem a bit more mature than the rest of them. It wasn’t that he looked all that older, Harry mused; his brown hair was neater than Harry’s, certainly, and his nose was as long and thin as the rest of him, but mostly he seemed to simply hold himself with a certain composure that Harry had only seen in the most Pureblood of the Slytherins. And Harry was beginning to suspect his face was just naturally set in a bit of a scowl. He was wondering idly if it was some sort of Slytherin tradition to spend inordinate amounts of time on your hair in the mornings when Nott’s eyes were suddenly on him in a fierce glare. Harry's head whipped towards the front of the classroom, where Snape, Merlin, still seemed to be droning on about the day’s potion. He felt his cheeks blaze as he watched Nott in his periphery slowly return his attention to the front, dark eyes still narrowed. Harry quickly picked up his quill and began attempting to take notes on – he glanced at the board, shifting a little to see over Crabbe’s head - the Shrinking Solution.

Just as Harry was beginning to ardently wish he’d caught the bug going round, Snape finally released them to start brewing the potion. As the students rose around him to scramble for the ingredients cupboard (the Slytherins, Harry noted with a little chagrin, with a bit more dignity about them), Harry peaked cautiously over at Nott.

“Er,” he began, but Nott was already standing and making his way silently to the cupboard without sparing him a glance. Well, alright. Harry cleared his throat and followed.

                                                                        ***

Five minutes into the practical side of the lesson, Harry realised it might have been a little bit near-sighted of him to have zoned out during the first Potions theory of the year. As the rest of his classmates began chopping and slicing ingredients, Harry found himself looking around in mild panic and furiously reading the scant instructions on the board to get an idea of what he was supposed to be doing. Merlin, this potion seemed complicated. Should it be this complicated?

“Trust Snape to set us this in our first class...” he grumbled, slicing into one of many unfortunate caterpillars. What was next in the recipe, again?

“Perhaps if you had been paying attention to the class instead of studying me with all the subtlety of a Gryffindor, you’d actually know what you were supposed to be doing,” a quiet voice muttered from his left. Glancing up in surprise (and simultaneously knocking an unevenly decapitated caterpillar to the floor), Harry started at the slight sneer on Nott’s face.

“Uh,” he said, intelligently. “I wasn’t… I mean, I was just...” he trailed off as Nott cut him a withering look. Harry promptly returned to his caterpillars, lips pursed. Unfriendly git. The lesson dragged on and Harry once again cursed the illness that had disrupted his and Ron’s time-honed partnership. Maybe their potions never received above an A, but they at least had a system to make the lesson as painless as possible. Potions on his own was a nightmare.

He was just about to toss his peeled Shrivelfig gracelessly into the cauldron when a pale hand suddenly snatched his wrist in a vice grip. Harry was so stunned that he simply blinked at Nott for a few moments as the boy stared at him in pissed-off incredulity.

“Are you trying to poison me, Potter? The instructions clearly state that the Shrivelfig must be shaken extensively before it’s added so it doesn’t emit noxious gas.” Nott’s glare was sharp as cut glass, and Harry felt embarrassment clawing up his neck.

“Oh,” he began to say, only to stop dead. Nott’s hand was still on his own, keeping the volatile Shrivelfig away from the potion, but in all the movement Harry saw that his sleeve had fallen back slightly. It was only a few inches, but it was enough to see the unmistakable form of ugly purple bruises surrounding Nott’s thin wrist. Harry noticed, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that they were in the shape of fingers.

His hand was jerked away suddenly, and Harry absently thanked Merlin that he retained his grip on the Shrivelfigs. He didn't see Nott pulling his sleeve down, but when Harry glanced up, he was as neat as ever. Nott was staring ahead, but Harry saw with another lurch in his stomach that a tinge of red was making its way across the boy’s pale cheeks. Harry swallowed. A few moments passed, during which neither boy moved. The sounds of potions hissing and knives scraping filled the space between them. Harry cleared his throat and let the Shrivelfigs scatter onto his desk. He began working, making sure to shake the horrible little things as much as he could, and after a few moments Nott picked up his knife.

They passed the rest of the lesson in silence thicker than the fumes from the surrounding potions. Harry thought to himself idly that it was far easier to pay attention to something dull when there was something else you were desperately trying not to think of. After what felt like hours, the students around him began stoppering up vials of their potions. Harry noted with only vague dismay that his was more of a sickly vomit colour than the pea green of Nott’s. He didn’t like the odds that vomit was the desired shade. Snape, mercifully, didn’t even glance at Harry’s vial as he gingerly deposited it amid a sea of pea-green potions and hastily retreated to his desk.

 Nott was already scouring his cauldron in the sink when Harry lugged his over. As he took a moment to watch Nott scrub furiously against the pewter, Harry finally began paying attention to the queasy feeling that had been squirming in his stomach for the last hour.  He stared at the back of Nott’s head for a few moments more, then sighed and brought his cauldron to the water, making up his mind. He ignored the protective gloves above the sink for the students, and slowly rolled his sleeves up before getting to work. Despite glaring wholeheartedly at the stains on his cauldron (Merlin, he hated potions), Harry could feel Nott’s eyes slowly fixing themselves on a patch of Harry’s right arm where his Aunt Marge’s bulldog Ripper had made good on his name over the summer, to his cousin Dudley’s delight. Harry kept his eyes rigidly ahead as he cleaned. Both boys remained still for a few moments, before Nott slowly reached out to turn his tap off. The queasiness in Harry’s stomach finally began to recede, and the red had almost entirely faded from Nott’s cheeks by the time Harry forced himself to face him. Nott’s eyes seemed darker than they had earlier, as they stared unerringly into Harry’s, but the look on his face was one Harry couldn’t read. Quietly turning off his own tap, Harry gently pulled his sleeves back down and faced other boy. Nott’s mouth slowly opened, and Harry found himself leaning forward to hear what he had to say.

“Potter—”

“Alright, Harry?” He blinked twice, disoriented, and turned to find a wary-looking Dean standing behind him with Seamus to his right.

“Uh, yeah, I was just... cleaning," he mumbled, not meeting their eyes. With a sharp flick of robes out the corner of his eye, Nott was gone.

Dean looked between Harry and the retreating boy with a slightly raised eyebrow. He had a small green stain on his robe which was smoking slightly. Seamus next to him looked like he’d been through five rounds against a mountain troll. “Is everything okay, Harry? You look a little out of sorts,” Dean asked, voice hesitant. Harry wondered what he looked like to put that tone in his friend's voice.

Harry nodded absently as he began lugging his cauldron out of the sink. "Yeah, 'course. Just trying to get this thing clean." He pulled a face, but judging by Dean's frown it wasn't very convincing.

“You sure, mate?” Seamus asked, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. “’Cause, I mean, you just spent double Potions with a Slytherin. You must be in shock, at least. Maybe you should lie down?”

“Five points from Gryffindor for giving imbecilic medical advice to another student, Finnigan,” Snape drawled from somewhere behind him. Despite himself, Harry had to hide a smile at the thunderous look on Seamus’ face. Dean caught his eye from behind the other boy and grinned.

“Come on,” Harry snorted, scooping up his things. “I'm starving, and I promised Ron I’d steal him some sausages.”

Chapter Text

“Ron, do you know anything about the Nott family?”

Harry’s voice was studiously casual as he tried to balance the chessboard on his lap. It would have been a bit easier, he thought, if Ron’s chess pieces weren’t quite so boisterous tonight. As it was, Harry was having to physically restrain his outraged knight from charging Ron’s bishop after an admittedly disastrous move on Harry’s part. Pinching the head between his thumb and forefinger as the tiny figure began shouting curses at Harry (and at his mother, father, and the ‘deranged imbecile’ who had decided to teach him chess), Harry wondered if all chess pieces were so energetic, or if some of Ron’s rather fiery personality had rubbed off on these ones somehow.

“Bishop to B4,” Ron mumbled from where he was lying on his own bed, looking rather miserable and flushed in the dim light. Harry was taking it as a good sign for his recovery that he could focus enough for a game of chess. He was just happy that he could finally spend some time relaxing with his best friend after the mess of the summer and the chaos of the new term (even if it did mean subjecting himself to the humiliation of playing Ron at chess).

They were speaking softly so as not to wake the others. Sometimes, on nights like this, Harry found his eyes started prickling for no good reason: Ron’s warm, sleepy voice; the bedside candle throwing soft light over the photo of his smiling parents; the fire crackling and spitting gently in the corner, warming him even from here; the quiet sleeping sounds of his friends around the room. Harry sometimes found he had to swallow hard suddenly. It was a persistent reminder of how much his life had changed in only the last two years; it hit him out of nowhere, some days, how far he was now from the lonely little boy in that dark, cold cupboard.

“The Notts?” Ron asked, face screwing up a little as he fought off a yawn. Harry blinked back to the moment and returned to reluctantly scanning the board for a move that wouldn’t end in a full-out coup from his pieces.

“I think I heard dad mention one of the Notts once, a few years ago, when he was talking about the War. Don’t really remember what he said, though. Why?”

Harry shrugged, trying not to dislodge the board. “No reason, really. Just had to pair with Nott for potions today and I realised I don’t really know anything about him. Merlin!” His rook had joined the cause, jabbing his sword into Harry’s thumb with vengeance. “Ugh, fine, knight to... D4.” He scowled as the wriggling little piece leapt for freedom.

“Hmph. Don’t suppose there’d be much to know. Gives me the creeps, he does.” Ron pulled a face, presumably at being forced to think about a Slytherin while already ill in bed. Harry smiled and quickly changed the subject to something that would cheer Ron up.

A mortifying fifteen minutes later, the chess set was pushed deep under Ron’s bed where Harry hoped it would remain for the foreseeable future, and both boys settled in for the night.

Sleep took its time finding Harry, and when it did he dreamt of wriggling headless caterpillars and dark, gleaming eyes.

                                                                                                ***

The next morning, Harry was interrupted during his breakfast by a piece of parchment being tossed casually onto his plate.

“Hermione asked me to give you this,” Parvati said around a yawn, falling onto a seat opposite him with Lavender in tow.

“Oh, thanks. How’s she doing?” Harry asked, nudging the letter off his toast.

“She’s driving us spare,” Lavender moaned, spooning some porridge into her bowl with a scowl on her usually cheery face. “She’s convinced she’s going to fail everything and she won’t stop badgering us to tell her everything we’ve been learning in class, again.”

“Never mind that she’s getting all the notes like everyone else ‘cause of that charm Flitwick set up,” Parvati added, seemingly a little more relaxed about Hermione’s impending breakdown. Being twins with a Ravenclaw must give you nerves of steel about that sort of thing, Harry reasoned.

“It’s truly an impressive piece of magic,” Percy Weasley interrupted from where he was sitting a few seats down. “It’s a variation on the Gemino charm. Flitwick’s had us practising it in our NEWT class," he said with his usual pomposity. Harry supposed it was a clever charm – everything written on the master copy would appear on every linked piece of parchment; that way, the sick students could still receive notes from their classes while in bed. Clever as it was, however, it seemed like only Hermione, Percy, and most of the Ravenclaws appreciated it. Ron had had a few choice words to say when he found out he’d still be receiving assignments to catch up on for when he was better.

Harry cast Percy a rather forced smile as he carried on espousing the properties of the charm, and hurriedly picked up the note from Hermione. Lavender and Parvati had been right: Hermione was definitely going spare. She was requesting he pick up ‘a few’ – Harry counted eight – extra books from the library for her so she wouldn't fall behind. With a sigh, he pulled out a quill from his bag and scribbled a response on the back:

Hermione, it’s only the third day of school! No one is falling behind. You’d be ahead of the whole year even if you have to stay in bed for a month (although don’t panic, Madame Pomfrey said you’ll be fine by the end of the week, didn’t she?)

But fine, I’ll grab you the books after class and get someone to bring them up to you. Eight seems like a lot, though, Hermione. You’re sick, remember? You should be relaxing. Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better and I’ll talk to you soon.

Harry

After securing an only mildly resentful agreement from Lavender that she’d pass the note along at lunch, Harry scooped up his things and headed for his first class. Today would be their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson and he couldn’t wait to see what Hagrid would be like as a teacher.

                                                                        ***

“Alrigh’, who else wants a go?” Hagrid asked the class as the cheers from Harry’s sudden flight began to die down.

The students swarmed into the paddock as Harry attempted catch his breath and his footing. Merlin. He definitely preferred his broom. Since he had been the guinea pig, Harry was left watching as the rest of the class began approaching the Hippogriffs. They were sharing the class with the Slytherins, and Harry once again thanked the stars that Malfoy was still sick in bed. He had heard the blonde boy complaining during the welcoming feast about having Hagrid for a teacher, and was grateful Hagrid wouldn't have to be exposed to the vile boy quite so soon. It was definitely for the best he was sick; he couldn’t imagine the prat agreeing to bow respectfully to a magical creature.

Harry decided to do a little aimless wandering around the paddock while the rest of the class got to work. Lavender and Parvati had headed straight for the Hippogriff with the pinkish roan coat, and they seemed to have fallen in love, Harry noted with a smile. He could hear them cooing from here. The rest of the class seemed to be getting along just as well.

As Harry completed his circle, he saw that he had missed some Slytherins standing towards the back of the closure, near a Hippogriff which looked far meaner than the rest. With a jolt, he recognised Theodore Nott amid the group. Tracey Davis seemed to have successfully befriended the mean-looking Hippogriff and was in the middle of cooing something gently to it when Harry, quite without deciding to, found himself approaching them. Millicent Bullstrode, standing between Davis and Nott, looked up at him with a wary frown. She was tall and broad, with hair that fell messily around her shoulders. She had a serious face, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her smile.

“What do you want, Potter?” she asked, once Harry came to a stop several feet from the trio. Nott’s head jerked up at the mention of his name and Harry met his eyes for a brief moment. He had time to register a look of surprise on the other boy's face before he affected a cool look and turned pointedly back to the Hippogriff.

“Er,” Harry said. Now that he was here, he couldn’t quite say what had brought him over. His mind raced. Merlin, why did he always end up sounding like an idiot in front of Slytherins?

“I just… came to look at this Hippogriff," he said, nodding over to the brutish creature nuzzling into Davis’ hand. “It’s, uh, got a lovely coat.” Harry could feel his face slowly start to burn as all three of them turned to look at him. A lovely coat? It was true enough, as its bronze fur was definitely one of the most striking in the herd, but one glance at Bullstrode’s unimpressed face let him know she saw right through him. In mild panic, he turned to Davis.

“You, erm, really have a way with it, Davis," he said, trying to inject a bit of casualness into his voice, as if he regularly wandered over to chat with his Slytherin classmates. He smiled weakly. Davis looked at him with her eyebrows raised and shot a slightly amused look towards the others. She was almost as tall as Nott but had a much more open face, and her eyes were piercing as she studied Harry. Her long brown hair was tied in a neat braid behind her, and Harry immediately had the thought that she was the kind of person who would look completely at home in any situation. “Thank you, Potter," she said with only a little irony in her voice. “She reminds me of one of our Kneazles at home, actually.” She turned back to the creature with a gentle smile.

“Er, right.” Harry sought around desperately for something to say. “Uh, did you know Hermione has a Kneazle? His name is Crookshanks. He's cute, I suppose, but he’s a little…” Davis’ eyes narrowed at him rapidly. “I mean, he’s great! He's very… independent," he finished, lamely.

“Potter,” Bullstrode interrupted. “Not that this isn’t a great chat and all, but now that you’ve seen the Hippogriff…” Her voice trailed off meaningfully. She was still giving him a suspicious look.

Before he could think of another excuse, Hagrid’s booming voice rang out from the other side of the paddock.

“Righ’, you lot. Now that everyone’s had a chance ter meet one o’ the Hippogriffs, yeh can start gettin’ into pairs. No time ter squabble, just grab whoever’s next ter yeh and that’ll do.”

Davis and Bullstrode shared a quick look and took off towards the front of the paddock where the rest of the class were slowly congregating.

“Er," Harry said, turning to Nott. Merlin, why couldn’t he seem to speak in sentences around the other boy?

Nott sighed, his perpetual frown somehow deepening. Harry could see now how tired the other boy looked. Had his sleep been as bad as Harry’s?

“Come on, then, Potter.” He took off after the others without delay, and Harry jogged forward to catch up.

As the class gathered around Hagrid, Harry spotted Pansy Parkinson scowling next to Crabbe and Goyle; it appeared they had had to make a trio. Harry had to look away to hide his smirk.

“Righ’, so, Hippogriffs. Now tha’ yeh’ve all met them, let’s talk more ‘bout ‘em. Hippogriffs are native ter Europe, but you find them everywhere these days ‘cause of breeders. Their feathers are mighty useful for a lot o’ things. Can anyone think o’ a use for ‘em?” Hagrid scanned the students hesitantly.

After a moment, Lavender raised a tentative hand. “I think I’ve heard of Hippogriff feathers being used in wand-making?”

“Excellen’, Lavender!” Hagrid smiled at her gratefully. “Two points ter Gryffindor.” Lavender beamed.

“Anythin’ else?” Hagrid asked. The class looked back blankly. There was silence for a few seconds, as Hagrid's face began to fall, before suddenly Nott’s hand raised smoothly into the air, startling Harry.

“Mr. Nott?” Hagrid nodded encouragingly at the boy, looking relieved.

“They’re used frequently in potions for their stabilising properties. And to make quills, I believe, though they’re rather unwieldy so are mostly decorative.” His voice was quiet and smooth, but his eyes seemed to be resting somewhere near Hagrid’s beard.

“Well done, Mr. Nott! Take four points fer Slytherin.” Harry could see Davis shooting Nott an appreciative look, which the boy didn’t seem to notice.

“So, breedin’,” Hagrid continued. As Harry listened, he found his eyes drifting over to the Slytherins more than once. Nott and Davis seemed to be paying careful attention, but Harry could see Bullstrode’s eyes glazing over slightly within a few minutes. They stood loosely apart, but in a way that made it clear that they were still together. Harry felt himself frown. He tried to think back to other classes and meals in the Great Hall he had shared with the Slytherins. Now that he thought about it, he often saw those three sitting near each other. Along with, sometimes, another boy, Blaise Zabini. Harry wondered why he’d never noticed there was a divide in their year within Slytherin before. Gryffindor seemed much more relaxed and friendly in comparison.

He was jerked back to attention when Hagrid clapped his hands. “So, if one person comes forward an’ picks up some food, the other can pick a Hippogriff and yeh can begin introducing yerself. Mind don’ pick one yeh’ve already met." Nobody moved. Most did not look enthralled at the concept of feeding the creatures. "Well, off yeh go.” Hagrid waved at the buckets set up by the paddock entrance as the students began to reluctantly trickle forward. A burst of fondness swelled up in Harry’s chest as he saw how Hagrid was looking proudly around at his class. He caught Harry’s eye and they shared a grin while Harry shot him a thumbs up. He turned back, still smiling, and saw that Nott was watching the exchange, face blank.

“Uh. I’ll just go get the food,” Harry mumbled quickly after an awkward moment of silence and took off without looking back. When Harry reached the buckets, he balked. Inside the one on the left was a pile of what looked like small, dead birds of different breeds; and in the other, Harry spotted several very dead rabbits and fish.

“Oh, Merlin.” Harry looked up to see his own horror reflected back on Lavender’s face. “Are we supposed to touch these?” There was a note of panic in her voice. Harry really couldn’t blame her. They shared a look of commiseration before Harry shuffled closer. Holding the edge of his robes, he carefully used it to pick up a few of the birds by their legs. “Yuck," he said, pulling a face at Lavender, who seemed to be eyeing up her own far nicer robes with a look of dismay.

Harry made his way back over to Nott, who seemed to have selected a Hippogriff grazing off to the side with a deep chestnut coat. He was standing several feet away and watching the Hippogriff graze, face unreadable. Harry trotted over and immediately felt the Hippogriff’s interested gaze lock onto his robes, reminding him for a moment of Hedwig when he brought out her treats.

“So, they eat gross little dead birds, apparently. I grabbed one for each of us,” Harry said. He looked between the boy and Hippogriff. “Have you, er, introduced yourself yet?”

Nott gave him an unimpressed look and turned warily to face the Hippogriff. After staring at it for a few moments, he sighed and began stepping forward slowly. His dark eyes were trained unerringly onto the Hippogriff’s steely gaze. As he got within a few feet of the creature and showed no sign of further action, Harry began to feel nervous. “Er, Nott? Don’t forget to bow.”

Nott seemed not to hear him. The Hippogriff now looked to be getting agitated. Its head had twitched sharply to the side as it watched Nott's approach and it seemed to be shifting its weight. Just as Harry started to become truly alarmed, a muscle on Nott’s jaw seemed to twitch and he jerked stiffly into a sudden low bow. The Hippogriff appraised him haughtily for a moment in which Harry didn’t breathe, before slowly dipping its head in a far more graceful mirror of the boy. Nott straightened up sharply and stood watching the creature for a moment. After a few silent seconds, Nott raised a pale hand, slowly, and rested it softly on the neck of the beast. The Hippogriff’s gaze was fixed intently on him as Nott’s hand started to gently stroke across its neck and down its flank, slowly parting the thick feathers. For a moment, Harry was mesmerised.

A few moments later, Nott turned to look back at the other boy, and caught Harry staring. Harry was struck for a moment by his appearance. Nott looked exhausted, with dark shadows under his eyes and, he noted with alarm, a few hairs sticking out messily on his forehead; but his eyes were bright and his face was more open than Harry had seen it yet. He could feel his mouth widening into an irrepressible grin. Nott’s own lips twitched in response, and the moment stretched-  

“Nice one, Theo!” Davis’ voice called suddenly from behind Harry, and Nott blinked. He looked around Harry and nodded vaguely in that direction.

Harry cleared his throat and began the process of introducing himself to the Hippogriff.

“Right,” he said, after a nerve-wracking minute of sucking up to the creature. “One each?” he asked Nott, holding out one of the birds with his robe. Nott’s lip curled as he looked unhappily down at the dead animals, and Harry had to smother another smile. After a second, however, Nott simply raised his wand. Harry had a moment of bewildered panic before Nott intoned, 'Wingardium Leviosa' and the bird was gently pulled from his hand. With the bird suspended in mid-air, Nott looked back to where the Hippogriff’s eyes were fixed unerringly on its meal. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Nott tossed the bird into the air towards it and Harry jumped as the Hippogriff’s head snapped forward to snatch it in its beak. It gulped its meal down greedily and gave Nott what Harry thought was a very appreciative look.

Harry looked from Nott’s relaxed posture to the Hippogriff now staring at the bird in his robed hand as if hypnotised. Right. Clearing his throat, he considered using the levitation spell too, in a wild impulse to one-up the boy, but, well, Harry was already touching the bird. Instead he attempted to toss it as casually as Nott had. His aim was a little off, however, and the snap of the Hippogriff’s jaws inches away from his fingers was far too close for Harry’s comfort. He let out a yelp as he snatched his hand back. A soft snort came from behind him. Shooting a glare in Nott’s vague direction, Harry cleared his throat and stepped forward boldly to pet the Hippogriff again. It nosed at his robes for more birds, but finding none, eventually gave up and accepted the petting with an air of great suffering.

“So, uh, what other elective are you taking this year?” Harry asked Nott without turning around. He continued patting the Hippogriff as the silence stretched.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Nott asked suddenly, voice cold.

“Huh? I’m… petting the Hippogriff?” Harry said, a touch bewildered.

“I mean, why are you talking to me all of a sudden? And why did you try to pair with me in class today?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, you know.” He could feel a flush creep up his neck. “No reason, really. I just… realised, I guess, that we’ve never actually talked, even though we’ve been in the same classes for two years. And, y’know, Ron and Hermione aren’t here, so. What better time to talk to new people, you know?” He shrugged, focusing on the rhythmic motion of his hand across the Hippogriff’s back. He thought idly that he could see the appeal now. There was something very comforting about such a dangerous, proud creature tilting its head to the side to give better access for Harry to scratch at its ears. “Good boy. Er, or girl?”. Hagrid hadn’t covered how to tell the difference yet. Another sigh came from behind him. Harry was rather getting used to that response by now.

“Girl. The females are larger than the males,” Nott told him. Harry turned to glance at him curiously. “Tracey told me earlier,” he said, looking away with a jerky shrug.

Harry hummed. “She must really like magical creatures.”

“She’s obsessed,” Nott replied, sounding so unimpressed that Harry couldn't help but laugh. He quickly turned to hide his face in the Hippogriff’s neck, conscious that Nott might not like being laughed at.

“Good girl," he mumbled, and tried not to think about the eyes he felt fixed on the back of his neck.

                                                                        ***

That night at dinner, Harry felt his gaze drift over once again to the Slytherin table. He couldn’t quite explain this sudden fixation on Nott, and it was beginning to make him uncomfortable. It was true that he’d never really talked to him before this week (or given him a single thought, really); but Harry supposed that was true of most of the school. He had never caught himself staring across at, say, Terry Boot from Ravenclaw, who he’d shared classes with but had never spoken to beyond borrowing the odd quill. But for some reason, no matter where he looked his eyes kept straying back to him. The bruise, then. He had assumed the worst of where it had come from, but maybe there was a reasonable explanation?

And even if there wasn’t, Harry thought with a squirming in his stomach, what business was it of his? You weren’t supposed to talk about these kinds of things, were you? He remembered it being discussed on the television once, when he’d been small. Something about a girl whose parents had been arrested for mistreating her. He remembered stopping dead as he was passing in the hall, struck by the look on her face. She stared at the camera and Harry remembered that she didn’t look scared, or upset, really. She was completely calm; she mostly just looked confused. The girl said something to the man on the telly about it being normal for her, and Harry found then, like now, that a sickly, stabbing feeling had begun squirming in his stomach. Uncle Vernon had scoffed, Aunt Petunia had turned the channel to one of her soaps, and Harry had went on his way. Now, though, thinking of Nott sitting alone across the Hall, steadily eating his dinner and seemingly talking to no one, Harry couldn’t help but remember the girl’s face, and the way it reminded him jarringly of Nott’s when Harry had seen his wrist.

Chapter Text

That evening Harry found himself making his first trip of the year to the library. He could admit with only a little shame that he hadn’t spent as much time there as he should. Of course, no one spent as much time in the library as Hermione; Harry and Ron had had to stop her attempting to sleep there on more than one occasion. But it was even more unappealing somehow when he was on his own. Perhaps, he thought, it’s just the association he has with libraries: when he was younger, before he could escape to Hogwarts for most of the year, Harry would sometimes find refuge in the local Library. It was an old and draughty building, but Harry had liked to hide in the children’s section amid all the colourful books and bright displays. One of the Librarians was particularly kind to him and would sometimes sneak him a biscuit or two from under the desk with a wink, which Harry, not being one to turn away free food, would shyly accept. The man who worked there, though, reminded him a bit of Aunt Petunia; he looked at Harry's baggy clothes and his sellotaped glasses and made it very clear that Harry wasn’t welcome in their nice, clean library. Harry tried to only hide there when the nice Librarian was working.

This evening, the Library was quiet. Being only the second week of term, it seemed only the most dedicated students were hard at work. Harry spied a good few Ravenclaws as he checked his list once again. Surely eight was a little excessive, he thought.  Hermione hadn’t been quite this crazy about studying last year, and she only had two extra classes now. But, he supposed, if it helped her deal with being bedridden, he figured it was the least he could do. Because of the annoying rule that boys weren’t allowed in the girls’ dorms, Harry hadn’t been able to see his other best friend since she had retired on Saturday night complaining of a sore head. Harry was missing her. He had other friends, of course, but there was nothing better than just spending time with Ron and Hermione together, doing anything.

He dragged himself out of his morose thoughts as he spotted the first section from his list. He was looking for an Arithmancy book named Necessary Numbers: volume 2. He grumbled a little at Hermione already being on the second book; knowing her, she had probably read the first volume over the summer holiday. After spending ten minutes attempting to navigate the bizarrely dusty shelves towards the end of the Arithmancy section – and hiding from the glares of Madam Pince who was doing what seemed to be a sweep of the library for troublemakers – Harry finally managed to find the book. He made his way out of the shelves to find a table for depositing the soon-to-be pile and immediately crashed headlong into a surprised-looking Millicent Bullstrode.

“Oh!” he said, from where he had sprawled ungracefully across the floor. Bullstrode had retained her feet (she was a lot bigger than him, his pride reasoned) and was now glaring down at him with her arms crossed menacingly. Once he got his bearings back, he saw with more than a little embarrassment that Nott, Davis, and Zabini were sitting behind her at their table watching the scene unfold with varyingly amused and annoyed expressions.

“Are you spying on us, Potter?” Bullstrode demanded.

“What? No, of course not!” Harry floundered, picking up the fallen textbook and getting to his feet. “I didn’t see you there, sorry. Are you alright?”

Bullstrode gave him a vaguely disbelieving look and scoffed. “This is the second time today you’ve bothered us. What are you playing at?”

Harry raised his hands placatingly; the effect was somewhat dampened by the large, dusty book he was now waving at her.

“It’s a coincidence, I promise! Well, not this morning, I mean. Er, then I was just, y’know, near you. In class. But I’m just here looking for some books, I swear," he said, trying to look honest.

Bullstrode studied him. Her glare did not waver. Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot. The silence stretched. “Are you all here, er, studying together?” he asked eventually.

Bullstrode’s only reply was a raised eyebrow. “Right," he said, “of course.”

The silence stretched again. Neither moved.

“What’re you all studying?”

Bullstrode sighed. “Why are you looking for books? I’ve never seen you study here before.” The suspicion on her face was insulting but, he had to admit, probably fair.

Harry brightened at being able to answer something straightforward. “Oh, they’re not for me. Hermione is sick at the moment so she’s going spare. Got me picking up some books for her so she doesn’t fall behind," he said with a nervous laugh, waving the book in his hands a little.

Bullstrode squinted at the title for a moment before she turned an appraising eye on Harry. The silence dragged on for a moment longer, before she let her breath out in another sigh and nodded to his book.

“That volume’s pointless on its own. Get it with Volume 3; they’re linked, it just doesn’t say," she told him, before turning smartly around and heading back to her table. She took a seat next to the others and began studying as if nothing had happened.

“Er," Harry said. He blinked after her a few times. “Thanks, Bullstrode!” he called weakly across to her table.

“SHH!” Madam Pince hissed from where she was hovering over a table of nervous-looking Hufflepuffs. Bullstrode did not look up.

                                                                        ***

The next night Harry wandered the castle, lost in thought. He’d now had all of his classes and couldn’t help feeling a little morose that Ron and Hermione had missed out on most of them. Divination had been far more disappointing than Care of Magical Creatures, and Harry was beginning to regret copying Ron’s approach of picking whatever class sounded easiest. Although, to hear Dean complain about the difficulty of Arithmancy, he supposed Divination wasn’t too bad. The sick students were mostly beginning to feel a bit better; Madam Pomfrey had announced at dinner that they all ought to be able to return to class by the start of next week. That just left four more days until things could get back to normal.

Harry shivered as he passed a window and saw the outline of a Dementor on the dark grounds below. That also wasn’t helping his mood, he reflected. Fudge’s decision to have Dementors guard Hogwarts to look for Sirius Black had cast a bleak shadow over the school that reminded Harry almost of last year and the fear surrounding the Chamber. There was something vile about the creatures. Not to mention, the memory of his collapse on the train was still fresh. As were the sounds of screaming he had heard as he collapsed. He hadn't been able to shake the feeling that there was something dreadfully familiar about it…

Shaking his head, Harry carried on down the corridor. He’d had quidditch practice earlier, and the memory brought a small smile to his lips. He was excited for Gryffindor’s chances this year, and the memory of flying always lifted his spirits.

Slowly, Harry became aware of the sound of muffled crying coming from down the corridor. He stopped in his tracks. It was late – close to curfew – and this part of the castle was usually deserted by now. Quietly, Harry drew his wand and walked further along the hall. The crying seemed to be coming from an unused classroom Harry had never entered. He hesitated – what if whoever it was wanted to be left in peace? – and what good would Harry do, anyway? But a sudden sob, louder than the rest, made up his mind. With a very embarrassed feeling in his stomach, Harry stepped forward and awkwardly knocked on the door. The crying stopped immediately.

“Hello?” Harry called after a moment. “Are you alright?” Oh Merlin, he sounded uncomfortable to his own ears. After a long pause full of silence, a tiny sniff came from the other side of the door. Harry bit his lip and debated with himself for a moment. Well, he'd interrupted whoever it was now. Might as well carry on. And that voice, he couldn't help but notice, sounded young.

He cleared his throat. “Look, uh, I can leave you alone if you want, but you probably shouldn’t be crying on your own down here." Silence. "Uh, it might help to talk about it?” Harry tried after a long moment. Merlin, he had no idea what he was doing. He could handle Hermione’s hugs and occasional tearing-up, but he didn’t have much experience when it came to comforting people – and he had certainly never comforted a stranger before. He hoped suddenly with a swoop of guilt that he wasn’t about to make things worse.

The silence stretched taut again. Just as he was becoming certain that whoever it was wanted only to be left alone, he heard a quiet shuffling from inside the room, and the door swung open with a slow creak.

A tiny girl stood inside – a first year, surely – with a mess of blond hair and red-rimmed eyes. She looked like she was fighting tears even as she gazed at him. “Er,” Harry said, at a sudden loss, “are you okay?”

She blinked at him, and her face began to screw up. With a surge of panic, he immediately cursed himself for the stupidity of the question. Taking a moment of inspiration, Harry slowly crouched down to her level. He'd seen an adult do this on telly once when talking to a child, and it seemed to work for him. Harry resolutely ignored the fact that he was probably only two years older than this girl, and, well, probably not that much taller.

They stared at each other for a long moment as the girl's face became increasingly red. "S-sorry," the girl mumbled at last, in a small voice thick with tears. Her arms had come round her stomach and she was staring miserably at the ground. The sight would be enough to make even Snape pause, Harry thought with a jolt of compassion.

“Hey,” he tried again after a moment, “there's no need to be sorry. My name's Harry. Can I come in?” He gestured seriously towards the door. The girl finally looked up, glancing quickly from his face to his hand. Her lips twitched in a small smile that vanished almost immediately as she gave a shy shrug and stepped back softly into the room, giving him space to enter.

After a moment of uncertainty, Harry stood and followed her into the room. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment as Harry desperately tried to think of something else to say.

“Er… lovely place you have here,” he told her with a weak smile, eyeing the bare, dusty room. She let out a sudden watery laugh, and Harry smiled back at her encouragingly.

The laugh faded almost as quickly as it came, and her face slowly fell back to misery as the silence dragged on. Harry could see a tear slip silently down her cheek and felt his stomach squirm in discomfort as the girl continued silently standing before him, arms crossed defensively across her chest, as if she was hugging herself. Her eyes stared down at the ground. At least they were both feeling uncomfortable, he thought.

“What’s your name?” he asked her at last, trying to sound gentle and not like he was desperately wishing to be anywhere else.

She sniffed again, but finally spoke. “Astoria," she mumbled, without raising her head. The classroom was cold and eerie with only a dim torch on the wall to light it. Harry couldn't tell how long she'd been down here, but judging from the red under her eyes, she'd been crying for quite awhile.

Shit, Harry thought. What now? “Do… you want to talk about it?” he asked. “Sometimes that helps me when I’m upset.” That wasn’t strictly true, he thought with a sliver of guilt, but it was another thing he'd overheard on the t.v. during one of his many long spells in the cupboard, listening through the grill to while away the hours imagining pictures to go with the sounds. Who knew the Dursleys' television obsession would come in handy? It seemed to do the trick here. With another sniff, the girl took a few steps over to a desk sitting by the side of the room and sat, bringing her knees up to her chest.

“It’s silly,” she said at last. Her voice was almost as tiny as she was, and she glanced up shyly as she spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. I just got so sad and everyone around me was having fun and I just…” she sniffed. “I just wanted to be on my own.” She looked miserably over to Harry. God, he thought. Why couldn’t Hermione have been here instead of him? He racked his brain for something to say. He was aware that he had little experience with comforting others, but he had even less experience being the one receiving comfort. He tried to think back to being upset when he was little. Sometimes, when he was much younger, he used to cry when Dudley would hit him, or had said something particularly hurtful. He had ran tearfully to his Aunt Petunia when he had been very young, but he learned quickly that that would only make things worse. She wasn’t completely cold, he thought reasonably. It wasn't like she took pleasure in denying him comfort; there just seemed to be an emotional block within her when it came to Harry. She would scowl at him and tell him to dry his eyes, and look around uncomfortably as if hoping for someone to come and take him away. If he tried to touch her, she'd flinch away with a panicked look on her face, as if he was covered in a film of filth and she didn't want to get dirty. He never understood that look when he was little (and of course, by a certain age he knew better than to get too close to her), but he supposed it made sense in hindsight. His confusion would usually be short-lived; Dudley would often appear at that point, crying himself, only to tell tales about Harry being the cruel one. His Aunt’s discomfort would melt away with pure relief in an instant to be replaced by the far more familiar anger and she’d tell him what a naughty, ungrateful little boy he was, and more often than not he’d be sent to his cupboard. Was this how his Aunt felt, dealing with him on those occasions? A strange child crying, and her feeling utterly out of her depth? The idea was highly unpleasant, and wouldn't be useful here - Harry was certainly no expert, but he felt yelling at Astoria might not improve the situation.

When Dudley was upset, however… His Aunt would become completely unfamiliar to him. Harry remembered once when they were around seven, when Dudley had fallen off a swing and sprained his wrist (this was a particularly happy period for Harry, as Dudley was unable to pummel him for six blissful weeks). His Aunt had doted on Dudley – even more so than usual – and had given him whatever he wanted until he was better. What stuck out in Harry’s memory, however, were the moments immediately after the accident. Aunt Petunia was at her son's side in an instant, and the look of fear on her pale face was terrifying to the young Harry, who had never thought his stern Aunt Petunia could be scared. He remembered the way she had stroked Dudley’s forehead, the tone of her voice as she mumbled soothing words to him and wiped away his tears. His heart had lurched as he stood there, watching a mother’s love from the outside, too young to understand why it made his eyes sting.

Harry called up this memory as he looked at Astoria’s miserable face. Moving closer, he perched on a desk several feet away, unbothered by the way the way the dust clung to his robes. “It’s okay to want to be alone for a bit," he told her, gentling his voice and praying this was the right approach. “D'you want to tell me why you're upset?”

The girl sniffled again, but seemed to be trying to gather herself to answer. He was relieved to notice her face was slowly losing its redness. “It’s just… I miss home so much. I was so excited to go to Hogwarts that I kinda forgot that it would mean being away from my mum and dad for so long.” Her eyes welled up again as she turned to look at him. “I want to go home. It’s scary at night and some of the people are mean and weird and I don’t have any friends and my sister is busy, and, and-” She was beginning to hyperventilate.

Harry quickly raised his hands, hovering awkwardly over her shoulders. “Hey, shh, shh. Just, er, try to breathe, yeah?” God, homesickness? He had no idea how to relate to that. He had never once missed the Dursleys at Hogwarts. Quite the opposite - escaping them was the best thing to ever happen to him. But then a thought struck him: he never missed the Dursleys while away at school, but he missed Hogwarts with a fierceness that was bone-deep while at his relatives'. Harry tried to call up how it had felt, during the last two long summers, spending day after day waiting to be able to go home again, desperately rereading letters from his friends and trying not to miss them too much. That was a kind of homesickness, wasn't it?

“Yeah,” he said slowly, once she seemed to be breathing normally again. “It’s rubbish, isn’t it? But I promise you’ll feel better soon. Hogwarts is great, and you’ll, uh, see your parents at Christmas, won’t you?” She nodded, her lip wobbling. “That’ll go by so fast, just wait and see. And in the meantime – maybe they'll write to you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice small and her eyes looking up at him beseechingly. “They’ve written every day so far.”

“See,” he said. “That’s great. Clearly they miss you, too. But I bet they wouldn’t want you to be upset, would they?” he asked. Now he was definitely out of his depth. But she shook her head, and he carried on, emboldened. “Right, they’d want you to try and think about other things." She nodded, still looking up at him like he was Albus Dumbledore imparting wisdom. "I meant it. Hogwarts is a great place. You’re going to love it here. And as for friends, it’s only the first week.” He looked down at her, and felt something weird clench in his chest at the blatant trust in her eyes. “Want to know something?” he said after a moment. She nodded quickly. “I'd bet a hundred galleons that every first year is worried about making friends, too,” he told her, smiling conspiratorially.

The look of sheer unimpressed disbelief she shot him was so grown-up on her face that it startled a laugh out of him. Her lips twitched in response, something near enough to a smile for him to feel some of his tension dissipate. He realised that it had been a few minutes since her last sniffle, and felt his smile grow.

“I promise! I was so scared I wouldn’t make any friends at all, but I did. And I didn’t really meet one of my best friends until Halloween, even. You’ll find people, I promise. What about the kids in your House?”

She looked a bit gloomy at this question, but Harry noted with a flash of relief that she didn’t seem on the verge of crying anymore.

“They’re okay,” she said. “Some of them are a little mean, but there’s one girl who seems nice. She has other friends already, though.” Her mouth twisted as she spoke, and Harry felt a surge of sympathy. He remembered what it was like not having friends – the long, lonely years of primary school, watching the other children from the outside.

“Well, you can never have too many friends,” Harry said, reasonably. “I’m sure she’d still like to be yours. Why don’t you try talking to her?” he asked. “Or, like, maybe you could offer to do your homework together?” He had to stop himself from pulling a face at his last suggestion, but really, what did he know about friend-making? He'd sort of fallen into friendship with Ron and Hermione, and judging by his recent attempts with the Slytherins, people skills didn't seem to be one of his talents. Astoria considered his suggestion for a second with a shrewd expression and nodded slowly.

“She said she thinks transfiguration is hard, and that’s my best subject,” she said, looking up at Harry with a hint of pride. He couldn't help smiling in response, relieved that they seemed to be out of the woods.

“There you go, then. Once you start studying together, I’m sure you’ll become friends in no time,” he told her, sounding a bit more confident than he felt. He worried for a moment that this girl might take advantage of Astoria's eagerness, but put that out of his mind. Astoria seemed smart enough to suss that sort of thing out on her own.

“Astoria,” a cool voice suddenly called from the doorway. Harry jumped and swung his head towards the sound. Standing in the entrance to the classroom was a Slytherin girl from his year - Daphne Greengrass. She was currently watching the scene with an unreadable expression. Harry looked between the two girls, confused.

Astoria, however, looked less surprised. She seemed both embarrassed and pleased to see the older girl. She smiled up at her and then glanced over at him, her smile becoming shy. “Thanks, Harry. It was really nice of you to stop and help. I promise to think about what you said.” She gave him an earnest smile, which he returned, still rather confused. Jumping up, she grabbed her discarded bag and ran over to Greengrass, practically barrelling into her stomach as she threw her arms around the taller girl’s middle.

Standing next to each other, Harry was able to connect the dots. The resemblance was clear between the sisters. Daphne had a hand on Astoria's shoulder and was mumbling something to her softly, but her eyes were fixed steadily on Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. Although he and Greengrass had never really interacted, she was often found standing behind Malfoy or Parkinson, smirking at whatever cruel thing they had just said about Harry or his friends. Harry’s instinct was to be suspicious, but then he remembered uncomfortably that Nott had pretty much done the same thing to him and he had been able to put that aside during his bizarre quest to talk to the boy. It was only fair that he do the same for Greengrass. With this thought, he rose and gave her a tentative smile. It was likely more of a grimace than he’d have wanted, but he felt it was the best he could do.

Greengrass watched him for a moment longer, unsmiling, before giving him a quick, cryptic nod. She mumbled something to her sister and began turning away. Astoria whirled round to give him a flash of a smile and a wave goodbye before darting after her sister, and then he was alone.

Chapter Text

“This might be the silliest thing you’ve ever done, Harry! And that’s saying something.” Hermione’s voice was somewhat shrill in her panic, but the effect was rather ruined when she turned aside to let out a painfully loud sneeze.

Harry looked on in sympathy from where he was perched on his broom, hovering steadily outside the window to the third year girls’ dorms.  He could admit he probably looked a little ridiculous, but he’d had the idea during quidditch practice and honestly couldn’t see what could go wrong. He was no less likely to fall from here than he was at any other moment on his broom, and well. He missed his friend.

“It’s alright, Hermione. I don’t even think there’s a rule against it, s’long as I don’t try and come in," he told her, reasonably. “Anyway, I haven’t seen you in days, and notes aren’t really the same.” He looked studiously at the wall of the castle nearest him as he said this, but he could see Hermione’s smile out of the corner of his eye and felt his face mirroring hers.

“Well, I suppose. I can’t recall it ever being specifically forbidden.” She gave him a considering look. Her eyes were slightly puffy and her voice sounded rather sore to his ears, but she seemed to have colour in her cheeks and her eyes were as alert as ever. It looked like she really would be fine by next week, he thought with relief.

“How have classes been?” she asked eagerly. “It’s been horrid being stuck up here. Flitwick’s charm has been immensely helpful, but he’s stopped responding to my letters asking for additional reading, so it really feels as if I’m falling behind.”

“Hermione!” Harry said, aghast. He couldn’t help but let out a scandalised laugh. “You can’t be writing letters to the professors bothering them about schoolwork.” He felt fondness warring with exasperation – a common combination with Hermione – and leaned forward on his broom.

“Well,” she began, a delicate blush beginning to bloom on her cheeks. “I wouldn’t normally – that would be rude, and surely there are rules against it, else the Ravenclaws at least would be driving the Professors mad with out-of-hours letters, but, well, it’s extenuating circumstances, surely!” she said in a rush.

Harry could feel his face splitting into a grin and laughed again. “Surely," he agreed. They shared a familiar smile.

“Classes have been fine," he told her after a moment. “Care was brilliant, like I said. Hagrid'll be a great teacher, I bet. He was really good with everyone, even the Slytherins.” He couldn’t help the pride in his voice.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I admit I was a little nervous – it’s such a change for him, and, well, you know he can be a little careless – unintentionally! – when it comes to dangerous creatures – but I’m so glad it went well. Professor Hagrid!” She said with a disbelieving laugh.

He grinned back at her. “Divination was a bit of a sham, though. Trelawney keeps predicting my death,” he told her, a little gloomy.

“What?!” she cried, sitting up. “Surely not – that’s ridiculous! And from a teacher! I’ve heard people say Divination is a little flaky, but, well, I wanted to see for myself.” She was looking very put-out at this news, and Harry couldn't help feeling a little mollified. Lavender kept casting him teary looks when they passed each other, and it was beginning to get on his nerves.

There were a few moments of companionable silence, and Harry took the time to survey the grounds. It was late now, and the nearby pitch and forest looked a little eerie in the dark. He could see shadows moving off in the distance, and realised with a jolt that the Dementors would be out in full tonight, sweeping the grounds. He shifted on his broom nervously.

“Hermione,” he said after a moment, “what do you think of the Slytherins in our year? Apart from Malfoy's lot, I mean. The other ones.”

Hermione only blinked at this non-sequitur. “Well,” she started, slowly. “I don't suppose I've had much to do with them. I only really see them in classes we've shared. Zabini seems intelligent - some of his answers are quite thoughtful. Greengrass sort of follows Parkinson around though, doesn’t she? If she’s friends with her, that says quite a lot. The others, I’m not sure. I can’t say any of them have done anything to me, personally. I suppose they keep to themselves, mostly. Why do you ask?” She looked at him curiously.

Harry looked back out to the grounds, thinking. Why did he care, really? So he had had that momentary… connection with Nott. Did it have to go anywhere else? He could just shrug it off and go back to life as normal, and never see the Slytherins outside of the odd class they shared. But there was something unappealing about that thought. The way Nott had looked, when he realised Harry had seen his bruise; Bullstrode’s suspicion, and the way she seemed to have shelved it, momentarily, to give him advice on Hermione’s book; Davis’ dreamy expression when she cooed at the horrible-looking Hippogriff; even Zabini, who he’d never even talked to – there was something about his cool expressions and yet how natural he looked in that odd little group. They were simply… interesting. And wasn’t what he said to Astoria earlier true? You can’t have too many friends.

He turned back to face Hermione. “I’ve just been thinking. We don’t really know any of them, do we? I mean, Malfoy and that, they’re pretty clearly bullies and bigots, but the others… I guess I’m just curious about them.” He saw her considering expression, and added, “You know, it was Bullstrode who told me to bring you Necessary Numbers: Vol. 3. I bumped into her in the library and she said volume 2 was useless without it.” He watched her expression morph into outright interest.

“Really?” she asked. She sat up – her bed was by the window, so she had been sitting bundled in blankets during their conversation – and reached across to her table to find the book. “I had just assumed you grabbed it by accident. Er – sorry,” she said sheepishly, hearing his snort.

“That’s... interesting,” she continued slowly. “I suppose there can’t be any harm in getting to know them. Just – be careful, will you, Harry?” Her face was so earnest that he simply nodded and told her he would.

They chatted a little aimlessly for a while longer, and Harry relaxed. It was nice just to be able to talk to her. If only Ron was here, it would be perfect. They were both beginning to get a little sleepy – rather more dangerous for Harry, hovering a hundred feet above the ground – when Harry noticed suddenly out of the corner of his eye a light flaring to life on the grounds below him. It looked like a Lumos, and from its height it could only be a teacher. With a flash of panic, Harry instinctively lurched forward on his broom, and his arm shot through the window into the dorm. Harry and Hermione froze, staring at his protruding limb with bewildered expressions. Slowly, Harry inched forward until his upper body was in the room fully. He turned to Hermione and saw his sudden, growing excitement reflected on her face.

“Well,” he said, climbing properly into the room and landing quietly on the soft carpet. “That’s good to know.”

                                  ***

Harry saw his chance the next day. He had had his next Care class the day previously, but the Slytherins seemed to be wise to his intentions and had gone out of their way to avoid him. The lesson was theory-based, unfortunately, so Harry had had little opportunity to broach the group.

Not to be deterred now that he was set on this path, Harry had concocted a plan. It was a bit looser than he’d like – and, well, it mainly involved sitting near the table they had occupied in the library the other night and hoping they’d show up, but, well. It was a start.

His plan was immediately foiled when he showed up near their area of the library and saw that they were already there, quietly focused on their own work. Harry had meant to already be sitting nearby with his books out – a foolproof studious disguise – and when they showed up he could invent an excuse to wander over and study with them. Now, however, he felt his nerves begin to waver. Should he just – approach them? Would they laugh at him, or worse – ignore him? He was considering beating a hasty retreat when the choice was taken out of his hands.

“Harry!” a small voice cried from across the room.

“SHH!” Madam Pince hissed from somewhere in the stacks. Everyone flinched. Blinking, Harry looked towards the first voice and saw the tiny form of Astoria Greengrass waving wildly in his direction. She was sitting next to a vaguely bewildered looking boy and girl – god, they were tiny. Were first years normally this tiny? Feeling his face flush with the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Harry quickly jogged over to where the girl was sitting.

“Hullo, Astoria," he said weakly as the three tiny faces looked up at him with somewhat gobsmacked expressions. Astoria motioned hurriedly for him to sit, and Harry found himself obeying without much thought.

“How come you never told me you were Harry Potter?” Astoria demanded in a slightly hurt voice. The other two were still looking stunned.

“Er, well. It didn’t come up, did it? You never mentioned your surname, either," he said, rather defensively.

The girl thought this over for a moment before seeming to accept it. “That’s true," she said simply, before turning to the other firsties. “This is Corwin Clearwater and Ruth McNess. We’re doing our Transfiguration homework," she told him with a very unsubtle wink. Harry couldn’t help but grin in response.

“Er, it’s nice to meet you two." He racked his brains for something to say. "How’re you enjoying Hogwarts so far?” he asked.

McNess seemed to blanche at being addressed, and Harry uncomfortably recognised the look in her eyes. Hopefully the shock of Harry Potter sitting at her table would wear off soon. Clearwater, on the other hand, seemed to suddenly be channelling Colin Creevey-levels of excitement.

“It’s completely brilliant!” the boy squeaked. He was slightly gangly and had a shock of auburn hair. It wasn’t quite Weasley-level, but Harry nevertheless made a mental note to tell Ron later that a first year was trying to upstage him.

There was a long pause as Harry waited for him to follow that comment up. When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming from the small boy, who continued to stare at him rather gormlessly, Harry awkwardly tried again.

“That's good. Er, what’re your favourite subjects?” He held in a wince at how Percy Weasley he sounded.

The other girl seemed to finally overcome her shock. With a heavy sigh for such a tiny person, she gave a dramatic roll of her eyes and said, “Defence is alright, but the rest of the classes are so hard. And they keep setting us essays! Do they ever ease up?” She looked at him despairingly.

With difficulty, Harry stifled a laugh. He supposed he had been just as bad – and Merlin knew Ron was the same – but it was hard to remember how difficult the sudden onslaught of essays and homework had been for him when he had just started. Now classes were getting serious, and he had two more than last year to worry about. He managed to turn his expression into one he hoped was sympathetic.

“Honestly, not really. But you’ll get used to it. And if you’re already in the Library this early into term, you’re probably setting yourself up for success, right?” That sounded suitably Hermione-like, he thought.

The girl didn’t look very pleased with this, but gave him a solemn nod nonetheless. “I suppose," she muttered.

Another silence descended, this one distinctly more awkward.

“What about you, uh, Corwin?” Harry asked eventually.

The boy jumped at being addressed (Harry smothered a sigh) and looked up at him eagerly. “I like Defence too! Professor Lupin is really nice, and his class seems pretty fun. And Charms is so cool.”

Harry was distinctly reminded of Neville at the boy’s shy eagerness and felt himself softening towards him.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Er, need a hand with your homework?” Maybe he was channelling Hermione too much now, but all three looked up at him with suddenly hopeful expressions and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

                                    ***

Forty minutes later, Harry said his goodbyes to the first years and began wandering back the way he had come, slightly shellshocked. He thanked Merlin, not for the first time, that their questions had been relatively straightforward. From the way they were grousing Harry had expected hours of research, but mostly it seemed they hadn’t yet worked out how to answer the questions the way the Professors wanted. Ruth, it transpired, was muggle-born. Harry had stifled a jolt as it occurred to him that he’d never heard of any muggle-born students being in Slytherin before – but there had to be a few, surely? Despite her complaints, the girl was quick to pick up on the material. It seemed she was just struggling – in an all too familiar way – with being thrown into a world of magic, without the years of experience most of her classmates possessed. Harry had been suddenly reminded, with only a smidge of shame, that he wasn’t a particularly good example when it came to schoolwork. He had quickly devised a method of considering what Hermione would say, then editing it to be a bit less terrifying, and then passing that on to the firsties. It seemed to work alright.

The way they hung on his every word made Harry simultaneously warm and embarrassed. He’d never really considered helping the younger students with their homework, he realised with a sliver of guilt. Though, he reassured himself, he was hardly the best person to ask. He knew he was a thoroughly average student. Perhaps he could achieve more, if he tried, but he had gotten used as a child to doing only the minimum in school – his Aunt and Uncle would glare at him whenever Dudley reported that Harry had beat him in some test (which admittedly wasn’t hard), and when he was little and more than anything wanted their approval, he’d gotten into the habit of aiming low. He supposed he’d never really thought about it seriously since.

Harry was broken from his musings by the sound of a throat clearing. He had quite accidentally brought himself near the table where Nott, Bullstrode, Davis and Zabini were still studying. Now, though, they were all watching him.

He gaped for a second, before reminding himself that this was the reason he had come to the Library in the first place. “Hello,” he managed to say after a pause, “what’re you all studying today?” He silently congratulated himself on sounding casual.

Bullstrode was watching him again with her shrewd eyes. “What were you doing over there with those first years?” she demanded. ”It looked as if Greengrass knew you.”

Harry was beginning to suspect they simply couldn’t hear him when he asked questions, but decided to investigate more before taking it to Madame Pomfrey.

“Oh, Astoria and her friends?” He tried to keep his tone light. “We only met yesterday. I was helping them with their homework.”

Bullstrode snorted. “You?” she asked, rather unkindly.

Harry tried not to look hurt, but could feel himself reddening.

“I mean,” he said, “it was simple stuff. Just essay writing.” He could tell he sounded defensive, and Bullstrode shot him another considering look.

Harry was quite suddenly fed up.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t have an ulterior motive or anything. You don't have to be suspicious. I’m just being… friendly. What’s wrong with that?” He knew he sounded a little petulant, but he couldn’t help it. Merlin, they were so distrustful.

Bullstrode’s eyebrows were raised now, and he could detect a hint of amusement. Flushing properly now, Harry muttered an angry, “Fine then,” and slung his bag over his shoulder to leave.

He was only a few steps away when he heard his name.

“Potter.” Nott’s voice was quiet, but it sent a shock through Harry nonetheless. He felt himself turning without meaning to.

The other boy hadn’t moved, but was looking at him with an inscrutable expression. The others, he noticed, were watching Nott carefully. “Why are you being friendly? Really, I mean. No more lies.” He said it calmly, and Harry found himself walking slowly back to the group.

“Honestly…” he started with a sigh. “I wasn't lying. I guess I just figure… Why not, you know?” Judging by their expressions, they did not. He continued. “I just, we haven’t actually talked before, have we? And we’ve been in classes together for over two years. I don’t see why we shouldn’t see if we get along or not. And, well.” He knew if he wasn’t already blushing he would be now, but he called on his Gryffindor bravery and forced it out. “You four seem pretty interesting. I’d like to get to know you, is all.”

By the end he was mumbling and looking at the table as he waited for them to respond. God, please don’t let them laugh, he thought with rising mortification.

The silence stretched, and Harry could feel himself getting more and more tense. Just as he was about to make an undignified bolt for the exit, Zabini addressed him for the first time.

“Why not, indeed," the other boy said with a slightly sardonic smile. He shared a long look with Davis, who was sitting next to him, and then snorted. Davis turned to him with a smile.

“That’s a good point, Potter. I suppose we haven’t even talked outside of class. Would you like to join us?” She indicated the empty seat at the head of the table. A choked off noise came from the side, and Harry turned to see Bullstrode shooting Davis and the now-smiling Zabini an incredulous look.

“Er,” Harry said. With a mental shrug, he decided to just go for it before they changed their minds. “Sure!” He edged around the irate-looking Bullstrode and took the proffered seat. The table was rather small, he now noticed, feeling nervously the close presence of the others. Nott was also studying Davis with an unreadable face. Harry sent a weak smile at the girl, which she responded to with a slightly maniacal grin of her own. “Right,” she said simply, apparently deciding to ignore the tension. Harry wished he had that gift. “We tend to get our homework out of the way first, and then pick a subject to study together for a bit. We alternate the subjects based on each of our worst classes. Today it’s History of Magic.” She waved a hand at Bullstrode, who went red and glared back at her.

Harry mustered his patience and shot her a sympathetic smile. “I’m pants at History too. I can’t help but doze off when Binns is droning on and on.” He pulled a face.

Nott snorted, and cut his eyes over to Zabini, who was now frowning mulishly. “History is such a crucial subject,” Zabini began, with an air of someone who had made this argument many times before. “It’s a disgrace that they let Binns teach it. He’s utterly obsessed with the Goblin wars and we never learn anything important!” He was scowling now, and Harry could see the other three exchanging what seemed to be fondly exasperated looks. It reminded him so utterly of Hermione that he found himself smiling at the other boy, who frowned a little confusedly back at him. Harry attempted to straighten his face.

“I’ve never really thought about it like that,” he admitted in his best diplomatic tone.

Zabini snorted. “Most wizards don’t,” he said dismissively. “They don’t care for the past unless it suits them at the present.”

This seemed a rather wise thing to say to Harry, who nodded hesitantly at the other boy. “So, is History your favourite, then?” he asked after a moment.

Zabini shrugged a little. “That, and Ancient Runes, though we’ve just started that.”

“Wow, Hermione takes that. She said it’s tough, which is something coming from her.”

Zabini nodded. “Runes is notoriously difficult. Every so often the Board of Governors meet to query whether it should be saved as an elective for fifth year and up, but thankfully they've kept it as is.” He spoke with an easy confidence, but Harry couldn’t detect any bragging in his voice.

“Wow,” he said. “I, uh, think I might’ve made a mistake picking Divination. Seems a bit of a waste of time compared to that, to be honest.”

It was Bullstrode’s turn to snort. “Divination is almost completely useless if you don’t have an innate talent for it, and very few do," she told him.

“Oh,” he said. No one had told him that. “Why do they offer it, then?” he asked, perplexed.

She shrugged a little. “You can still master the theory without having a gift for the subject, and I guess some people do find it interesting. There are some practical uses, I suppose,” she conceded.

“I take Divination, too,” Davis piped up. “This lot tried to talk me out of it, but I’ve always found the Prophetic arts interesting.” Her voice was a little wistful as she spoke.

“Did Trelawney predict any deaths in your class?” he asked, wondering not for the first time if maybe he’d been singled out. He shared Divination with the Hufflepuffs, so he figured the Slytherins must be with the Ravenclaws. He couldn’t imagine either group going in for that kind of thing.

“Deaths? No, unfortunately.” Bullstrode’s lips twitched at the vague disappointment in the other girl's voice. “But there was a dead pet predicted, and a few warnings of imminent betrayal.” She sounded rather like she had enjoyed the forecast of misery, though Harry noticed her frowning a little at the dead pet.

“It’s going to be dinner soon.” Nott’s quiet voice interrupted the chatter. The others looked to him as one, and Harry glanced up to find Nott’s eyes flicking away from his face. “We’d better get started.” The others nodded and straightened up in their seats.

“Now,” Zabini began in an only slightly despondent voice, “the Goblin uprising of 1548…”

Harry picked up his quill.

Chapter Text

Harry had always loved Hogwarts at night. There was a silence and murkiness to the building which might have been creepy to others, but which Harry found surprisingly soothing. Ever since his Christmas explorations in first year, Harry sometimes found himself wandering the corridors on nights he couldn’t sleep. This particular Tuesday morning, Harry had awoken from a nightmare sweating and desperate to walk some of his nervous energy off. The dream hadn’t been particularly graphic, but something about it had unnerved him. In the nightmare, Harry had been back at Privet Drive; he could tell it was the summer after first year from the cat flap on his door and the bars on his windows. He had been at the door, in his dream, speaking to someone through the flap. He remembered the gnawing feeling of hunger in his belly; the feeling which made it hard to think of anything other than food. But in the dream there was someone other than the Dursleys on the other side of the door. Someone with a familiar voice, but through the dream-haze Harry couldn't quite place it, and couldn't drag his attention from the smell of food to try. He could certainly recognise the smell from behind the door, though - roast beef with all the trimmings; a Sunday staple at the Dursley household. The person on the other side of the door had a plate, and Harry - Harry was begging. Even without hearing the words he could tell. In the rapid shift typical of dreams, the door was suddenly open, and Harry finally connected the familiar voice to the familiar face - strange, amber eyes and ragged scars, but with an unfamiliar coldness. Harry had woken up just as the slammed door collided with his fingers, heart in his throat and eyes suspiciously stingy.

It was just a dream, he reminded himself as he wandered somewhere in the bowels of the castle, wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak. It might have been the fact that that his dream featured the Defence Professor, out of everyone, that had unnerved him so much. The man had been polite during the few interactions they'd had so far. But it didn’t take a genius to work out why he had appeared in his dream that night, Harry thought with a frown, as he trudged mulishly down another corridor. They had had Defence the day before. Madame Pomfrey had been right in her prediction; almost all of the sick students were well again by the start of the week. After a very boring weekend sitting with Ron in their room and occasional flights to Hermione in the night, Harry was delighted for things to go back to normal.

During the lesson, though, Harry’s good mood had taken a sharp turn. Professor Lupin had brought them to the staff base and had began a lesson on Boggarts. He had left it to this week, he explained, as it was very important, and he felt the sick students would be at a disadvantage without the chance to tackle one head-on. The lesson itself had been probably the most interesting Defence class he’d ever had, right up until the Professor swooped in and stopped Harry from facing the creature, right in front of everyone.

Harry felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him at the memory. Hadn’t he faced down Quirrell in his first year, saving the Philosopher’s stone? And hadn’t he just last year slayed a basilisk and saved Ginny Weasley’s life down in the Chamber? He scowled at his feet. Out of all the students in his class, surely he had proved himself the most capable of facing down a creature which wasn’t even all that dangerous? Harry had never enjoyed being treated like a child, of course, but for some reason Lupin believing him incapable of standing up to a Boggart rankled him more than usual.

Perhaps, he thought, turning down another corridor, it was because Defence had always been the one place (outside of quidditch, maybe) that he’d actually proven himself. It was one thing having everyone think him some hero for something he didn't even remember, but that had been him in the chamber last year. He’d faced down Tom Riddle. He’d pulled the sword from the hat and killed the basilisk. He’d—

His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye. Whipping his head around, Harry saw the flutter of a cloak disappearing around the corner. He froze. A teacher? Merlin forbid, Snape>? After a second, common sense caught up to him: the cloak was the wrong height for a teacher, and whoever it was had moved silently around the corner like they didn't want to be seen. A student, then. Harry felt his curiosity prickle. He remembered all the fear of last year, with the possessed Ginny wandering the corridors at night, and felt his heart thump heavily in his chest. He crept around the corner to follow, making sure not to make any noise.

The hallway stretched ahead of him, and Harry was just in time to hear the quiet snick of a heavy door being closed gently. It sounded like it came from the middle of the corridor. Harry crept closer, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. The corridor was dark and unfamiliar; somewhere near the Dungeons, perhaps? He couldn’t recall ever having classes here. He was suddenly reminded of last week, with Astoria, and forced himself to still and strain his ears for any sounds of crying.

Nothing.

Feeling even more curious, Harry crept the final few steps to the door. He paused to consider for a moment. What if it was a student just looking for some privacy? But they had crept down here silently and purposefully, as if they knew exactly where they were going and couldn’t risk being caught. Perhaps if he'd been a normal student, he might have left them to it, but after the plots of the last two years - Quirrell sneaking around the castle, whispering to Voldemort in dark corners, and all the business with the Chamber - Harry didn't want to take any risks.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out to grasp the cold brass handle, and quickly swung the door open. Peering intently inside, he felt his mouth fall open.

Theodore Nott was standing at the far side of the room, clearly having jumped to his feet at the sudden noise. His wand was out, and he was furiously scanning the doorway. Harry remembered with a jolt that he was invisible. He watched the other boy with pure surprise for a moment more, before coming back to himself suddenly. Trying to temper down the way his stomach was fluttering, he reached above him and slowly pulled off his cloak.

The look on Nott’s face might have been funny in another situation, but Harry took in the dark shadows under the boy’s eyes and his rigid posture and felt a sharp wave of discomfort.

“Er,” he said.

Nott simply blinked at him, looking bewildered for a moment more before a thunderous expression took over his face.

“Potter?” the boy asked, “what the hell are you doing here? And what – is that an Invisibility Cloak?” He sounded such a mix of incredulous and disapproving that Harry was immediately and bizarrely reminded of Professor McGonagall.

“Er,” Harry said again, mentally cursing himself for always getting himself into these situations. “Yeah, it’s – an invisibility cloak. It was my dad’s?” Great, Harry, he thought, try to sound more like an idiot.

Nott didn’t react to this information. “What are you doing here?” he demanded again, frowning fiercely. “Are you following me now?” His face was white with anger and Harry felt himself taking an involuntary step back, feeling the situation might be rapidly getting away from him.

“No!” he said. “I swear! I saw someone come into this room and I was curious. I promise, I didn’t know it was you.” He hoped that Nott could hear the truth in his voice.

The other boy’s scowl didn’t waver. “You expect me to believe that? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?” He was sneering a little now. Harry felt a flush of indignation. He couldn't help a coincidence. Why was the boy so bloody paranoid?

Harry eyed the other boy warily and noticed that he had yet to put his wand away.

“Are you going to curse me? Just for interrupting your – whatever this is?” he asked, a little petulantly.

Nott blinked at him and looked at his wand as if noticing it for the first time. After a second of deliberation his lips pursed and with a smooth motion he pocketed it. He was clearly still annoyed, but the rage had gone, Harry noted with an embarrassing amount of relief. Nott looked up at him like he was studying him.

“You seriously weren't following me?” Nott asked. His voice was wary, but not as disbelieving as before.

Harry nodded earnestly, before he could change his mind. “Yeah, I promise. I just saw a cloak and thought I should check it out.” He tried to look as honest as possible. Nott stared intently at him, and Harry felt himself shift a little, uncomfortably. After a few seconds, the boy let out a resigned-sounding sigh and nodded once.

“Well, now that your curiosity has been satisfied, you can carry on with whatever important thing you were doing in the halls at One a.m. under an Invisibility Cloak.” His voice was clipped and vaguely insulting, but Harry simply rolled his eyes at the boy and looked around the room, feeling the tension drain as suddenly as it arrived. They were in yet another unused classroom, it seemed. This one appeared to be a little less dusty than the one he had found Astoria in, thankfully. Harry felt his curiosity being piqued once again. Was it a Slytherin thing, to hide out in empty classrooms at night for privacy?

“I was just walking around," he responded eventually. “I just wear my Cloak so I’m not seen." Harry looked over at the other boy to find him studying him again. “What are you doing up? And in here?” Harry found himself asking before he could think better of it.

“None of your business, Potter,” Nott replied, coolly.

Harry looked at him for a few seconds, then came to a decision. “Alright,” he said, simply. “Mind if I join you?”

                                                                                                              ***

Ten minutes later, and Harry was wondering if maybe he was too curious for his own good. Nott had been decidedly less than happy at Harry’s request, but after Harry had insisted that he’d be quiet and hadn’t seemed deterred by the other boy’s scathing remarks (really, he had nothing on Snape, or his Aunt Petunia for that matter, it was sort of funny), he had clearly decided that Harry wasn’t leaving, and had jerkily nodded at a desk across the room from him.

Harry had belatedly realised that Nott might actually want to be alone for personal reasons, but his guilt was lessened after a few minutes of watching Nott simply read from a dusty looking book he’d pulled from his bag. He didn’t appear to have sought out the room out to cry in, at least. Thank Merlin.

Harry had quickly become bored. His decision to stay with Nott had been rather spur of the moment, and as usual he had let his gut decide for him. As Harry hadn’t brought a book to entertain himself on his midnight walk, he was left with nothing to do except sneak furtive glances at the other boy every few minutes as he sat, trying to look like he wasn't about to levitate from boredom.

After a torturous fifteen minutes had passed in which Harry longingly thought primarily of his bed up in the tower, Nott finally let out a long-suffering sigh, and said, “I can hear you thinking from here, Potter.” He didn’t look up from his book, turning a page with a long finger.

“Sorry,” Harry said, not really meaning it. “Just didn’t bring any books on my night-time stroll.” The unlike some was clearly implied.

“You’re the one who insisted on sitting here,” Nott reminded him, sharply. If he wasn't so posh Harry thought he might've rolled his eyes.

“Er, right. Yeah, sorry.” Harry sighed. “What’re you reading?” he tried, wondering if Nott was anything like Hermione and wouldn’t be able to resist talking about his reading habits.

“A book,” Nott responded tonelessly. Perhaps not, then. Harry rolled his eyes, but surprisingly didn’t feel all that annoyed. Nott's strict adherence to being a bit of a dick was almost entertaining. Casting his mind around for something to do, he realised he’d yet to practice the Cheering charm they’d been set for homework last week. Eying Nott nervously, Harry figured the other boy wouldn’t appreciate being his test subject, no matter how much he looked like he could use the Charm. He could at least practice the wand work and incantation, Harry decided.

Nott lasted a full minute of Harry waving his wand around and mumbling under his breath before closing his book with a snap and saying, utterly resigned, “Potter. What on earth are you doing?”

Harry looked over at him with his best innocent expression. “Homework,” he told the other boy, before frowning down at his wand and trying the movement again.

A moment passed. “Do you always do your homework in the middle of the night? That would actually explain a lot,” Nott mused. 

Harry maturely resisted sticking his tongue out at the other boy. “Nope,” he said easily, “special circumstance.” He tried the movement again and frowned when it still didn’t seem right.

“Relax your wrist,” Nott said quietly. Harry looked up. The other boy was turned toward him now, eyeing Harry’s wand with his customary cool expression.

“Huh?” Harry asked.

“Your wrist. You’re holding it too rigidly. Charms is all about fluidity. The movement needs to feel natural,” Nott said. His voice was surprisingly even, as if he’d given this advice before. Remembering the study group, Harry wondered if he had. Figuring he could use any help that was going, Harry shifted and tried to picture the movement in his mind. Fluid. Right. He could do that. He loosened his wrist a little and tried to lighten his grip on his wand. He cleared his throat and studiously didn’t look at Nott.

“Gaudium Pario,” he intoned, waving his wand as with as much fluidity as he could manage. A weak yellow vapour flickered out of his wand before fizzling quickly in front of him.

“Hmm,” Harry said, frowning down at his wand. He’d had a better result last week in class.

A snort from across the room made him look up. “I said more fluidity, Potter. Not ‘wave your wand around wildly like a flag and hope for the best’. You need to have a balance.” Nott was smirking at him, not entirely unkindly, and Harry found himself smiling ruefully back.

“Right," he said. "Okay, balance.”

He tried the spell again, focusing on keeping his movements a little less erratic. He felt a little silly with Nott watching, but this time a stronger beam of yellow light shot out of his wand and collided harmlessly with the stone wall across from him. That was way better! Harry peered over at the wall, trying to judge if it might look a bit cheerier than before, but was brought back to himself by Nott saying in a thoughtful voice, “Better, Potter.”

Harry looked up in surprise, and felt his cheeks begin to redden. “Ah, thanks,” he said, shrugging a little. He eyed Nott and wracked his brain for something to say before he embarrassed himself further. “Is Charms your favourite subject, then?”

Nott considered him for a moment, and just when Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer, he shrugged. “I enjoy most subjects, though I suppose I’m best at Charms.”

Harry tried not to let his surprise show. He supposed, had he thought about it, he wouldn’t have expected Nott to like Charms so much. The boy was so serious, and honestly, he’d never really viewed Charms as a particularly serious subject.

“How come?” Harry asked, sitting back down in the rickety old desk chair Nott had angrily directed him to earlier. Nott quirked an eyebrow at him. “I mean, how come Charms is your favourite? Or the one you’re best at, I suppose. I would’ve thought you’d like something more… I don’t know,” Harry trailed off.

“What, darker?” Nott seemed amused. Harry smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

Nott seemed to think for a moment. “Charms is a very versatile subject,” he said at last, idly picking up his book from where he’d placed it on a desk. “It can be used for almost anything, and it is used as the basis in so many other branches of magic. In Potions, for example: we use a Charm to light the flame which heats the cauldron; we use the self-stirring Charm to ensure our potions are stirred perfectly; we even use a Charm to keep track of the exact time a potion has been brewing…” Nott shrugged, and Harry noticed, a little resentfully, that even his shrugs were graceful. Every word out of Nott’s mouth was deliberate and precise.

Harry had never met anyone like him before.

Nott continued after a moment. “The average witch or wizard uses Charms every day for almost everything they do. You can create flight, or completely change something’s appearance, or clean a room with just the flick of your wrist. I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t be interested.” The boy’s eyes looked brighter than they had all night, and Harry could tell this was something important to him. He felt bizarrely embarrassed that he’d never really given the importance of Charms a second thought.

“You’re right,” he said, after a moment of thought. “I’d never really considered how much we actually use Charms.”

Nott’s lips twisted into what was almost a smile. “Most don’t. They’re happy to write it off as so much wand waving and dancing teacups.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m getting déjà vu of Zabini’s speech on the importance of History the other day.”

Harry felt his eyebrows hit his hairline as Nott let out what was unmistakably a snort of laughter. Harry had never heard the other boy laugh before, and all of a sudden he remembered they were both the same age. Nott had an air about him that made him seem older, but in the dark classroom, watching him scowl and try to smother the quirk of his lips, Harry felt his stomach swoop at how normal he suddenly looked.

Harry’s sudden grin was irrepressible, and Nott rolled his eyes.

“Defence is your favourite, then?” It wasn’t a particularly masterful subject change, but Harry cheerfully let it slide.

“Yeah,” he said, picking up his wand to idly twirl it in his fingers. “It’s not like we’ve had the best teachers, exactly, but I’ve always found it pretty interesting, I guess. And, well. I’m alright at it, I suppose, so that helps.” He shrugged, not looking at the other boy.

“Hm. I’ve heard you’re skilled at Defence,” Nott said simply. Harry felt his face redden, and he cleared his throat. “Which is saying something,” Nott continued, ignoring Harry’s sudden interest in his feet, “considering the Professors we’ve had.” Nott’s look of disgust was enough to elicit a startled laugh from Harry, and the other boy frowned at him reproachfully. Harry suddenly wished that he had shared Defence with the Slytherins last year, if only to see Nott’s face when Lockhart handed out that quiz on his personal accomplishments and favourite colour.

“Ah, thanks,” Harry said, clearing his throat again. There was an uncomfortable pause. “Um, what do you think of Professor Lupin, then?” Harry asked after a moment, hoping he sounded casual and not like a complete idiot.

Harry was fine talking to Ron and Hermione and the other Gryffindors his age. They were all pretty easy-going, and he supposed it helped that he had had Ron from the start to ease any uncertainty. But during times like this, when Harry was faced with the task of making conversation with someone his age who he didn’t know very well, he was forcibly reminded of the fact that he hadn’t had a friendly conversation with anyone else his age until he was eleven years old. The children at primary school knew better than to try and talk to him. He’d get sympathetic looks, sometimes, from some of the kinder boys and girls, but no one was brave enough to make themselves a target for Dudley’s bullying. Harry couldn’t really blame them. Ever since coming to a Dudley-free Hogwarts, however, he’d found himself distinctly uncomfortable with the friendliness of the other students. He was used to primarily being a spectator among his peers. He had wondered before if that’s why he gets along with Ron and Hermione so much. The latter, especially. Harry had seen his own uncertainty mirrored on her face on many occasions. Perhaps she hadn’t had a Dudley in her school, outlawing possible friendships, but Harry had been able to pick up from some of the rare comments she’d made on her primary school days that they probably hadn’t been all that different to his.

Nott was watching him with a considering expression, and Harry wondered idly if Nott had had many friends before Hogwarts either. “He seems competent enough. Moreso than the others, at least. It’s too early to tell, I suppose,” the other boy said at length.

Harry suddenly regretted bringing their Professor up as the memory of his earlier nightmare came back to him. “Yeah,” he said, scowling down at his wand, “early days.” He looked around the room a little, hoping something would jump out to distract him from this topic, but the room remained cold and dusty. Harry let out a gusty sigh. “Did he have your class face Boggarts, too?” he asked at last.

Nott blinked, and raised his eyebrows at Harry knowingly. “He did. Did you not enjoy the lesson?” he asked, sounding a little amused. Harry scowled over at him.

“It was fine, I guess.” He turned his scowl back to his wand. Several moments passed, and Harry snuck a look over to Nott. He was sitting, watching Harry, still with a slightly amused look to his eyes, and he was clearly waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry lasted three more seconds. “It’s just, well, I didn’t actually get to do anything. Guess he thought I couldn’t handle the Boggart, or something. He jumped in front of me when it was my turn to face it.” He tried to sound unconcerned but knew he had failed when he saw Nott roll his eyes in his peripheral vision. Maybe his poshness did have limits.

“Potter.” Nott’s voice was rather long-suffering for someone who hadn’t been on speaking terms with him for more than two weeks, Harry thought moodily. “Have you ever considered looking beyond the length of your own nose?”

Harry blinked up at him. “Huh?” he said, completely bemused.

“Can you think of no other reason Lupin might’ve stopped you from facing the Boggart, other than him thinking you're simply too weak?” His voice was dry.

Harry thought about it for a minute. “No?” he said, at last, not caring to hide his utter puzzlement.

Nott sighed again. “Potter. What would your Boggart have turned into?”

“Well,” Harry said, shifting a little. “A Dementor, I reckon.” He was a little embarrassed to admit this, but he'd given it some consideration after the class and thought it was most likely. There was little point in hiding his fear from the other boy - Nott shared a dorm and table with Malfoy, after all, so had probably been a direct witness to Malfoy’s dramatic re-enactments of his encounter with the Dementor on the train.

Nott cocked his head to the side and looked rather thoughtful. “Hm,” he said, after a moment. “Most people would assume – including, I’d bet, Professor Lupin – that your Boggart would take the form of the Dark Lord.” He said this plainly, like it was obvious, and Harry blinked.

“Well, I thought that at first, but… Well, I’m sure Malfoy’s mentioned what happened on the train. A million times, probably,” Harry grumbled with his own eye-roll.

“Malfoy does talk about things other than you, you know, Potter,” Nott said, sounding amused.

“What, like his father?” Harry scoffed, “or how rich and Pure the Malfoy bloodline is?”

Nott let out another of those smothered laughs, and Harry’s smirk turned into a full-on grin. Making Nott laugh felt almost like a victory, in a way it never had with his other friends. Maybe it was because of how grumpy the other boy always seemed.

There was a remarkably companionable moment of silence, before Harry sighed again. “So, he thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it turning into Voldemort?”

Nott’s flinch was full-body, and he scowled over at Harry fiercely. Harry blinked, and after a moment Nott simply rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot.” Harry frowned. “How do you think it would’ve gone if an apparition of the Dark Lord had appeared in a class full of third years? Lupin didn’t want to cause a panic, most likely.”

Harry was a little gobsmacked. He hadn’t even thought of that. He felt his cheeks warm. Nott might’ve had a point about him being an idiot. “Oh,” he mumbled.

Nott sighed again. “Did he let everyone bar you have a go?”

Harry nodded.

“Even Longbottom?” Nott asked, sounding curious.

Harry frowned. “Yeah, his was Snape.” He cut his eyes to Nott, suddenly wary that Nott would take offense, but the other boy simply looked thoughtful.

There was silence for another few seconds, and Harry found the question bursting out of him without consciously thinking it first. “What was your Boggart?”

He immediately regretted the question as Nott’s open look shuttered. “None of your business, Potter.”  He sounded cold, and Harry felt a squirm of guilt.

“Er, sorry," he said, sheepishly. He supposed it might be a rather personal question, though Nott had had no issue asking him. Harry had brought it up in the first place, he supposed.

There was a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Harry eventually looked up from the dusty desk in front of him to see Nott watching him with an unreadable expression. “I didn’t face it, either," the other boy said at last, startling Harry.

“Really?” he asked. Nott simply raised an eyebrow. “Did Lupin stop you too, or…” he trailed off.

Nott surprised Harry with a snort. “No,” he said, sounding amused again. “I think he only tried that tactic with your class.”

Harry didn’t understand, and Nott could clearly read it on his face, as he continued. “Come on, Potter. Your deepest, darkest fear, on display for all your peers? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.” Harry frowned. He supposed he hadn’t looked at it like that.

“Did anyone in your class do it?” he asked.

Nott nodded slowly. “A few volunteered when Lupin asked. But most weren’t interested. He told us we didn’t have to if we’d rather not at the start of the lesson, and most didn’t.” He shrugged.

“He never said that to us,” Harry responded with a frown.

Nott snorted again. “I’d imagine he knew that if he’d offered to let some of you sit out, you’d all immediately demand to face the Boggart to prove your bravery, or something similarly ridiculous.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then slowly closed it, looking rather sheepish. “You’re probably right," he admitted. “Did he offer that for every other class, do you think?”

"Probably," Nott said with a simple shrug. "I can’t imagine the Ravenclaws caring all that much about being brave, and I’m sure the Hufflepuffs would pitch a fit if they were forced to reveal their greatest fears to the rest of their class.” Harry snorted at this. Nott was probably right.

They fell into a companionable silence again, as Harry thought about what he’d learned. He had to admit he felt a lot lighter after realising Lupin probably hadn’t really thought him weak. He wondered, if he had faced the Boggart and it had turned into a Dementor after all, if he would’ve been able to cast the counter. He remembered the chill that had went through him on the train, and the faint screaming, and was suddenly rather embarrassingly grateful to Lupin for having stopped him.

“D’you think there’s a way to stop Dementors?” he mused aloud, after a few moments. “Like, a way to banish them, or something, like with a Boggart?”

Nott looked thoughtful. “I think there’s a charm, but it’s very advanced, if I remember right. NEWT level, probably.”

“A charm, eh?” Harry said, with an easy grin. Nott rolled his eyes, but Harry noted that he didn’t really look annoyed. “Think you could cast it?”

Nott gave him an unimpressed look. “Just because I enjoy Charms doesn’t mean I’m a prodigy. If it’s so advanced, I’d imagine not.”

Harry wasn’t so easily swayed. “I bet you’d have a good shot at learning it, though. Definitely more likely than me,” Harry said with a self-deprecating smile.

Nott smirked. “I’d imagine it’d be Defence, really, so who knows.”

Harry smiled back at him, and felt a warmth spread through him at the unexpected compliment. Both boys fell into a thoughtful silence.

After a few moments, Nott straightened slowly in his chair and cast a tempus charm. Harry was shocked to see that it was almost half two.

“Shit,” Harry said, sitting up suddenly. “Er, I should probably get back," he said. He had no idea why he felt disappointed. Nott simply nodded, and after a moment began picking up his own things. Harry suddenly wanted to ask the boy what he was doing up in the middle of the night, reading in an unused classroom. He opened his mouth to ask, but slowly closed it as he saw Nott pack his book gently into his satchel. The boy had dark shadows under his eyes and looked paler than usual. It was obvious, like Harry, that he hadn’t slept much. He supposed the reason why was none of his business. Nott hadn’t demanded it of Harry, so the least he could do was return the favour.

Soon both boys were outside the door to the classroom, and Harry felt himself pause in uncertainty. He felt he should say something but had absolutely no idea what.

Nott put him out of his misery. “Go to bed, Potter," he said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and rolling his eyes at the shorter boy. His voice sounded softer than usual in the stillness of the corridor.

“Yeah," he said, watching the other boy turn on his heel and begin creeping down the corridor. "Goodnight!” he whispered after him, and Harry could have sworn he saw the corner of a smirk on the boy’s face before he disappeared out of sight. Harry watched the space where he’d vanished for another moment, before donning his Invisibility Cloak and beginning the trek back up to the tower.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Harry nearly fell asleep face-first into his porridge. He was saved only by the kindness of Neville, who had gingerly blocked his forehead from its dangerous descent, before nudging Harry to wakefulness.

“Alright, Harry?” the other boy asked, somewhat alarmed. He pulled his hand back quickly as Harry blinked over at him.

“Mmm?” Harry responded, sleepily. The other boy was watching him carefully and Harry made an effort to look awake. “Oh, yeah, thanks, Neville,” he managed around a yawn.

“You went to bed at the same time as me, mate. How’re you so tired?” Ron asked from where he sat across from him, digging into his breakfast with enthusiasm. At least his recent illness hadn't dampened his appetite.

“Oh, I, er, woke up early. Went for a walk and couldn’t get back to sleep,” Harry said with a shrug, taking a long sip of his pumpkin juice in case Ron asked any more questions. Hermione was frowning up at him from where she was reading under the table. She was still hectic about ‘catching up’, despite quite clearly already being ahead of all the Gryffindors in their year.

Thankfully neither Hermione nor Ron decided to question his story. He hoped to tell them about his late-night meeting with Nott later, after he’d had a chance to think about it properly. It wasn’t exactly a secret, he reasoned, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine the other boy would want Harry banding about the fact that he sometimes snuck off to read in unused classrooms when he couldn’t sleep. It seemed a little private for the Gryffindor breakfast table - and Harry got the impression that privacy was something the other boy might value greatly.

Their first class that day was Care of Magical Creatures, and Harry couldn’t wait for Ron and Hermione to finally have Hagrid for a teacher. After a hasty breakfast, the Gryffindors trooped down towards Hagrid’s hut as a group. It had come to light the morning before that almost their entire House year had taken the elective combination of Divination and Care. As these were widely considered the slightly less academic choices, this was met with a little chagrin amongst their peers. The only exceptions were Hermione, who rather cagily refused to answer how she could have possibly signed up for every class, and Dean, who was taking Arithmancy instead of Divination, much to Seamus’ dismay.

By the time they arrived, most of the class seemed to be present. Harry’s good mood took a dive when he noticed Malfoy standing haughtily at the side of the group, with his usual hangers-on in tow. The class was almost double in size of last week’s, with the return of the sick students, and Harry desperately hoped it wouldn’t put Hagrid off.

Harry just had time to notice the approach of Nott’s group from the corner of his eye, before Hagrid appeared and began the lesson.

***

“That went well,” Hermione mused as they trudged back across the Grounds towards the castle an hour later. Harry had to agree.

They had been studying Bowtruckles today. Not quite as exciting as giant horse-bird hybrids, he had to admit, but still miles better than most of his other classes. They had followed Hagrid a few dozen feet into the Forest as he explained the history of the creatures. Ron had looked distinctly unimpressed with the location of their class, and kept nervously scanning the ground and squinting between the trees, despite both Harry and Hermione assuring him in whispers that they weren’t far enough in to meet any Acromantula.

They had been led to a copse of several trees which, Hagrid explained, were home to a family of Bowtruckles. This near the forest edge, the light took on a greenish tinge from where it infiltrated the canopy. The air was cooler in here, and Harry had the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Branches snapped under their feet as the students gathered round Hagrid, and soft animal sounds could be heard in the distance. The presence of magic was so strong here that he could almost taste it on his tongue.

The lesson had initially gone smoothly: Hagrid had explained the theory first, managing to make it somewhat interesting, before coaxing several of the tiny creatures into the light with the promise of woodlice. Both Ron and Lavender let out equally disgusted noises at the appearance of the bugs, to the delight of Malfoy, who snickered loudly from where he was standing at the edge of the group. Harry shot him a poisonous glare, which he returned in full measure. Quite soon, however, they were split into groups, given a small container of woodlice (Ron and Lavender weren’t the only students to balk at this) and were given strict instructions on how to lure the creatures out of hiding. Harry had happily taken custody of the insects (his cupboard had had its fair share of woodlice), and they set to work. Hagrid had been quite clear about what to do, and especially what not to do. Bowtruckles were rather sweet-looking creatures, resembling a bundle of twigs with eyes, but they were apparently fiercely territorial of their habitats. If their tree was threatened, they would become vicious, and would apparently go straight for the eyes, Hagrid had cheerfully warned them. Woodlice were their favourite food, and the only things which would placate them if they became stressed.

Most of the class took in this information gravely, but Harry noticed, with a sinking feeling, that Malfoy was smirking to his cronies. Harry also noticed, with a sudden smirk of his own, that Malfoy was standing as far as possible from the jar of insects.

Harry’s group worked well, and soon the Bowtruckles were happily darting from branch to branch, snacking cheerfully on the proffered woodlice. They were surprisingly enthralling to watch. Huge oak-brown eyes peered at them suspiciously from their heads, which looked exactly like tiny logs. They moved effortlessly from branch to bow, reminding Harry of the monkeys he had seen at the zoo on Dudley’s eleventh birthday. With a casual glance around, Harry tried to spot Nott’s group through the dim green light. He eventually found them a few trees over. Unsurprisingly, Davis was in her element, and seemed to be in the process of trying to entice a nervous-looking Bowtruckle to eat from her hand. Nott was standing to the side with Bullstrode, watching Davis’ attempts with an amused expression. Just as Harry was about to turn back to his own group, Nott glanced up, and their eyes met. Harry felt his face flush as he quickly turned back to his task. He only had a few moments to feel embarrassed, however, before the peaceful scene was shattered by a sudden loud shriek from somewhere behind him.

The class whirled round as one, only to see Draco Malfoy wrestling with what looked to be several outraged bundles of twigs. Harry exchanged a look with Ron, whose shock had quickly morphed into delight.

Hagrid began lumbering in their direction with a look of alarm. “The woodlice, Parkinson!” he yelled, gesturing wildly at the container in Parkinson’s hands. The girl had a look of utter panic on her face to rival Hagrid’s, and she seemed to be rooted to the spot, watching Malfoy wrestle with the tiny creatures in shock. The Bowtruckles were certainly putting up a fight; Malfoy already had a scratch across his nose, and his pallid face was flushed red. The blonde boy let out a squeaked, “Pansy!” and the girl came to life with a sudden jerk, scrambling to open the container. Her arm swung in a flourish as the insects scattered in an arc, coating Malfoy's hair and robes like little grey pellets. Harry saw, with a flicker of revulsion, several immediately scurry under the boy's collar.

Malfoy froze, eyes wide, as a woodlouse scuttled over his mouth. The class stared in horror. Bits of mulch were flickered over his hair and face, and the only sound which could be heard were the gentle squeaks from the agitated creatures grouped in the tree above Malfoy. The previously-enraged Bowtruckles, meanwhile, seemed rather delighted by their change of fortune, and all but the one clinging to Malfoy's ear quickly abandoned their host entirely to scurry around the forest floor for the scattering insects. The remaining creature languidly picked one of the woodlice out of Malfoy's hair and swallowed it with a happy little noise, before launching itself onto a nearby branch and scuttling away.

“Er,” said a slightly distressed looking Hagrid, after a moment of silence. Malfoy had yet to move. Parkinson was looking at her friend in complete horror, with her hands covering her mouth. The moment was finally broken by Ron, next to Harry, suddenly bending over and retching into a nearby bush.

“Righ’,” said Hagrid, decisively, as half the class turned repulsed looks onto Ron. “Mr. Malfoy, if yeh’re not hurt, head on up ter the castle ter get cleaned up, there’s a lad. Migh’ wan’ to nip into see Madame Pomfrey, jus’ in case. Miss Parkinson, bes’ go with ‘im," he added, gently, to the still frozen girl. Parkinson blinked, and slowly reached out to hesitantly take Malfoy’s arm. The blonde boy’s eyes were still wide, but he jerked into motion without more than a blink. The two slowly left the clearing without looking back, as the other students watched on with open mouths. Once they had gone, they looked round at each other.

Hagrid cleared his throat. “Righ’, well, back ter work, you lot,” he said, with a soft clap of his giant hands. The students blinked back to the moment, and slowly began picking up where they’d left off. Harry noticed more than one expression morphing slowly into delight.

Harry was brought back to present by Ron’s snort from his side, as they finally reached the doors to the castle. “It went ’well’?” Ron asked, shooting Hermione a disbelieving look. He still looked rather pale, but his expression was dreamy. “That was bloody fantastic.”

                                                 ***

That afternoon, before dinner, Harry made his way slowly towards the Defence classroom. Their last class of the day had just let out, and dinner wasn’t for another half hour at least, so Harry figured Professor Lupin probably wasn’t busy. Since breakfast, his mind had kept returning to his conversation with Nott the night before. He still felt a little embarrassed at how quickly he’d assumed the worst of his teacher. Nott was probably onto something about him not looking at the big picture, he thought, a bit mulishly. It was just that Harry hadn’t really had much reason to put a lot of faith into adults, exactly. He knew objectively that adults weren’t all necessarily out to get him, of course, but he also knew that at the end of the day, they couldn’t be trusted to have his interests in mind.

His Aunt and Uncle were obvious – they were happy to treat him horribly just because he had been born with magic. Had he ever went to them for advice, or because he was upset, he imagined they’d be so bewildered they’d send him to his Cupboard out of sheer shock. A few of his teachers at Primary school had given him long looks with well-meaning furrowed brows ("How are things at home, Harry?"), but in the end they all took his mumbled platitudes and quiet denials at face value, and none were willing to do anything; not about the way he flinched when Dudley came near and certainly not about the hungry way he looked at the other children and their families sometimes at hometime. The teachers at Hogwarts were hardly better. Harry respected several of them – the Heads, minus Snape, were all nice enough, and if he was actively being murdered in front of them he was pretty sure they'd at least try to intervene. But Harry didn’t really know Flitwick or Spout all that well, and even though he figured McGonagall would jump in front of a wand for any of her students, he couldn’t help but remember how easily she had dismissed him back in first year when he had warned her about the Stone. Hagrid might have been Harry’s favourite adult, but even he had to admit that the man’s judgement wasn’t always the best. And Dumbledore had always been to kind to him, but Harry knew the man had to put the school first – he had already admitted that there were things he couldn’t tell Harry, and Harry understood that, even if he didn’t like it. Even the Weasleys, brilliant as they were, had seven children to worry about. They had let him stay, the summer after first year, but Harry still remembered how Ron had complained that his parents hadn't believed him about Harry being in trouble at the Dursleys.

No, Harry knew he was on his own when it came to adults. So, although he felt a little guilty for thinking so poorly of his Defence Professor, he couldn’t help but feel it was a little bit justified. Nevertheless, Harry found himself with the bizarre urge to speak with the man. Was it really clearing the air if the man had no idea Harry had been thinking badly of him? He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say, but he thought it might lessen the unpleasant squirm of guilt in his belly if he talked to the man, even if he couldn't exactly say why.

Before Harry could get too lost in his thoughts, he had arrived at the door to Lupin’s office. Here, Harry hesitated. He wasn’t exactly the type of student to pay unprompted visits to his teachers. Would Lupin be annoyed at the interruption? Or worse, would he wonder why on earth Harry was seeking him out without a good reason? Harry was saved from talking himself out of his plan when a soft voice called from down the hall.

“Harry?”

He turned to see his Professor walking towards him, with a pleasantly surprised look on his face.

“What can I do for you?” Professor Lupin asked, moving forward to unlock the door.

“Er,” Harry said, suddenly at a loss. Lupin didn't seem to pick up on his uncertainty, gesturing ahead of him into the office without stopping.

“Please, come in. Take a seat.” He nodded distractedly at the chair across from his desk. Lupin was carrying what looked to be a stack of essays, which he deposited on his desk with a relieved sigh.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry followed. The office itself took Harry by surprise; the teacher’s offices he’d been in previously - namely, McGonagall’s and Snape’s - had been stiflingly formal and eerie, respectively. Professor Lupin’s office, however, was immediately appealing. The window let in enough light that the posters depicting magical creatures looked cool, rather than creepy; and Harry spotted a few interesting-looking framed photographs of what appeared to be wizarding duels. The most striking thing about the room, however, was the number of books littering every surface; there were books in piles across the desk and books stacked on top of filing cabinets; Harry even noticed, bizarrely, a book balancing on the window ledge, left half open. Harry was forcibly reminded of Hermione when he spotted several that didn’t even look related to Defence at all. Harry dragged himself out of his investigation to find that Professor Lupin was watching him with a small smile. Feeling himself redden, Harry hastily took a seat.

“Right,” Lupin said. “Would you like a cup of tea, Harry? I was about to make one for myself.” He turned and began busying himself with a kettle on the counter behind his desk, looking over his shoulder to catch Harry’s answer.

“Er, alright,” Harry mumbled. “Thanks,” he added hastily, picturing Hermione’s frowning face at his lack of manners.

“It’s no trouble,” Professor Lupin replied, cheerfully.

The man seemed to be placing his wand against the kettle. He tapped it once along the spout, and the kettle immediately started to boil. Harry was forcibly reminded of Nott’s comment the night before about Charms being used for everything. Without quite meaning to, he blurted, “Was that a Charm, sir? To heat the kettle?”

Lupin turned around with two steaming cups and a look of mild surprise. He watched Harry with an unreadable expression for a moment, before his face smoothed out and he sat down.

“Yes, Harry. That was a variant of the Heating Charm, which is mostly used specifically for boiling water. It’s primarily used these days for boiling kettles and other domestic chores involving small quantities of water. Do you have an interest in Charms?” he asked, placing one mug in front of Harry. He gestured towards the lumps of sugar and a tiny bowl of milk he’d brought with him. Harry quickly poured a dash of milk into his cup with another mumbled “Thanks,” and hastily took a sip.

“Er, not especially,” he continued after a moment, with a shrug. “I have a, er, friend, who is though, and he mentioned that they’re used for everything domestic, pretty much.”

Professor Lupin smiled. “I dare say your friend knows what he’s talking about. Charms is a tremendously useful subject.” Lupin paused, and Harry looked up from his tea when the pause stretched on. Lupin was staring down at his own tea with a slight frown. After a moment his face relaxed, and he said, would-be casually, “You know, Charms was your mother’s favourite subject in school. She was very fond of it.” He took a long sip of his tea, his amber eyes staring fixedly at the table.

Harry felt a thrill go through him – one he felt whenever someone surprised him by mentioning his parents. “Really?” he blurted, leaning forward. “Did you know her, sir?” He tried to study the Professor across from him. Was he around the same age as Harry’s parents? Harry wasn’t sure, but Lupin did look rather old, judging by the grey in his hair and lines on his face.

Lupin paused again, before setting his cup down, eyes flickering to Harry briefly before turning away. “I did, as a matter of fact. I was friends with your parents in school. Especially your father.” He seemed to swallow and turned to fiddle with the sugar on the desk. “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Harry,” he said, not looking up, “but you do look remarkably like them.”

Harry cleared his throat, and mumbled, “Thanks, sir.” Harry was surprised by a slight sting in his eyes, despite the fact that this was the one thing everyone who'd ever met his parents said upon seeing him for the first time. For some reason it felt more personal with Lupin. He’d never met anyone who knew his parents from school, he realised. Well, Hagrid and the other teachers knew them as pupils, but this was the first person he’d met who knew them closely as peers, beyond, he supposed, Snape, who didn’t really count. He had to swallow back a host of questions as the possibilities of things Lupin might be able to tell him swam through his mind.

Before he could completely lose himself to his imagination, Lupin cleared his throat. “So, Harry. Now that we’ve got our tea, what brings you by my office today?”

“Oh, er,” Harry said. He had to forcibly drag his mind back to the task at hand. “Right,” he said. He sat up straighter and placed his tea gingerly on the desk, gently nudging a stray book out of the way to make room.

“I just wanted to ask, about the other day… with the Boggarts…” This was harder than Harry had expected. Lupin was frowning now and seemed to be watching Harry carefully. The air felt a little cool in here, making him immediately think of the chilling air of the dungeons, and he couldn’t help but fiddle with a little scrap of parchment lying on the desk as Lupin waited patiently for him to speak.

“It’s just…” he started, staring at his tea in front of him. “I was worried at first when you didn’t let me face the Boggart that you thought I wouldn’t be able to manage,” he said, in a bit of a rush. “But, uh, you just thought it would turn into Voldemort, didn’t you?” Harry added quickly, as he’d noticed Lupin open his mouth to speak.

Lupin closed his mouth, and gave Harry a surprised look, before smiling at him, gently. “Oh, Harry,” he said, kindly. “It wasn’t that I didn’t think you’d manage. You seem like a very capable young man, from what I’ve seen – and heard.” Harry shifted uncomfortably under the praise. “Yes,” he continued after a pause. “I assumed your Boggart would take that form."

Lupin continued after a moment's pause. "I take it I was incorrect?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Harry cast a nervous look up at him. In his experience, adults didn’t enjoy being told they were wrong, but Lupin simply looked back calmly, waiting for his response.

“Er, well. I think it would’ve been a Dementor, actually,” he said at last, a little sheepish.

Lupin’s eyes widened, before a thoughtful look came over his face. “A Dementor? Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I must commend you, Harry," he said, smiling at the boy. Harry just blinked back at him.

“Sir?” he said, unsure.

“Your greatest fear is fear itself,” he said. “That’s rather wise of you, I think.”

Harry had no idea how to take that. It seemed a little silly to commend him for being scared. “Er, thanks, sir.”

There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence, and Harry took a sip of his tea so he wouldn’t have to break it.

“Did you just want to ask about your Boggart, Harry? Or was there something else?” Lupin asked at length, sounding a little amused.

Harry shifted again. “Well, it’s just, I was thinking… If you hadn’t stopped me, if the Boggart had turned into a Dementor, I might’ve, well…” He shrugged, feeling suddenly very warm, and cleared his throat.

Lupin took pity on him.

“Harry,” he said, gentle but firm. Harry's eyes jerked up automatically at his tone. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I don’t know a single adult witch or wizard who enjoys the company of Dementors. They’re horrid creatures, and it’s no sign of weakness to be affected by them.” Lupin’s voice was steady and resolute. Despite everything, Harry found himself nodding along.

Another silence fell. He took another sip of his tea without looking up. It was nice. Aunt Petunia only bought Twinings, and like everything in the Dursley household, he wasn't exactly welcome to help himself. He wondered if Lupin popped to Tesco for his teabags. Were there wizarding brands of tea? Did they sell PG Tips in Diagon Alley?

Lupin sighed, and Harry almost flinched as he was brought out of his tea-based daydreams. “You’re friends with Hagrid, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding like he already knew the answer. Harry blinked slowly at the non-sequitur.

“Yeah, he delivered my Hogwarts letter,” he responded after a pause.

“Well,” Lupin continued. “I seem to recall that Hagrid spent some time in Azkaban last year. Have you talked to him about his experience with the Dementors?” he asked.

Harry had to think back. Hagrid never really discussed his brief stint in Azkaban. At the time Harry had been so happy to have the half-giant back, and afterwards, well - it just seemed so personal.

Harry shook his head. Lupin seemed unsurprised. “It might do you some good to talk to him, Harry. I expect he has a strong reaction to them, too. And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you asking.”

Harry took this in with a slow nod. Lupin might actually be right. Perhaps he’d been remiss in never asking Hagrid about Azkaban. It was personal, sure, and Harry was only a student, but maybe Hagrid would appreciate the chance to talk about it? And Harry could admit, after this brief talk with Lupin, that it might do him some good, too.

“Now, was there anything else?” Lupin asked. The man was remarkably patient, Harry thought a little sheepishly. He knew the Professor probably had other things to attend to, but he simply waited for Harry like he didn’t mind the intrusion at all. Harry felt his cheeks begin to redden, and he realised he’d torn up the scrap of parchment into several small pieces. Flushing properly now, he hastily swept the pieces into his hand and thrust it in his pocket, hoping desperately that the Professor hadn’t noticed the mess he’d made.

“Er,” Harry said, after the silence had stretched a little too long. “Just one more thing, Professor, if you don’t mind…”. He tried his best sorry-to-be-a-pest smile, hoping the man might find a little more patience.

Lupin simply returned his smile. “Not at all, Harry. Go ahead.”

Harry paused as he thought of how to broach the subject.

“My, er, friend,” he began. “The one who likes Charms? Well, he said that he thought there was a Charm for banishing Dementors. He said it was really advanced, though. I was wondering, maybe, if you knew it?” Harry looked up at him keenly. Lupin had a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I do,” he said, slowly. “Your friend wasn’t wrong, though, Harry. It’s an extremely advanced piece of magic. It isn’t even taught until NEWT level, and even then, only for students with an aptitude for Charms and Defence. Many wizards and witches never get the hang of it properly.”

Harry continued to look at him eagerly, undeterred, and the Professor sighed. “It’s called the Patronus Charm. When cast, it conjures a Patronus, which is a sort of shield that protects the caster. It takes the form of an animal, one which, it’s said, reflects the caster’s nature.”

Harry felt his eyebrows raise. An animal shield? That sounded brilliant. It would definitely come in handy if he had to come face-to-face with a Dementor again. Could he possibly learn something so advanced, though? It seemed rather doubtful, but not even trying seemed stupid.

“Sir,” he began, but was interrupted by the faint ringing of the bell which signalled dinner. Lupin seemed as surprised as Harry was, blinking quickly and casting a Tempus.

“Ah, it seems it’s time for dinner," the professor said, rising from his seat. “Shall we?” Seeing Harry’s expression, he smiled. “We can continue our conversation on the way.”

Harry smiled at the man, relieved, and they headed for the door, which Lupin locked behind him. Once they had started walking, Harry turned to the man, who, he noticed with a little embarrassment, was slowing his walk to match with Harry’s shorter stride. “Sir, do you think there’s any chance I’d be able to learn the Patronus Charm?” he asked, hesitantly. “I know it’s advanced, but…” he trailed off. He hoped desperately that the man might say yes, but if it was as hard as he and Nott had said…

Lupin smiled sympathetically down at him, looking unsurprised at his question, and Harry’s stomach sank. “I couldn’t honestly say, Harry. I think it would be extremely difficult for someone of your age to master the Charm, but…” he grimaced at Harry’s hastily covered look of dismay. “Well, who’s to say? You've already proven yourself very capable with Defence.”

Harry knew the man was only being kind, but he couldn’t help the blush that was rising on his face. Quickly, he said, “Do you think… is there any chance you might help me to learn it? Or just point me in the right direction, maybe?” He tried to hide the hope in his voice, but knew he was unsuccessful by the look on the man’s face. He felt his stomach plummet and tried to focus on not letting his desperation show.

Lupin frowned thoughtfully for a moment. They were getting closer to the Great Hall, now, and Harry could hear the sounds of hundreds of people sitting down to eat.

“Let me think about it, Harry,” Lupin said at last. “It would take some preparation. We can’t exactly ask a Dementor to sit with us to practice,” he said, reasonably. Harry nodded quickly, trying to hide his excitement. He didn’t want to push his luck, but that wasn't exactly a no .

“In the meantime,” Lupin said, with a suddenly mischievous smile, “Why don’t you start researching the Patronus Charm? Any advanced knowledge would be beneficial. I’m sure the Library ought to have something.” He saw Harry’s face at this and let out a chuckle. After a moment, Harry couldn’t help but smile back at the man, ruefully.

They had reached the doors to the Great Hall at last, and Harry shifted nervously on his feet.

“Alright, sir. I’ll look into it. Er, thanks for, you know…” he said, shrugging as he fiddled with the strap of his satchel.

“Any time, Harry,” Lupin said, kindly. “My door is always open to you, if you fancy a chat. Now, go on and enjoy your dinner. I’ll see you in class.”

Harry smiled at the man. “Thanks, Professor. See you tomorrow!” he said, before disappearing into the crowd, heading for the Gryffindor table. As he spotted Ron and Hermione bickering cheerfully with a Harry-sized space between them, Harry had to admit that he felt a lot better than he had earlier.

Chapter Text

“D’you ever think about why so many Slytherins go Dark?” Harry asked later that evening, as he, Ron, and Hermione lounged near the fire in the common room. The space was beginning to empty as the night wore on, and it was the perfect volume at which to have a somewhat-private conversation. The fire kept them comfortably toasty, and it was moments like this, warm and surrounded by his closest friends, that Harry felt most at home.

Both his friends looked at him with bemused expressions, though Hermione’s, unsurprisingly, quickly turned thoughtful. Ron spoke first. “Dunno, mate. They’re just sort of sneaky, aren’t they? And loads of their parents are Dark, so I guess it sort’ve gets passed down,” he said, shrugging a little.

Harry wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think being sneaky means you’ll go Dark though, does it? I mean, Fred and George are plenty sneaky, aren’t they, and they’re hardly Dark wizards.”

Ron’s frown deepened. “I guess…” he said, uncertainty clear.

Hermione sat forward a little, a look of consideration on her face. “I don’t suppose every Slytherin could actually be Dark, or they’d just disband the House, surely. But enough of them must’ve been – at least at some point - to get their reputation. I suppose it didn’t help when You-Know-Who started recruiting from within his old House.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Everyone knows what Salazar Slytherin thought about teaching Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. I suppose it’s hard to know who goes to Slytherin just ‘cause they’re cunning and ambitious, and who goes ‘cause they agree with the Founder and want to be there because of that. There must be a mix of the two, surely. I mean, Crabbe and Goyle have never struck me as particularly cunning or ambitious. Unless their ambition is to follow Malfoy around for the rest of their lives, in which case I suppose they’re doing fantastic.”

Ron snorted, and Hermione nodded grimly. “And don’t forget those whose parents have pressured them to get sorted there," she added after a moment. "That must happen with all the Houses, I suppose."

Harry made a noise of agreement, and Ron turned towards him. “Why’re you thinking about that stuff anyway, mate?” he asked, a bemused frown still on his face. He was looking a little betrayed; normally Hermione was in charge of the random philosophical discussions in their group, and Harry and Ron always presented a united front against that sort of thing.

Harry shrugged, and began twirling his wand idly. “’S just, when you two were sick, I ended up having to partner with a few Slytherins in class, and they were surprisingly alright. Not Malfoy’s lot!” Harry added hastily, seeing Ron’s expression. “I mean, uh, Nott, Bullstrode, Davis, and Zabini.”

“They were ‘alright’?” Ron looked rather aghast. “Are you sure, Harry? I mean, they’re Slytherins. ‘Cunning’ is sort’ve their thing.” He pulled a face. “What if they were just pretending to be nice to you as a trick? You know, make friends with you and then do something to embarrass you, as some sort of prank?” Ron’s normally friendly face looked uncharacteristically worried.

“They weren’t trying to make friends with me, though.” Harry pointed out. “And they weren’t exactly friendly, just… civil. They were actually suspicious of me.” Harry could see Ron’s offense at this and pulled a face. “I’m explaining it wrong. It’s just, I realised that if we had to, we could get along fine, and then I started thinking about how it’s weird to ignore them just because most of their House are gits. And then I bumped into some Slytherin first years, and they mostly just reminded me of Colin Creevey, y’know? Little and excited. Hardly dangerous evil masterminds.”

Ron still didn’t look entirely convinced, but most of his worry seemed to have faded, and now he was just frowning. Harry took that as a good sign.

“Anyway, I, er, ended up studying with them in the Library one night last week,” Harry admitted, bracing for their reactions. They didn’t disappoint.

“Studying?” they said in unison, with very different tones.

“In the Library? Really, Harry?” Hermione looked as if Christmas had come early.

“With the Slytherins? Did they kidnap you or something, mate?” Ron, conversely, was looking at Harry as if his best friend had been replaced by an irate Hippogriff.

“Er, yes, in the Library, and no, I wasn’t kidnapped. I have studied before, you know,” Harry huffed, a touch defensive.

“When?” Ron asked, sounding honestly surprised. “Where was I?”

“Yes, when, Harry?” Hermione added with a frown, as if Harry had been organising some secret underground studying ring and had decided not to invite her. She exchanged a bewildered look with Ron, and Harry felt a moment of fear over the rare display of the two teaming up, before racking his brain trying to come up with an answer.

“Er, well, I mean, I’ve probably studied before. During exam time, surely,” Harry said in the most reasonable tone he could muster.

“Bugger off,” he said with a scowl when Ron only snorted.

A thought seemed to suddenly occur to the other boy. “But it’s two weeks into term, mate! What on earth could they have been studying?” He sounded horrified. Hermione, on the other hand, was looking rather impressed.

Harry let out a sigh. “I was just trying to break the ice with them, to be honest. I think they study together every night.” He pulled a face at this, and saw his feelings mirrored by Ron. Hermione hummed far too wistfully for his comfort, and the boys shared looks of panic. Merlin help them if Hermione got that idea into her head.

“And, well. Last night, I actually bumped into Nott…” Harry began, fiddling with the strap of his watch. His friends listened thoughtfully as he gave a summary of his encounter with the other boy. He skimmed over the details (Hermione had shot him a pointed look when he mentioned being unable to sleep, and Harry knew an interrogation of his sleeping habits was in his near future) and mainly focused on how Nott had helped him with his Cheering Charm, and their conversation about Boggarts. He perhaps overstated Nott’s helpfulness and made the boy seem a little more friendly than he rightfully was, but for some reason Harry was rather desperate for his friends to get a good impression of the boy.

When he finished, Ron was frowning again and Hermione seemed thoughtful.

“I don’t know, mate… He sounds alright, from what you said, but he still gives me the creeps.” Ron shuddered, and Hermione rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

“Ronald,” she admonished, “if Harry wants to make a new friend and thinks he’s harmless, then we should support him.”

Harmless wasn’t a word he’d ever associate with Theodore Nott, Harry thought grimly, but he was hardly going to argue.

It was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m not not supporting him, Hermione. I’m just saying, you’ve got to be careful, Harry.” Ron’s face was very serious, and Harry felt a rush of fondness for his friend.

“I will be,” he said. The conversation had gone remarkably well, and he felt like riding that feeling of success as far as it would take him. “Now, who’s up for a game of Exploding Snap?”

                                                ***

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Harry said for the third time as he trailed after Hermione.

“We didn’t have a choice!” the girl fumed as she stormed away from their classroom. “What a sham, honestly! I can’t believe she gets away with teaching that rubbish. It was a complete waste compared to my Arithmancy class.”

Hermione was scowling fiercely, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her so offended.

He was still somewhat in a daze.

Their Divination lesson had started normally, with Harry a great deal more cheerful having Ron and Hermione finally by his side. However, within ten minutes, Harry was beginning to worry that Hermione was attempting to give them a demonstration of spontaneous human combustion. They were reading tea leaves again, and like in previous lessons, Trelawney was predicting disaster and devastation at every turn. Hermione had worn an unusually serious expression at the beginning of the lesson, but by the time Trelawney got round to reading Harry’s soggy tea leaves (which apparently portended the sudden and grizzly death of someone close to him this year) her scowl was so severe that even their Professor was giving her a wide berth.

Harry had tried to assure her that he didn’t mind his bleak fortune, but that seemed to only anger the girl further. Two minutes later, Trelawney made a passing reference to Harry’s Grim and the ‘tragedy of a life cut short’, Harry flinched at the reminder of the menacing black dog, and that was it for his future in Divination. Hermione had yelled at their Professor; Harry still couldn’t quite believe it. But what had perhaps surprised him most was that after Hermione had gotten her (considerable) feelings off of her chest, she had turned firmly to him and said, in a no-nonsense tone, “Harry?” with a stiff motion to the door. Taking one look at her face, Harry grabbed his things, shared a baffled look with Ron, and followed their friend out the classroom and down the ladder. The class stared after them silently with open mouths.

Which left Hermione storming down the corridor with a meek and very confused Harry in her wake. “Er, Hermione?” Harry tried. She didn’t make any indication of having heard him. What little he could see of her face from his position trailing behind her made him want to scuttle off to someone a little less terrifying, like Snape perhaps, or Aragog. Biting his lip, he gathered his courage and made another attempt. “Hermione, just wait a second!” he panted as they began descending a staircase. “Please?”

This seemed finally to do the trick.

Hermione spun round, and Harry felt a moment of pure surprise when he noticed tears trailing down her cheeks. Her face was red, and she looked like she might break down at any moment.

“Hermione?” he said quietly. “What’s the matter?”

Her rage-filled face finally crumbled.

“Oh, Harry!” she wailed, and threw herself at him. He was frozen for a moment, finding himself with a face full of bushy hair. After a second, he got his bearings and hesitantly began patting her back, thoroughly mystified.

“Er,” he said. She clung to him for a few seconds more, and then released him with a slightly sheepish look. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” the girl began, hastily wiping at her eyes. “It’s just… when you told me last week that Trelawney was predicting your death, it just got me so upset. I hoped maybe you were exaggerating or something, because surely a Professor would have more tact, but hearing her be so blasé about it… Oh, Harry. It’s just, after everything that happened last year, and the year before…” Hermione trailed off, sniffing. Harry suddenly felt terrible.

“Hermione, I’m sorry. I never thought that it might be upsetting for you,” he said, awash with guilt.

This didn’t seem to be the right thing to say. Hermione scowled, and gave him a very unimpressed look. “It’s not your fault, Harry. You don’t have to apologise. I just had to see it for myself. And then, well. I know you pretend these things don’t upset you, Harry, but I know they do. And you don’t deserve to have to listen to that nonsense.”

Harry cleared his throat. “They don’t upset me…” he mumbled, tugging at his collar. Judging by Hermione’s withering look, this wasn’t the right response either.

He let out a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Hermione. That actually… means a lot. You’re right,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t go back. But, er. What do we do now?” The shock was finally wearing off, and worry began curling through his gut; surely they’d be in serious trouble for this? They had left a lesson halfway through. Not only that, but Hermione had had some rather choice things to say about the subject itself, and Harry felt rather certain that dropping a subject didn’t usually involve storming out ten minutes in.

Hermione also seemed to be calming down enough to start feeling embarrassed. “Well,” she said, cheeks tingeing pink, “it perhaps wasn’t the most orthodox method, but you are allowed to drop electives within the first two weeks of term. We should speak to Professor McGonagall as soon as possible so we can arrange our new timetables.”

That posed an entirely new problem. “Er, Hermione – what am I supposed to take instead of Divination?”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Unsurprisingly, talk of academics seemed to cheer her immensely, and Harry noted with relief that her crying seemed to be over for now. She began walking again, thankfully at a more sedate pace, and Harry followed.

“Well, there are three electives you could pick from: Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy. Muggle Studies wouldn’t make much sense for you, as you were Muggle-raised, so I’d suggest either of the others,” she informed him, pragmatically.  

Harry’s heart sank. Arithmancy or Ancient Runes? Did he want to die of boredom, or die of boredom in another language? What a choice.

Hermione must have read his gloomy expression for she rolled her eyes pointedly. Harry thought of her previous upset and tried to muster up some enthusiasm.

“So, er, which would you recommend?” he asked. He sounded rather miserable to his own ears, but Hermione gave him a fond look, so he supposed she must’ve known he was trying.

“I’ll admit, Arithmancy is my favourite subject so far, but both have their value. You really ought to discuss it with Professor McGonagall. She’ll be able to explain the merits of each subject and determine which might suit you better.”

They were nearing their Head of House’s Office, now. The castle was silent around them, and their footsteps were echoing loudly off the stone floors. If you weren’t careful, you could announce your presence from several corridors away in certain parts of the castle. Harry resisted the urge to drag his feet and tried to muster up a smile for his friend. “Thanks, Hermione. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

The two students arrived at the intimidating oak door to McGonagall’s office. Luck seemed to be on their side; they could see light escaping from under the door, signalling the Professor was there and not off teaching. Harry didn’t want to imagine their Professor’s face if they had had to interrupt a lesson to give her their news.

The two looked at each other nervously. Despite her earlier confidence, Hermione was beginning to look a little pale. Harry knew how she felt: McGonagall on the warpath was a sight to behold, and Harry remembered with a sudden twisting feeling in his stomach that Hermione’s recent boggart had been a disappointed McGonagall. Merlin, she’d risked facing her greatest fear for him? Pushing down a squirm of guilt in his stomach, Harry took a deep breath, gathered his Gryffindor courage, and knocked.

                                                ***

The Library that evening was unusually quiet, even for so early in the term. The sun had come out that afternoon, and most students had flocked to the grounds to soak up what would might be the last nice weather of the year. The castle was beautiful in the sunshine; the light brought out the colour in the stone walls, and the grass and Lake were almost blinding with their vibrancy. Ron and Hermione were out there now, lounging by the lake with the other Gryffindor third years; Harry had been with them too, until Hermione’s increasingly pointed looks had driven him to sigh and head for the Library with only a little grumbling.

It was the deal he had worked out with McGonagall; the Professor had been unsurprisingly unimpressed with their tale. Hermione had began looking increasingly pale as the Professor told them off with sharp words and even sharper frowns, and Harry couldn’t stop picturing her as Hermione’s Boggart.

“It was my fault,” he blurted, before his brain could catch up with him. Hermione shot him a wide-eyed look and he belatedly realised he’d cut the Professor off mid-sentence. He froze. “Er.”

After a very still moment, McGonagall raised her eyebrows and gave him an expectant wave of her hand. "By all means, Mr. Potter. Elaborate." Harry sunk a little further into his chair.

“Well,” he began, “it’s just that Professor Trelawney kept predicting my death, you see, and I didn’t mind—“ Hermione’s look could cut glass.

“I mean,” he corrected hastily, “I suppose it wasn’t exactly nice to hear, and well, I think it was just a little… upsetting, for Hermione to listen to.”

He cleared his throat and looked resolutely at his lap. The grandfather clock along the far wall felt blaringly loud as it tick – tick - ticked its way through the tense silence. Hermione shuffled next to him, and he could feel the Professor’s gaze boring into the top of his head.

“Well,” McGonagall said at last, and Harry looked up in mild alarm at the softening of her tone. Their stern Professor had a rather characteristically irate twist to her mouth, but Harry (who was an expert on adults being mad at him) was relatively sure that it wasn’t directed at either of them.

“What's done is done,” the teacher continued, with a hefty and taxed-sounding sigh. “And we are still technically within the window of switching classes; so,” she said, with an air of finality, “have you given any consideration as to which elective you’d prefer instead, Mr. Potter?”

That led to this evening, with Harry slouching through the dim Library while his friends enjoyed the sunshine by the Lake. When it had become embarrassingly obvious that Harry had not, in fact, given any consideration to which elective he’d prefer, McGonagall had resignedly ordered him to spend the rest of the evening looking through the course textbooks until he had gotten a better grasp of his options. He only had the rest of the night to pick, which seemed rather a lot of pressure to Harry, but McGonagall had only had to raise a formidable eyebrow at his perturbed expression, and he had hastily agreed to her terms.

The shelves stretched on ahead of him, and Harry could see Pince a few stacks away, turning a corner with beady eyes, out on the prowl for trouble. Thankfully, his Hermione-sanctioned trip to the Library last week made things easier tonight. He remembered vaguely where the sections for Runes and Arithmancy were and had only a little trouble finding the shelves.

It was only when he was staring down the rows and rows of tomes that he began to realise what it was he had done. Goodbye easy-pass, he thought morosely. He could just imagine the extra work he was in for. With a long-suffering sigh, he set to work.

After fifteen minutes of aimlessly scanning the shelves for anything interesting (which was not a lot), he had managed to secure both core texts and half a dozen books on the subjects which he had selected on the grounds that they looked less intimidating than the rest.

Lugging them up from where he’d dumped them in a pile on the ground, Harry headed out in search of a seat. He could admit that he’d wondered in the back of his mind, as he rummaged through book after book, if the Slytherins would be at their table today as usual, or if they were also out enjoying the sun like most of the students. He didn’t have to wonder long. As he made his way out of the stacks into the nearby study area, he spotted them immediately; Bullstrode seemed to be holding court today, and the others were alternating between looking at her, their books open in front of them, and writing languidly in their notebooks. Harry had noticed last week that they all seemed to take note-taking very seriously; each had an expensive-looking leather-bound notebook of differing styles which were utterly unfamiliar to Harry, who mainly used the cheap spiral-ringed notebooks he’d found near the tills in Flourish and Blotts on his first trip to Diagon Alley. Harry rather expected the Slytherins had went elsewhere for their stationary.  

They hadn’t spotted him yet, and Harry hovered uncertainty at the edge of the open space. Would it be alright to just… walk up to them? He wouldn’t second guess himself with his Gryffindor friends in this situation, but he supposed, after a moment, that he had only really hung out with the Slytherins all together once before. That hardly made them friends, despite the internal turmoil they’d thrown him into recently. With the way they (especially Nott) had tipped his life upside down over the last few weeks, they weren't exactly strangers anymore.

The decision was taken out of his hands when he spotted Pince glaring suspiciously at him from where she hovered behind a table of indifferent seventh years, who were looking so overwhelmed with whatever they were reading that Harry thought a full-on wizard duel could take place in front of them and they still wouldn’t look up.

Harry decided he’d best do something before Pince got it into her head that he was up to no good.

Zabini was the first to spot his approach over Bullstrode’s head. A slight raising of his eyebrows betrayed his surprise, but the boy contented himself with an amused smirk while Harry approached.

He paused uncertainly a few feet from the desk and cleared his throat. Just say something normal, he told himself sternly.

“Hi,” he said as the four students turned to him. “Mind if I join you?” He smiled awkwardly and motioned to the pile of books in his arms.

Bullstrode was glaring again, but by this point Harry was becoming rather oblivious to it, like with Neville’s blushes, or Ron’s frequent eyerolls. The foursome traded unreadable looks, before Davis smiled up at him and nodded cheerfully over to the seat he had occupied last time.

“Sure! If you’d like,” she said, sounding rather amused. Bullstrode and Nott both turned to look at her. Zabini just smiled. Harry wasted no time in taking the seat, feeling his face start to warm as they all looked at him. At least the atmosphere was a little less tense than last time, which Harry found perhaps unreasonably reassuring. Maybe he’d be able to wear them down through sheer exposure?

Harry finally gave in and dared a glance over at Nott. The boy was watching him with a characteristically blank expression, but Harry thought he could detect the tiniest twitch of his lip. Was that a repressed smile, or a sneer?

Bullstrode dragged him out of his thoughts with a hefty sigh. “Do your friends know you’re here, Potter? I know they’re not sick anymore.” Her eyes narrowed, and her tone was accusing. “What’re you doing studying with us when you could be off with them, blowing something up or whatever it is Gryffindors do with their free time?”

Davis laughed, and didn't have the grace to look embarrassed when Harry sent them both a glare. “I need to study tonight, and what’s the point in studying alone when I could just sit with you lot? I thought I already explained that I’ve not got an ulterior motive.”

Bullstrode pursed her lips, and Harry added, churlish, “And we don’t blow stuff up, either.”

Zabini joined in with Davis’ laughter, this time. Bullstrode opened her mouth, possibly to list off every Gryffindor-sourced explosion in recent memory, but Nott cut her off. “Leave it, Millie,” he said, voice surprisingly soft. Bullstrode looked at the boy for a moment, before rolling her eyes and giving another sigh.

Nott turned to Harry at last, and he felt himself sitting up straighter in his seat. He swallowed.

“What’re you studying, then, Potter?” Nott asked. He had a way of looking at people, Harry thought, that made it impossible to ignore him. His brown eyes were steady, but his face was almost blank; he looked straight at someone, unwavering and eerily still, and Harry was suddenly put in mind of a nature programme he’d caught a bit of several years ago on the telly. In the show, he’d seen a tiger stalking its prey. She had moved only by degrees, muscles moving with a graceful fluidity which he’d never seen elsewhere. But the thing that struck Harry most was her eyes; utterly still, and utterly focused. Nott seemed to watch people in the same way – blank, motionless, and missing nothing. Harry couldn’t work out if he wanted to meet that gaze, stare back to show he had nothing to hide, or avoid it at all cost; it seemed the latter was winning.

“Ah,” Harry said, looking down at his uninviting pile of books. “Hermione and I, er, sort’ve dropped Divination today, so McGonagall says I have to pick another elective by tonight.” He could still feel Nott’s eyes on him as he spoke. He had the bizarre urge to try and flatten his hair, which he knew was likely a complete mess by this time of day. Instead of giving into this ridiculous notion, he picked up the topmost book from the pile and waved it a little at the other boy to give his hands something less mental to do.

Nott’s eyebrows were raised when Harry finally gave in and darted a look back up.

“’Sort’ve dropped’ it?” Nott asked with a slight twist to his lips. Harry thought he could detect a hint of humour, so he shot the boy a wavering smile in return.

“Er, yeah,” he returned, feeling his cheeks heat a bit with remembrance of his and Hermione’s display. “Bit of a long story. Wasn’t the most gracious exit.”

They were all watching him, now. Harry looked around the room desperately, hoping that something would pop up and cause a distraction, but he had no such luck. Turning back to the others, who now all (barring Bullstrode) looked rather amused, he sighed and gave them a brief account of his departure from the class. By the end, Davis and Zabini looked delighted, Bullstrode thoughtful, and Nott, bizarrely, was frowning. Merlin, he hoped the other boy wasn’t such a swot that he’d be annoyed at Harry for storming out of class.

Bullstrode, surprisingly, was the one to respond first. “Potter, you’re an idiot,” she said, looking faintly exasperated. Zabini snorted, and Davis swatted his arm fondly.

“Wh- hey!” Harry replied, stung.

“Why did you return to the class when it was clear the Professor had it out for you?” she demanded, frowning disdainfully at him like she was taking his incompetence personally.

“Er,” Harry said, thrown a little. “Well…” he thought for a moment. “I s’pose it never occurred to me. It’s not like we haven’t had awful teachers before. I mean, there was Lockhart last year – he was an idiot. And Quirrell, in first year. His teaching was rubbish, and he tried to murder me. Actually, so did Lockhart, I suppose. Well, he was going more for permanent incapacity, but that should count since we could've died. Maybe like manslaughter?” He frowned. “But Quirrell had Voldemort on the back of his head like some sort of gross hat, so I guess he was worse.”

All four flinched at Voldemort's name, and Harry felt a jolt of alarm at their expressions, which had been increasingly bewildered but now were strangely shuttered. He suddenly noticed that the other three were watching Nott carefully. The sudden tension at the table was palpable, and Harry felt himself swallow reflexively as he realised he’d said something wrong. What though? Was it using Voldemort’s name? Or calling him ‘gross’? He felt a rush of indignation at either of those causing offense, but thinking about the way Nott looked suddenly struck for a second before his face fixed itself, Harry felt his justified anger wash away to be replaced by uneasiness. Perhaps not, then. The wooden seat underneath him suddenly felt uncomfortably hard, and he shifted a little to find a better position. Harry could hear his own heartbeat, and the low murmur of conversation at the next table over suddenly seemed rather loud.

He risked another glance up, and found that Zabini was looking back at him. Nott was aiming his steady gaze at the table, face completely void of emotion. Davis and Bullstrode were, in turn, watching the pale boy, each with a frown. Harry felt his own eyebrows rise when Zabini suddenly shot him an unmistakably friendly grin.

“On the back of his head, Potter, really?” the boy said, his voice easy with humour.

Harry nodded, slowly. Had Zabini somehow missed the atmosphere?

But the other boy simply snorted again. “That explains the turban. And, Merlin, the garlic.” He turned an amused look onto Davis, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. They looked at each other for a moment, Zabini’s smile still easy and pronounced on his face, before the boy turned to Nott, and Davis followed his gaze. Bullstrode still hadn’t taken her eyes from Nott.

“Doesn’t it, Theo?” Zabini asked, mildly. His voice was quieter than before, but there seemed to be some sort of edge to it. Harry blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sure what kind of bizarre exchange was happening, here, but he felt very suddenly out of his depth. There was clearly more going on here than the obvious.

The two girls seemed to be holding their breath, but Zabini’s friendly gaze didn’t waver. After a moment, Nott looked up to meet the other boy’s eyes.

“I suppose it does, Blaise,” Nott said, slow and deliberate, something almost wry on his face. Zabini’s smile visibly softened, and Harry looked away, wondering suddenly if he was encroaching on a private moment. God, he thought, utterly confused; why couldn’t Snape have just paired him with a Hufflepuff that day? He would happily bet that they didn’t have these kinds of mysterious, veiled conversations.

The tension was broken rather anticlimactically by Bullstrode. “Well,” the tall girl said, turning back to Harry and sounding pragmatic, “it was still silly to wait so long to drop it. What do you think you’ll pick, instead?”

What followed was a surprisingly non-torturous hour of discussion, in which Harry was mostly content to listen to Bullstrode, Zabini, and Davis bicker happily about the merits of the third year electives. Bullstrode seemed to be firmly in the camp of Arithmancy, whereas Zabini argued rather passionately for the benefits of Ancient Runes. Davis seemed to have no real interest in either subject, but interjected occasionally to put forward the case for Muggle Studies, of all things. Harry was able to piece together that the girl had been split, over the summer, between it and Divination. When Harry looked mildly surprised at this (before trying to wipe his expression to something neutral, realising his surprise was probably rather rude), Davis simply snorted, and kindly told him that she was actually a Half-blood, like him, and had an interest in Muggle culture, as she’d never really known any of her Muggle family.

“Oh,” Harry had said, still rather dumbstruck. There was an awkward pause. “My family are all Muggle,” he told the girl, who cocked her head to the side in response.

“I’d heard that. I suppose you’d know all about Muggle life, then,” she said, sounding intrigued. Harry had a sudden flashback to Mr. Weasley cornering him in the Burrow last year to interrogate him about electric toothbrushes, and nodded warily back, but Davis simply smiled, and the debate continued over them.

Nott interrupted rarely; over the course of the discussion he seemed slowly to return to normal, his far-away gaze somewhat returning to the present. Harry found his eyes kept straying to the other boy. He couldn’t seem to help it. The strange mood that had taken over during the Slytherins’ bizarre exchange had dissipated quickly, but Harry had noticed each of the others watching Nott out of the corners of their eyes from time to time, and felt a little mollified.

Harry found, surprisingly, that he was actually enjoying himself. Zabini had kept up his friendly mood, and Harry had to admit his passionate defence of Runes against Bullstrode’s utter derision (which Harry suspected was mostly put on to rile Zabini up) was rather entertaining. Davis’ position of mediator (and, rather frequently, instigator) seemed to come naturally to her; Harry had the sudden vision of the four of them sitting in a corner of the dungeons, bickering amiably over other ridiculous subjects. Was Nott usually more involved, he wondered? He tried to imagine the other boy squabbling like his friends, and remembered sharply his passionate case for Charms that night in the empty classroom. He could imagine him like that, eyes bright and lips quirked, sardonic and earnest all at once. Harry, very suddenly, wanted to see him that way again.

The debate began to wind down after around an hour, and Harry was surprised at how quickly the time had gone. He was not surprised, however, to find that he had come no closer to picking a subject. Zabini was flushed and victorious; Bullstrode had gracelessly rolled her eyes and admitted defeat several minutes ago (it seemed Zabini had worn her down, more than anything), and Zabini was now winding down what seemed to be a gloating closing speech. Davis was watching him fondly, and even Bullstrode was having a hard time keeping an irate look on her face. Harry found himself laughing along with Davis when Zabini finished with an elaborate bow, which looked far less graceful than it might had he not been sitting down with an ink stain on his face from a dramatic flourish he had made earlier.

“So, Potter,” Zabini began, sounding smug, as the others finished rolling their eyes, “have I convinced you to pick Ancient Runes, then?”

Bullstrode muttered something under her breath. There was a sharp thud from under the table, and the girl exclaimed, “Hey!” as Zabini morphed his face into a startlingly innocent expression.

“Well,” Harry said, trying to keep a straight face, “you did make an, er, compelling argument. I suppose it’s just hard to pick when they're both so... appealing.”

Zabini frowned dramatically at this, and Davis seemed to take pity on Harry, interrupting before the boy could say something else. “Let’s see,” she said, thoughtfully. “You have to think about the pros and cons, with these things. For example, the pros for Runes: apparently, it’s good to have a magical language under your belt for after Hogwarts, if you care about that sort of thing. Oh, and it might help you with other forms of magic, because some have Runic bases. And it’d widen the number of texts you can read, obviously.

Now, the cons,” she sat up straighter, with a smirk at Zabini, who watched her with narrowed eyes. “One, it seems pretty boring. Two, you’d be stuck with Blaise, because none of us take it.” She smoothly shifted in her seat, and Zabini cursed as his foot hit the chair leg.

“Ha, ha," he said, drily. “Now, what about Arithmancy? Which I’m also in.” He swivelled to face Davis. “Add that to the pros,” he informed her, helpfully.

Davis shushed him. “I’m getting there," she said. She cleared her throat, and shuffled the papers in front of her like some sort of Muggle judge. “Now, as for Arithmancy. The pros: good to have as an OWL, though not many professions outright require it. Uh, it can help with other subjects, sometimes. Potions uses it a bit, I think, and Transfiguration especially. Some people, apparently, find it interesting.” Her face clearly conveyed what she thought of those people. “Now, cons: also pretty boring. And there’s a lot of maths,” she pulled a face at this, and Harry felt himself nodding in sympathy. “Also, you’d be stuck with Blaise, Millie and Theo, and they’d probably drive you crazy, too.”

Zabini winced dramatically, and Bullstrode scowled at her, but Harry detected no heat in it. Nott, conversely, was smiling a little, around the corners of his mouth. The sight was so unfamiliar that Harry had trouble looking away for a moment.

“You’re in Arithmancy, too?” Harry blurted. He could feel the others giving him strange looks, but Nott seemed to be considering him.

“Yes,” he said at length. “Tracey’s right that it’s a useful subject to have.” He tilted his head, and nodded once, conceding. “And it’s interesting, I suppose. There’s a lot of compelling theory being written on the possible applications of Arithmancy in other areas, these days.”

Zabini was shaking his head, sadly. “See, Potter? This is what you’d be in for.”

Davis flicked a rubber at him. “Ow!” he said, rubbing his arm, but he was smiling.

Well. Harry cleared his throat and tried not to think too hard about the rationale behind his decision. “You’ve made some good points, Davis. I think I might go for Arithmancy, after all. I don't think Runes would be too useful for me.” He kept his face casual, and avoided Nott’s eyes, but he could feel the other boy’s gaze on him again. Bullstrode’s face seemed to be struggling between annoyance and victory; she settled for rolling her eyes, then shooting Zabini a smug look.

Zabini huffed a sigh of resignation, and Harry gave him an apologetic smile. Davis was smirking at her friend, but Harry saw her turn another quick, unreadable look onto Nott; taking a deep breath, Harry finally gave in and glanced up. Nott was watching him, of course, and as their eyes met Harry saw curiosity plain on the other boy’s face, as well as something he couldn’t quite identify.

Bullstrode closed her book with a loud thwap, breaking the moment. Harry was surprised to see that the Library had largely emptied around him during their debate, apart from the table of seventh years in the corner, which seemed to have accrued even more harried-looking unfortunates.

“Well,” Bullstrode said with a churlish sigh, “I guess we’re not studying any more tonight.” She didn’t look over at Harry, but he felt a twinge of guilt nonetheless.

“Er, sorry that I ruined your study session. Will you be able to catch up?” he asked, awkwardly. He hoped they would – Bullstrode wasn’t someone he wanted resenting him.

Bullstrode snorted. “Sure. We’re not behind, we just like to keep on top of everything,” she explained with a modest shrug.

“Oh,” Harry said. The others had taken Bullstrode’s cue and were packing up the books scattered across the table. The sun was beginning to wane outside, casting their corner of the Library in dim evening light which made everything look a little orange. Harry wondered if Ron and Hermione were in, yet. He expected Hermione would be excited at his decision; she’d tried to be unbiased, but Harry knew plainly that Arithmancy was the girl’s favourite subject and she was hoping he’d pick it. Well, at least it would make her happy, he thought ruefully.

The others had finished gathering their things, and were pushing their chairs back in.

“Er,” Harry blurted, unsure how to voice the question he had been waiting all evening to ask. The four Slytherins looked at him, and he felt himself swallow at the weight of their stares.

“I was wondering,” he began, before pausing again. He licked his lips. Gryffindor, he reminded himself. “D’you think – I mean, would it be okay if I, er, came back, sometimes? To study, I mean. Uh, with you lot.”

He addressed this last, rather meekly, to the now-empty table. There was silence for a moment, and Harry tried to focus on the soft scratch of quills on parchment and the gentle swoosh of a page being turned nearby. It was hard to drown out the thumping of his heart. Merlin, he’d tackled a basilisk, but talking to his classmates made him this nervous? It made no sense.

He was considering how Gryffindor it might be to make a strategic retreat, when Nott spoke.

“Okay,” he said, simply. Harry’s head shot up. Nott was watching him with that same curiosity-and-something-else expression he had worn earlier. The other three were looking over at the tall boy, all with eerily similar neutral faces.

“You can cover Defence, if you’d like. You’re better at it than I am.” His voice was even, but Harry didn’t think he was displeased. He remembered after a moment of staring blankly back at the boy that he ought to reply.

“Uh, sure! I mean, that’d be fine. I’ll, ah, see you all in class, then?” he asked, clutching at his satchel and forcing an almost-casual smile. All four nodded, and Zabini smiled back, while Davis bid him a friendly goodbye as they turned to leave. He caught Nott’s eye once more, as the other boy turned away, and then they were gone.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you have everything? Your books, quills? Enough parchment? We’d better hurry if we don’t want to be late.” Hermione was practically vibrating with excitement, Harry noted with a concealed sigh. Ever since he had told her of his decision to take Arithmancy instead of Divination, the fervour in her eyes had been alarming. Had he known she’d be this invested he might’ve picked Runes instead just to save his sanity.

They were currently finishing up a rather harried breakfast at the Gryffindor table. Between Hermione’s excited chatter about the upcoming class, and Ron’s unsubtle resentful glares, Harry had been left with little in the way of appetite. Although Hermione was over the moon about his decision, Ron was still feeling rather shell-shocked at finding his two best friends had abandoned him to Divination on his own.

His initial incredulity had waned after Hermione had offered an explanation, but Harry could tell that Ron was feeling a little hurt over being left out. Harry knew he’d be too embarrassed to come out and say that, but he knew his friend well enough to know that being the odd one out was a bit of a sore spot for him. Thankfully, he seemed to lose most of his resentment when Hermione, with a sudden surge of excitement, suggested that he drop Divination for Arithmancy, too. Ron had cast a panicked look at Harry, before informing Hermione that there was ‘no bloody way in hell’ he was swapping the easy-pass of Divination for something as difficult as Arithmancy. “I get a headache just from watching you do your Arithmancy homework, Hermione. Not a chance,” he had told the scowling girl, firmly, and with a glance of newfound sympathy towards Harry the subject had been dropped.

That didn’t stop the boy from feeling a little morose now, though, Harry knew. He and Ron had been in every class together since they started Hogwarts, and although Harry had assured him that Seamus and Neville would still be with him, he remained unimpressed. Knowing Ron, Harry figured he would need a day or two to grumble, and then it would be forgotten.

Harry’s mood was unlikely to improve so quickly. He had selected Arithmancy mostly at random (or so he assured himself), but after a night of Hermione attempting to give him a ‘quick introduction’ to the subject, he was regretting not simply picking Runes so he could fail the class in peace. The subject, from Hermione’s description, seemed utterly daunting. He hadn’t quite followed her explanations, but it seemed like maths was a big part, as well as something she referred to as ‘numerology’. Harry really didn’t want to know.

McGonagall had told him to simply attend the next class of his choice so as not to fall further behind, and that he should arrange a plan for catching up with his new Professor.

When Hermione ushered them up and away from the table, the other Gryffindor boys falling into step with them, Harry attempted to swallow another sigh.

The group walked up several flights of stairs together before they split off, half heading off to Divination, and the other carrying on another few flights up to the seventh floor. “Merlin, I’m not looking forward to walking this twice a week,” Harry said, peering through a nearby window out over the grounds.

“That’s right,” Dean said, sympathetically, “you’ve only got little legs.”

“Oi!” squawked Harry, pretending to aim a kick at Dean’s calf. The other boy stepped nimbly out the way with a laugh, and Hermione rolled her eyes fondly at them both.

Before long they had arrived at the classroom. Hermione and Dean walked straight in, talking amongst themselves, but Harry trailed behind, curiosity warring with nerves in his stomach. It was an odd sensation to be new to a class; Harry had only attended the one Primary school, and he had never joined a class after it had started in Hogwarts. And Ron’s earlier gloom wasn’t quite unreasonable; it really was bizarre to be in a class without his best friend. He told himself firmly that it was definitely silly to miss the other boy, whom he’d see in an hour, but Harry still felt himself glancing aside, ready to share a look whenever Hermione said something crazy. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. As he dragged himself forward behind his friends, he spotted several surprised looks being aimed his way. He ducked his head, and trotted a little to catch up to Hermione and Dean.

The classroom itself had an unusual layout. It was clearly one of the older rooms in the Castle; small in size, it had two split sections of seating raised in a slope up from where the students had entered. It was reminiscent of a university lecture hall more than a normal classroom, and Harry eyed the ancient-looking wooden desks with mild trepidation. There seemed to only be five rows, separated by narrow steps between them, and Harry scanned the students who were already sitting.

It was quickly apparent that this class was dominated by Ravenclaws. Harry spotted several familiar faces and nodded awkwardly as they made surprised eye-contact. Merlin, it seemed as if every Ravenclaw in their year was here. He supposed he shouldn’t really be surprised.

Following Hermione and Dean towards the desks, Harry pulled a face when he realised the entire front row was already occupied. He noticed Hermione’s frown and felt his lips twitch. Count on her to be disappointed not to get a front seat. He turned a little to share a look with Ron, before remembering. After a small huff, he followed them to the second row behind a group of semi-familiar Ravenclaws who already seemed to have their books opened and ready on their desks.

He collapsed ungracefully onto the bench next to Hermione. As the girl began chatting happily with Dean about a previous lesson, Harry spotted several etchings on the desk in front of him. Peering forward, he could make out several phrases; a swear word, two names, and what seemed to be a small poem about a Professor whose name he didn’t recognise. He wondered, idly, how long ago they had been made. Hogwarts itself was over a thousand years old, wasn’t it? Surely they brought in new furniture sometimes; still, Harry ran one hand gently over the etchings, and wondered if they might be a few centuries old, at least.

Noticing, after a moment, that Hermione and Dean were already set-up, Harry hastily began pulling his things out of his satchel. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the door opening once again, and tried to school his expression into nonchalance at the arrival of the Slytherins. As Nott, Zabini, and Bullstrode made their way towards the desks, Harry noted with surprise two more Slytherins following in their wake: Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. Harry turned a questioning look to Hermione, who followed his gaze and grimaced. “They’ve been fine so far,” she whispered with a slight shrug, head bowed towards his. Harry nodded back at her and tried to smile reassuringly. Parkinson had never gotten along with them – unlike Nott’s group of Slytherins, Harry had no qualms about writing her off. The girl was usually found with Malfoy, snickering cruelly at whatever he said, and Harry knew Hermione was a particularly favoured target of hers.

Harry was just about to drag his eyes back over to his own desk when Greengrass looked up and her dark eyes met his. Her expression seemed… considering, and for a moment Harry couldn’t look away. Greengrass’s expression cleared in the space of a blink, and the girl startled him by nodding once to him, coolly, before she turned back to engage Parkinson in conversation.

Harry blinked. What on earth was that about? he thought, bewildered. He flicked his eyes over to Nott’s group, sitting near the back on the other side of the classroom, and attempted to squash the flicker of disappointment when none of the group looked over to acknowledge him. They were setting up now, and Zabini seemed to be going on one of his tangents, judging by Bullstrode’s unimpressed expression and Nott’s raised eyebrow.

Before Harry could lose himself in his newfound surveillance of the Slytherins, the door opened once again, and this time the Professor entered. Septima Vector was a tall, austere woman of middle-age, dressed in dark red robes. Her skin was dark, and her expression was intelligent and composed. Casting her eyes around the room, Harry felt a rush of nerves when her penetrating gaze zeroed in on him.

“Mr. Potter,” the witch said, in a clear voice, as the murmured conversations around them fell silent. “May I speak with you for a moment, before we begin today’s lesson?” She had a slight accent which he couldn't place.

Harry felt himself flush as the class turned curious looks onto him. Standing, he nodded quickly and hurried down the steps to the desk in the corner where Professor Vector waited.

As he neared, he saw that the woman was shuffling papers into a neat pile. Her desk looked very organised, compared to the clutter he’d noticed on some of his other Professor’s desks. With a spark of amusement, Harry thought Hermione would be jealous when he noticed what appeared to be a colour-coded filing system. The only personal item he could see was an out-of-place looking photo, near the edge. Glancing at it quickly, he spotted a young woman of striking resemblance to the Professor, smiling warmly at the camera. A daughter? He looked away sharply, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring, and waited awkwardly at the side of the desk for a moment longer, before Vector turned and gave him a small, surprisingly kind smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” she began. Harry noticed the volume in the classroom had grown once again, likely – knowing the students’ universal love of gossip – as the students realised Harry and the Professor were speaking too quietly to be overheard.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Harry mumbled in return. The witch did seem less intimidating up close. She had a stern air, and Harry was reminded strongly of a somewhat younger and more serious Professor McGonagall. Her dark brown eyes, however, had the same kindness in them as he’d seen in Lupin’s. Harry felt himself relax somewhat – he’d heard tales of this Professor's strictness, and had been admittedly a little nervous to face her.

“Well,” Vector continued, “you haven’t missed too much, thankfully. For the last two weeks we’ve mainly been working on an introduction to the subject and have been going over what to expect from this course over the next few years. I trust you were able to find a copy of the core text in the Library?” She waited for Harry’s nod before continuing. “Good. That should do you fine until you order your own. Now, I’ve compiled a few handouts for you, summarising what you’ve missed over the last few weeks, and indicating any reading you should catch up on. Did you have a chance to read the Introductory chapter to the core book yet?” she asked, smoothly handing him the pile of papers she had sorted a few moments before.

Uh-oh. In hindsight, of course he should’ve read that chapter. It simply hadn’t occurred to him, what with Hermione’s own excessive ‘introduction’. He felt his face heat further as he wracked his brain for what to say. He contemplated lying to the Professor for a moment, but one look at her patiently expectant face made him lose his nerve. “Er,” he said, instead.

It seemed this was answer enough. She didn’t look angry, but Harry swallowed nervously regardless as she gave him a short nod. “Very well. Prioritise reading that before our next class; I expect, with some effort, that you should be caught up by this time next week. Does that sound reasonable?”

Harry nodded again, suppressing a sigh. There went his weekend.

“Right,” the Professor said. “Don’t worry if you’re a little lost today. We’re moving on to our first practical topic, so simply follow the lead of your partner and raise your hand if you’re unsure. Alright?” she asked him.

Harry nodded quickly, and she gestured towards back towards the desks. Wasting no time, he mumbled his thanks and darted back to his seat with his papers in tow. Just as he turned to take his seat next to Hermione, Nott glanced up from where he was sitting with a frown, and their eyes met for a long moment. Harry felt a light sensation like a flip in his stomach before Nott broke the gaze, turning his head back to Zabini. Harry mentally shook himself and resumed his seat.

The next twenty minutes of class were peaceful, if not stress-free. Despite Vector’s assurances, Harry felt completely lost. He was now regretting tuning Hermione out during her crash-course last night. He found himself eyeing the other students, hoping to find someone else looking as lost as he felt, but he was out of luck. The only students he could spot looking anything other than enthralled (Hermione and several Ravenclaws) or politely attentive (everyone else) were a thoroughly bored-looking Parkinson and one of the two Hufflepuffs in the class, Susan Bones, whose eyes looked ever so slightly glazed over as she stared ahead. Hannah Abbott, sitting next to her, was taking notes dutifully.

Harry was brought back to attention when the Professor paused in her lecture. Oh Merlin, he hoped he hadn’t missed anything else.

“Right,” she said, her strong voice easily carrying her authority. “Now that we’ve covered the theory, let’s have a stab at some practical work. In your pairs from last week’s class, you’ll each attempt to write a full personal chart for your partner. I expect this to be handed in by two weeks from today. That should allow you plenty of time to complete your charts, and to come to me if you have any trouble.”

Harry eyed the rest of the room nervously. No one seemed panicked, or suddenly stressed, though he noted Parkinson looked rather displeased. Merlin, twenty minutes in and already he had two sets of homework. Maybe Ron had been right.

“You may use your books as a reference,” their Professor continued, “and I will be handing out blank charts for you to use for this first attempt. An example will be on the board for you to follow, if needed. The due date for this assignment will be underneath.” She waved her wand sharply, and writing appeared across the chalkboard at the front of the room. Harry blinked, rather impressed, before the Professor’s words from earlier hit him. Hang on, partners? In panic he turned to Hermione, who was biting her lip, mind-reader that she was.

“Sorry, Harry,” the girl said, “we had to partner for an activity last week, and I paired with Dean.” The aforementioned boy was also shooting him an apologetic look.

“That’s alright,” Harry replied automatically, trying not to sound disappointed. “I’m sure there’ll be someone else free.”

Harry turned in his seat to scan the room, an unpleasant feeling in his stomach, wishing more than ever that Ron was here. It looked as if the Ravenclaws had paired off evenly, and he scanned the two Hufflepuff and Slytherin girls sitting together with trepidation. That left… Oh, Merlin. As he turned to them, he saw the three Slytherins up the back looking at him with anticipation. Zabini was smirking happily, and Bullstrode seemed to be eyeing him with a frown. Nott’s face was characteristically blank as he watched Harry. Right. Of course he had gotten himself into this situation. Well, nothing for it. With a tight smile at Hermione’s concerned look, Harry gathered his things and headed up the stairs and across the row towards them.

“Hello,” he said once he was standing next to them, with an awkward little wave.

“Potter,” Zabini said, smirk still fully in place. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and smiled uncomfortably. The other two did not greet him.

“Er, looks like there’s an odd number, so I reckon I’ll have to pair with one of you?” he said, voice trailing high at the end.

Zabini’s grin grew wide, and he cast an undeniably mischievous look at Nott, who was watching him placidly. “Well, Millie and I always work together, you see, so I suppose you’ll just have to work with Theo today.” He smiled up at Harry innocently.

Bullstrode made a noise like a cough. She seemed to be having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or glare. Harry cleared his throat and tried not to look at Nott. “Alright, then. I mean, if that’s alright with you, Nott,” Harry said, faux-casually, trying to subtly eye the other boy to see if he looked upset.

There was a pause, before Nott dryly replied, “Sure,” and stood. Most of the pairs had put a few seats between their classmates for some privacy, so Harry followed Nott to a part of the bench a few metres from the Slytherins, who were watching them retreat with open amusement.

As they sat and lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, Harry cursed himself again for picking Arithmancy instead of Runes, where he would probably be enjoying a nice nap around now.

“So, er, you know I’ve missed the classes so far, so I’ll probably be a bit useless at this,” Harry admitted as the silence began to grow unbearable.

Nott surprised him by snorting, and opened his notebook. “That’s alright, Potter. It’s fairly straightforward, once you understand the theory. We have two weeks, so hopefully you’ll be caught up by then. Now,” he began, but was cut off as sheets of paper began pouring from the front of the classroom. He glanced down, and saw the Professor’s wand lazily being lowered. For one bizarre moment, watching the fluttering sheets, Harry was reminded vividly of his Hogwarts letters being delivered en masse before first year. He blinked, and his brain caught up with him as two sets of handouts fluttered to a stop on the desk in front of them. He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s always brilliant when they do that,” he said, inspecting his sheets with only a little bit of resigned horror. When he received no reply, he glanced up to see Nott giving him a strange look.

“What?” Harry said, wondering for a horrible moment if some of his jam from breakfast was smeared on his face. Nott just shook his head slightly, and seemed to become focused once again, scanning the proffered blank chart with a critical eye.

“Right,” he said. “There’s a detailed guide on how to create personal charts in the textbook, but I’ll give you the basic rundown.”

Harry felt an uncomfortable flutter of guilt that he was already more interested in Nott’s ‘rundown’ than Hermione’s impassioned treatise the night before. Sending a silent apology to his friend, he turned in his seat and gave Nott his full attention. His warm brown hair was as neat as ever, flopping a little over his forehead, but the dark circles under his eyes told a different story. He watched Harry for a moment, before clearing his throat.

“First: what do you know about Arithmancy already?” Nott asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Er, not all that much,” Harry admitted. “It’s to do with… numbers, I think, and how they relate to magic. I got that much from Bullstrode yesterday, at least. It gets used in potions and for making up spells. Oh, and it can be used to predict the future a bit. Way more reliably than Divination, she said, but with, uh, more limited application? And Hermione said something about charts being dead useful for, er, categorising things? And learning more about them, she said, though I’m not sure what she meant by that, really.” He grimaced. “It seems pretty complicated, to be honest. I bet I’ll be rubbish at it. I normally am with this sort've thing.” Harry realised he was rambling a bit, and cut himself off with an awkward smile, but Nott simply nodded, face as neutral as always.

“You’ve got the gist,” he said. Nott seemed to think for a moment, head cocked to the side slightly like some sort of intimidating, studious bird. He sat forward again, hands clasped loosely before him, and began. “So. I’m sure you know this already, but numbers have meaning – you’ve likely heard of the power of the number seven? A seventh son of a seventh son, for example, is said to be extremely powerful. Well, Arithmancy focuses on the relationship of numbers to the universe; in particular, Arithmancers study the relation of numbers to magic. Using Arithmancy, each number is determined to have a specific meaning, and from this, ideas and sometimes predictions can be gleaned about people, magic, and sometimes, yes, the future. There are a few different branches of Arithmancy, but to start with we’ve been looking at Numerology.

In its most basic sense, using a certain system, a letter of the alphabet will be given a specific numerical value; say A is one, for example. A chart might then be created to examine a particular spell – say, Wingardium Leviosa. If each letter in the alphabet has a value, we can then translate – in a sense – this spell into a set of numbers. When read in combination, this can reveal certain things about the spell. That’s why just waving your wand around and saying gibberish does nothing; each spell must be carefully crafted to channel the right kind of magic, and Arithmancy is a part of it. Spell-creation requires a sound grasp of Arithmancy, at the very least. It’s more complicated than that, obviously, and there are lots more things you can do with a reading, but that’s the essence of it.

Now, for a person, we can follow the same principles. The basic, entry stuff – like a personal chart – involves readings using a person’s name, their date of birth, their proportions, their magic, and so on. The one we’ve been set doesn’t seem too complicated; it’s probably just to introduce us to writing charts. If we go through it step-by-step, it shouldn’t be much trouble.” Nott finished this impromptu lesson with a refined shrug, and waited patiently for Harry to speak.

Harry, meanwhile, was trying to gather his thoughts. That was definitely the most he’d ever heard Nott speak at once, and he was a little overwhelmed by having the intense boy’s focus trained on him so thoroughly. His voice had been clipped, straightforward, but not unfriendly. Harry could imagine him being a Professor in twenty years, glaring at the students but explaining everything again patiently when they didn't understand.

The subject sounded… surprisingly, almost interesting. Theoretically. Harry was still confident that he’d be rubbish at it, and he definitely wasn’t looking forward to doing the work, but with Nott as a partner, he felt himself relax a little; perhaps this wouldn’t be entirely horrible.

                -------

“Ughhhh,” Harry moaned, “this is the absolute worst.”

From where he was currently lying, head hanging dolefully off the end of the couch, Harry’s view of Hermione was blocked, but he could almost hear her eye-roll.

“Honestly, Harry. You’re barely halfway through the first chapter. You can’t be complaining already.”

“Well, I am. This is torture, Hermione. I don’t know how you stand it.” He knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t care less. Harry felt he was entitled to a bit of a whine after slogging through 15 pages of his Arithmancy book – it read like it was a foreign language, for all the good it did him.

“Is it that bad, mate?” Ron asked, from where he was treacherously playing chess against Ginny one table over. Judging from his sister’s scowl, Ron was winning, as usual. They were in the common room, and the quiet chatter from the few dozen students still loitering around, as well as the pleasant heat from the nearby fire seemed to be conspiring with his Arithmancy text to put Harry straight to sleep.

He cast a baleful look over to Ron. “It’s awful,” he told his friend, who had already turned back to his game and seemed to be deep in thought. “I get one paragraph down and forget what I’ve just read. I can't concentrate. Maybe this book has a curse on it, or something? I did get it from the Library. Who knows who had it before me,” Harry said to the room at large, a hopeful note to his voice.

“It’s not cursed, Harry. You’re just not going about it properly. You should probably be sitting somewhere quiet if you can't concentrate. Why do you think people study in the library? And honestly,” Hermione huffed, “you’re not even taking notes. What did you expect?”

“Notes?” Harry said, scandalised. “Just to read a book?”

Hermione seemed to pause, mouth pinched, to gather her patience. Harry, who sometimes knew when to quit, tried to make himself look very meek.

“Do you listen to anything I say?” his friend asked him after a moment, frown bordering on hurt. “I know I’ve told you that you should take notes when you read. It really helps with taking the information in and keeping focused. I do know what I’m talking about, sometimes.” Yes, that was definitely hurt in her voice.

Harry sat up, mouth pulling down a little. “Of course we listen to you, Hermione. And I’m pretty sure you know what you’re talking about all of the time. I’m sorry. It’s just a bit overwhelming. Being behind everyone else is pretty rubbish.” He pulled a face, avoiding her eyes.

The girl sniffed, and softly closed the book she had been reading. “I know what it’s like to be behind, Harry. Remember when I was petrified last year? I had plenty to catch up on, then. You might just ask for my help, you know.”

Harry’s stomach fell. He had actually, momentarily, forgotten that Hermione had fallen behind last year. The memory of his friend, frozen and utterly unresponsive, still appeared in his nightmares rather frequently; that he could never forget. He supposed they’d all been so excited over Hermione being unpetrified that he hadn’t given much thought to how she’d handle the consequences. And it, perhaps, added a little context to how nervous she'd gotten about falling behind when she was sick. He felt an uncomfortable swirl of guilt remembering how he'd just chalked it up to Hermione being Hermione. 

Harry stuck out his foot and gently bumped her calf. “I’m sorry,” he said, as the girl looked up. “You’re right.” He smiled at her apologetically, and after a moment she rolled her eyes and smiled back. He sat up straighter, with a smirk. “So,” he cleared his throat, and tried to channel his inner Percy Weasley. “Hermione Granger,” he began, pompously, and her lips twitched. “Would you, resident expert on managing schoolwork and all things academic, pretty please do me the honour of helping me read this terrifying textbook?”

He watched her with wide, sincere eyes, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. She rolled her eyes again, but this time it looked distinctly fond. “Yes, I suppose I could," she said, leaning forward and picking up his discarded textbook. “Now,” she started, "you’re going about this all wrong, Harry…”

The common room began to empty as the evening wore on, the sunlight along the walls giving way to lamplight and casting a warm, mellow blanket of light over the remaining students. An hour of Hermione’s tutelage, and Harry was willing to grudgingly admit that his study methods left a lot to be desired. He was feeling distinctly less stressed about the swarth of homework ahead of him by the time his small group decided to turn in for the night. They were the last left in the Common Room, Harry noted, as Ron began packing away his chess set (he was being particularly gentle with the pieces, as they had been rather aggrieved earlier when Ginny had taken to launching hers at her brother’s head in the wake of her third consecutive loss). Eying the younger girl, Harry was seized by a sudden idea.

He waved Ron on as he waited for him at the bottom of the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. “Go on ahead, I’ll just be a minute.”

Ron gave him a frown, but simply shrugged and headed up the stairs with a sleepy wave.

Hermione and Ginny had begun heading for their own stairs. “Er, Ginny?” Harry asked, clutching his satchel in front of him like a shield.

The girl looked back over her shoulder expectantly.

“Do you, er, mind if I have a word, quickly? In private?”

The two girls shared a look; Hermione was frowning, and Harry could see her curiosity plain, but Ginny just shrugged after a moment and Hermione’s face relaxed as she bid them both goodnight.

When Hermione had disappeared from view, Ginny approached. “Alright, Harry?” she asked, hesitation in her voice. Harry could see a little pink in her cheeks, but thankfully nothing like the tomato imitations that had plagued her last year. Ginny’s crush on him had made him tremendously uncomfortable then; he was beyond glad that it seemed to have mostly faded now.

“Um, yeah. I was just – thinking,” he started, and found himself immediately trailing off. What to say? Though he’d been paying attention to Hermione’s tutelage, over the last hour his mind kept sneakily drifting off to Hermione’s comment about the events of the previous year. It was a jarring reminder of what had transpired during his second year. Harry still felt a sliver of guilt at not really addressing it properly before now. Everything had happened so fast at the end of term – and everyone was so grateful when the threat was over that the unpleasantness of it all almost took a backseat to the relief. Term had ended quickly after, and there hadn’t been much mention of it in his correspondence with his friends over the summer, beyond a few references to Hermione’s workload and Ron once mentioning that Ginny was doing a bit better. Some things were hard to put into letters, he reasoned. But still – it was several weeks into term, and he ought to have talked to his friends about this before now, he felt. And who was more involved in everything that had happened than the girl in front of him?

Ginny was waiting patiently, but Harry could detect more than a hint of apprehension in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, he tried to organise his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about last year.”

Ginny’s expression shuttered immediately, to be replaced by a wary, blank look which put him in mind, bizarrely, of Theodore Nott.

“Er – I’m sorry to bring it up when I know you probably don’t want to talk about it – it’s just… are you alright?”

Ginny continued to stare at him, but her eyebrows were slowly inching up.

Harry felt his cheeks begin to tinge. “Sorry, that’s a silly question. I mean – how’ve you been? Y’know, since then?”

There was another beat of silence, before Ginny gave him a mildly derisive look. Well, he hadn’t expected that.

“How’ve I been since a teenaged You-Know-Who possessed me and made me set a giant snake on the whole school?” Ginny asked.

Harry blinked and nodded. “Well – yeah.”

“Not great,” the girl said after a moment, dry as the desert. Her lips twitched, and Harry felt a jolt of panic that she might start crying, but the action simply morphed into a small, grim smile.

“Yeah, er. Of course,” Harry said, trying to quell the mortification crawling up his throat. There was another pause as Ginny looked back at him, expectedly.

“D’you want to talk about it?” Harry asked at length, when it seemed like the girl wasn’t going to say anything else.

Ginny's expression turned shrewd for a moment, but whatever she saw on his face must have meant something to her, as she grimaced and gave a sharp shrug. After a moment, she sighed, and collapsed tiredly onto the nearest couch in a heap of limbs. She'd grown a little over the summer, and despite her size, Harry figured soon she'd take after Ron in the gangly department. Harry took the seat across from her, sitting gingerly and hoping fervently that he knew what he was doing.

 “I don’t know,” she said eventually, watching the lowly burning fire instead of him. “Mum wanted me to talk about it all the time, you know, right after it happened, but I kept shutting her down." Her voice was subdued, and Harry wondered for a moment if it was wrong to make her talk about this, but she seemed to be deep in thought and he didn't think he'd be able to stop her now that she'd started. "I just… I guess for them it was this sudden thing, me getting taken down to the Chamber, but they seemed to forget that it was happening all year for me, you know?” Her voice was quiet but strong, and uncharacteristically serious. “I was – trying to deal with it, and it was horrible and I didn’t know what to do and I had to deal with it all by myself, and then overnight everyone knew and just - wanted me to talk about it, suddenly. After months of it being this huge secret. I just - didn't want to talk about it. Eventually mum and dad stopped asking. Then they thought maybe keeping me busy would help, so I had a whole summer of – degnoming the garden and mum trying to teach me how to knit again.” She finally tore her eyes from the fire to pull a face at Harry, who had a sudden vision of an enraged Ginny setting fire to Mrs. Weasley’s knitting yarn with the power of her glare. He laughed, and after a moment she smiled back at him knowingly. Their geniality only lasted a moment, though, before Ginny’s face slowly fell again. Harry couldn’t help the pang that went through him. She was only a year below him, but he was so used to thinking of her as Ron’s little sister that she always seemed especially young to him. He supposed that wasn’t quite fair. In his dreams, he still saw her dying on the Chamber floor. They were neither of them too young to die.

“I guess when I was finally ready to talk about it, it was too late,” she continued, voice a murmur now. It seemed like she was talking to the fire, rather than him. “I mentioned it at dinner once, and everyone just got this awkward frozen look on their faces, like they didn’t know what to say and wished I hadn’t brought it up.” She grimaced, and Harry shifted on his seat. He wasn’t entirely sure, had he been in that situation, that he wouldn’t have reacted like the Weasleys. He was worried for a moment that Ginny might see his discomfort on his face, but the girl was still staring at the fire.

“But then there was Egypt, and I got to see Bill. It was nice, I guess. He always knows what to say, and – and he told me, ‘cause he works with cursed items all the time, that he’s seen loads of people, older and more powerful, who got tricked by curses and that it wasn’t my fault. I mean, mum and dad said that too, but I guess it felt more true coming from Bill. Maybe since he knows what he’s talking about, working with curses and things. He’s always been the kindest to me, you know? You met him in Diagon this summer, didn’t you? D’you remember?”

Harry did indeed remember Bill Weasley, with his choppy long hair and pierced ear and charming smiles. He felt his face flush, but nodded back at Ginny firmly. She smiled at him, warmly, and Harry thought for a moment again how much older she seemed than her twelve years – much older than the girl he’d met last year. Was that because of everything that had happened? He tried to think if he’d seemed different like that, after what happened with the Stone and the Basilisk and Tom Riddle last year. No one had said anything, if he did. He wondered if that was the sort of thing you noticed at the time, or if it wasn’t until years later that you looked back and realised you had grown up early.

“It’s weird being back here. I keep – feeling like he’s going to be here, somewhere, you know? Or that I’m going to open my bag one day, and the d-diary will be there.” She was biting her lip now, and Harry had no idea what to say.

“The dementors don’t help, either," she said, bitterly, and Harry remembered how she’d reacted on the train. He gave her a sympathetic look, which she returned. She sighed.

“The worst part is that I spent so much of last year dealing with – dealing with Him, that I missed out when everyone was off making friends and being normal first years. It’s awkward, with my dormmates, now. I dunno if I’ll ever really make any friends, other than Colin. It didn’t seem that important, last year, with – well, you met him. You know how charming he could be.” She swallowed, thickly.

Harry remembered talking to Tom, being sucked into that memory of Hagrid – he remembered wanting to impress the older boy, the way he seemed so interested in Harry and knew exactly what to say. He was taken by surprise by the sudden surge of compassion he felt towards Ginny. Even as just a memory, Voldemort couldn’t stop hurting innocent people.

“Yeah, I remember,” he mumbled, after a moment.

Ginny let out a sigh and looked up at him. The mood seemed to lift a little, and the haunted look that had overtaken her face seemed to have left. He noted, with a slightly guilty surge of relief, that she didn’t seem to be blushing over being in his presence, anymore, either.

“Sorry, Harry. I don’t know where all that came from, really. I shouldn’t have unloaded it all onto you like that.” She looked a bit guilty now, herself, and he rushed to assure her.

“No, no, I mean – it’s fine. I asked, didn’t I? I just, er - I just wanted to make sure you have someone you can – talk to. Y’know? I have Ron and Hermione, and I know your brothers are here, but... I just wanted to check, I guess. In case you need someone who isn’t family to talk about it with. Someone who, y'know - gets it, I guess.” He shrugged, and he could feel his face heating once again.

Ginny’s smile was small, but warm. “Thanks, Harry. That actually… felt pretty good to talk about. And… I don’t know, I guess. I mean, there’s Bill, but I don’t want to bother him with this stuff when he’s working.” She looked down, suddenly reminiscent of the painfully shy girl he’d met at the station on his first day at Hogwarts.

“Well,” Harry said, slowly, “I mean, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, right? I don't know what it's like to have a brother, but I bet he’s worried about you, and it’d make you both feel better to talk about it. I mean, he’s family, right? That’s what he’s for.”

A squirming feeling of bitterness swelled in him, but he squashed it, promptly, and tried to focus on the girl in front of him.

Ginny’s eyes were a little wet, Harry noticed with horror, but the girl simply sniffed and smiled at him again. “You’re probably right, Harry. I’ll think about it, I guess.”

There was silence for another few moments. Slowly, the tense atmosphere started to fade away, and a sense of awkwardness seemed to rise up between the two.

“Er,” Harry said, when he couldn’t handle it anymore. “Well, I better – go check on Ron.” Merlin, he chastised himself, what a ridiculous thing to say.

Ginny seemed to feel the awkwardness all at once. Biting her lip, the girl nodded quickly, and lurched to her feet. Biting back a sigh, Harry noticed the tell-tale pink running along her cheeks. “Yeah, um, g’night, Harry. Thank you for – all that,” Ginny mumbled.

“Er, you’re welcome - night,” he said, giving her a little wave and a rather fixed smile. She smiled back at him quickly, then darted off up the stairs, leaving Harry alone to watch the fire for a moment longer, before he followed her up to bed.

Chapter Text

Harry groaned, letting his head fall onto the table with a dull thump.

Nott didn’t look up from where he was gently frowning down at his own chart. “Honestly, Potter,” the boy said, voice mild as ever, “you’re making it harder for yourself than it needs to be.”

This was not the first time Nott had told him this that evening. They were sat opposite each other at a table in the library, and Harry was beginning to seriously consider dropping out of Hogwarts to live full-time as a muggle, where, if he was lucky, he’d probably never have to hear the term ‘numerical value’ ever again.

Their shared desk was a testament to Harry’s misery: half of the area was covered in balled-up parchment and far too many blotches of ink to be forgivable for third years; the other half of the table, of course, was laid out neatly with several books on Arithmancy and Nott’s expensive-looking stationery and notebook.

They had decided on tonight to begin writing their charts, and so far things hadn’t been going well. The actual chart-writing wasn’t too bad, Harry reflected: it was difficult to wrap his head around, and he kept tripping himself up on simple things, but it wasn’t utterly excruciating, especially with Nott’s remarkably patient explanations. No, the main problem was the heated glares that were being passed between the two tables immediately behind them.

After discovering that Harry was planning on joining Nott in the library for a personal study session, Ron had maturely refrained from having an outright conniption, and had instead made a very bare-faced excuse about homework in order to join them. He was currently sitting at the table in front and to the right of Harry, a book propped unopened in front of him, and was busy alternating his suspicious glares between Nott and soon, to Harry’s quiet despair, Bullstrode. The tall girl was sitting to the left of the boys, directly opposite Ron, and had seemed more than happy to pick up the mantle of glowering right back at him in place of Nott, who had his back to them both and seemed mercifully oblivious to Harry’s impending stress-induced heart-attack. Zabini and Davis, thank Merlin, seemed content working by themselves on either side of Bullstrode, although, judging by the occasional twitch of the girl’s lips, she was far too amused by the situation for Harry’s enjoyment. Possibly just to make Harry’s life harder, he had also caught Zabini shooting Hermione several unreadable looks from under his lashes. It was a small mercy, Harry supposed, that he seemed mostly to be ignoring the spirited and silent glaring contest going on around them all.

Harry had been very red-faced for the first twenty minutes of their session, as Ron and Bullstrode’s silently suspicious glares descended into plain dirty looks, but Nott seemed utterly unfazed by the tension around him, and carried on with their work with a quiet focus which suggested he was either unaware of the atmosphere, or was expertly ignoring it. Harry was willing to bet on the latter, based on the way the other boy didn't once turn around, despite how poorly Harry must be hiding his reactions. Regardless, whenever the other boy seemed completely engrossed in his book, and not liable to look up, Harry found himself shooting furious looks at Ron and (with a little more intimidation) Bullstrode, both of whom seemed united at least in the act of ignoring Harry.

Harry had just been grateful that Hermione would never turn down a trip to the library. She was sitting beside Ron, working on an essay for Binns, and had flushed the same pink that was likely on Harry’s cheeks when Ron began waging his silent war. They had exchanged embarrassed, guilty glances for the first few minutes, but soon Hermione’s attention was caught by her essay, and Harry found himself too confused by his chart to pay Ron too much mind. He seemed content at least to limit himself to only glaring. An hour in, and even Ron’s glowers had begun to fade. Now, he mostly looked surly, and utterly bored. Harry could see him, out of the corner of his eye, looking moodily over to the Slytherins and tapping his wand absently against the table, apparently oblivious to Hermione’s increasingly twitching eye as she tried to read.

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes at his friend, and sat up ungraciously from his slouch with a sigh. Nott was as unbothered as ever, seemingly making little notes in his leather notebook, which looked remarkably more impressive next to Harry’s scattered bits of parchment.

Harry’s shoulders slumped as he watched the other boy write.

“You’re probably right,” Harry grumbled at last, picking up his quill to doodle a miniature Snitch on the edge of his parchment.

“Probably?” Nott said mildly, after a moment, still not looking up.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re definitely right. It’s just – way too many numbers,” he said, unconcerned for the moment by how petulant he sounded.

Nott finally met his eyes at this, cocking one eyebrow pointedly.

“Well, fine, it’s not that many numbers,” Harry conceded after moment, grimacing. “But it’s still maths. I don’t mind maths, but I didn’t think wizards really bothered with it. I mean, they don’t have it as a class or anything, besides this,” he gestured loosely at the table.

Nott frowned, and drummed his long fingers gently against the table. “Well, it’s presumed that Pureblood children will receive basic tutoring in certain subjects before Hogwarts, including writing and arithmetic. If we need or want to explore those subjects further, we can take classes like Arithmancy, or our parents can arrange for extra tutoring during the summer.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He supposed that made sense. He’d have to ask Ron about that later – he couldn’t remember his friend ever mentioning a tutor, but he realised, with a guilty twist of his stomach, that Mr and Mrs. Weasley might have stepped in to teach him themselves. Tutors couldn’t be cheap, especially with seven children.

“What do Half-bloods do?” Harry asked after a moment.

“I suppose that depends on the Half-blood, doesn’t it?” the other boy responded. He was back to politely avoiding Harry’s eyes as he made a quick note in his notebook, but it was a step up from the careful, monotonous way he’d been discussing Arithmancy so far, and Harry found himself unusually pleased that Nott seemed willing to engage with him about something other than schoolwork. This was almost a real conversation. “I’d imagine some receive tutoring, and some attend those - Muggle schools, instead, like the Muggle-borns do.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, bizarrely pleased to be able to explain something to Nott, for a change. “I went to a Muggle school, actually. Primary schools, they’re called. You go there ‘til you’re eleven or twelve.”

He wondered absently for a moment if the Purebloods were missing out a bit, having to rely on tutors and never experiencing any sort of school before Hogwarts - but, he supposed, those tutors probably cost an arm and a leg, and Muggle school wasn’t particularly great, in his experience, so maybe it balanced out. Did the children get to socialise much, though? Ron had never mentioned having any friends before Hogwarts, but Harry wondered, with a pang of empathy, if Ron, like Harry, wasn’t the norm in that area.

“I suppose you would’ve, being raised by Muggles,” Nott said, thoughtfully. He paused for a moment, as if weighing something, before asking, “What was it like?”

Harry thought for a moment, trying to come up with an honest answer that sounded a little more dignified than his immediate response of ‘utter shit, actually’. He made the effort to be fair. “Sort’ve like Hogwarts, I guess, but there’s no magic, so everything is theory, mostly. You get to, um, play, sometimes, ‘cause it's little kids, and you just have one teacher for the year and you’re always in the same class, usually. And you go home at the end of the day, obviously, so you don’t have this,” he waved, vaguely, at their surroundings. “Well – unless it’s a boarding school, but I think that’s mostly rich kids and stuff.”

Nott’s usually blank face was wrinkled in thought; his long nose was scrunched up slightly and it made him look a little younger, and - Harry thought, furiously suppressing his twitching lips - a little bit like the gerbil Dudley had demanded and then neglected for two months, before it had ‘run away’ (back to the pet shop in town, Harry suspected, courtesy of Aunt Petunia, who had hated sharing her house with a ‘rodent’). Harry decided, for all their sakes, to keep the comparison to himself.

“Hm,” the other boy said after a few seconds. “That’s… interesting.” He went back to writing, and after a few moments it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else on the matter. Harry, who had expected a bit more than that after Nott’s long pause, tried to keep his surprise in check. The other boy continued eventually, “I wouldn’t mention any of that to Tracey; she’ll keep you for hours while she gets every detail out of you. Now,” he said, laying his quill gently across his parchment. “Are you going to try again, or not?”

Harry blinked, and glanced unenthusiastically at his already messy chart. “I suppose,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair and scowling down at his work. He heard a snort, but by the time he looked up, Nott was peering at his own chart, face politely blank. Bastard.

Harry sighed again and picked up his quill. Trying to remember Hermione’s advice, he began tentatively making a list of the information he had so far.

Name: Theodore Nott

DOB: May 15^th, 1980

Mother: Mallory Nott

Father: Cassius Nott

Height: 166cm

Harry had felt a little embarrassed exchanging personal details like birthdays and heights, but Nott hadn’t seemed concerned at all, passing over his details without any sort of fanfare. Harry knew he had been a little more awkward. There was no way Nott didn’t know the names of James or Lily Potter, and likely Harry’s birthday, too; but Nott had waited for him to tell him the information, quill poised to write, completely cool and without the awestruck looks discussions of the Potters usually garnered. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about Nott apparently pretending not to know anything about him, but he couldn’t deny that he’d grown to hate having people tell him things about himself, so he wasn’t complaining.

Harry picked up their instructions and scanned the list of what they’d need to complete their charts. “Right,” he said. “Might as well get all the details down first. Next up is, uh, grandparents’ names. Er, do you want to go first?” he asked. He would’ve been fine asking almost anyone else these questions, but something about Nott seemed so private; Harry got the impression that the boy rarely revealed anything about himself if he could help it, and it felt somehow wrong that he was being forced to for a class project. Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was snooping.

Not noticing or (more likely, Harry admitted) ignoring Harry’s awkwardness, the boy simply nodded and proceeded to give him the names, which all sounded sufficiently Pureblooded and, honestly, rather ridiculous. Harry found his limit breached at Nott’s paternal grandfather. “Cantankerus? Really?” He’d heard plenty of bizarre wizarding names, but this was a little bit too much.

Nott simply raised his eyebrows at Harry, pursing his lips. “Yes, Cantankerus. He was a very skilled wizard, and rather famous in his day. He was widely believed to have been the author of the Pureblood Directory,” Nott said, sounding unusually curt. Harry tried to control his face, but he could feel his lips twisting up into a grin. Nott scowled menacingly at him, dark eyes flashing, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry,” he said, unconvincingly, and tried to smother his grin in his hand. Nott gave him a look of disdain to rival Ron’s, and Harry was suddenly hit with the memory of when Dudley’s gerbil, sick of his awful cousin poking and prodding it, had bitten the boy sharply on his thumb with all of its minuscule rage. Harry couldn’t help the giggle that burst out of him at the comparison. Poised or not, the look of clear contempt Nott was giving him now looked frankly comical on his thirteen-year-old face.

“If you’re done giggling at my ancestor’s names,” Nott said, coldly, turning his nose up at Harry with so much scorn that Harry couldn’t help but let off another round of laughter.

“I’m not-!”

“Mr. Potter!” hissed Madam Pince, appearing from behind a bookshelf and scowling at them as if they’d just started a bonfire in the middle of the library. “That’s quite enough of that, or you’ll both be out!” she whispered furiously. She turned her gaze on Nott and seemed to blink at him for a moment in shock. “Mr. Nott, I’m surprised at you!”

Nott’s scowl morphed immediately into a contrite look, which he aimed up at the librarian so sincerely that Harry had to quench the urge to laugh again. “I apologise, Madam Pince; we simply got a little carried away. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” His eyes cut to Harry’s threateningly, and Harry had to cough into his fist to hide a laugh.

The librarian’s gaze softened perceptibly, before she turned another scowl onto Harry, who tried to look less openly amused. “See that it doesn’t,” she sniffed, before turning and sweeping back between the stacks, shooting a glare at some nearby second year Hufflepuffs, who jumped as one.

As soon as the librarian was out of sight, Nott levelled a look of sheer annoyance at Harry. “I’ve haven’t gotten in trouble with Pince since I started using this library, you absolute Gryffindor,” he said.

Harry had been trying to look chagrined, but Nott looked so utterly peeved at being told off that he felt his face crack into a grin again. “You sound like Hermione,” he told the other boy delightedly. Nott watched him for a moment, before sighing resignedly.

“Honestly, Potter. You’re a nightmare,” he said, rolling his eyes. Harry noticed a dash of pink on Nott’s cheeks, and forced down another smile at the memory of how red Hermione got any time a teacher seemed the slightest bit displeased with her.

“Right,” Nott said, clearing his throat. He made an admirable attempt at smoothing out his face. “Now. Your grandparents?” he asked, quill at the ready.

This served to wipe all traces of mirth left on Harry’s face. “Er,” he said, after the silence began to stretch. Nott waited with his quill still poised, as Harry tried desperately to think of something to say.

He cleared his throat. “I’m actually – not sure,” he said, at last. He could feel his cheeks redden, and glanced down at his parchment, avoiding the other boy’s eyes.

As a child, his extended family had been a constant source of curiosity for him. When he and Dudley had been younger, they’d been tasked as homework to draw a simple family tree. Aunt Petunia had been remarkably patient with Dudley during the exercise; the boy certainly hadn’t made it easy. Harry, however, was given no help; any time he had ever asked his Aunt his parents’ names, she had scolded him, or ignored him, or sent him to his cupboard. But this time, Harry was persistent. His teacher had made them fill out their parents’ names on their trees in class, and every student had complied – except for Harry. When he admitted to his teacher that he didn’t know his parents’ names, she had frowned at him rather severely, and made it clear that she thought he was being difficult on purpose. When Harry repeatedly told her he didn’t know, his teacher got very cross and began scolding him in front of the whole class. Several of his classmates were giggling, and an equal number were shooting him scathing looks, as if he were holding them back on purpose. Dudley was just close enough that Harry could hear him gleefully whisper to his friends that Harry’s parents had given him up as a baby because he was so stupid, and, to his horror, he felt furious tears form in his eyes. Harry had burned with indignation like something was swallowing him from the inside, and, for the first time in his life, he had lost his temper with a teacher. The memory wasn’t pleasant. A letter was sent home stuffed in the bottom of his schoolbag under strict orders to be given to his Aunt, and all the way home Harry felt as if he was carrying the orders for his own execution. When his Aunt read the letter and demanded to know what, exactly, he had done, he had snapped (shocking even himself) at her that Mrs. Kerr had gotten him in trouble for not knowing his parents’ names, which he’d asked her for a million times, and if she had ever told him he wouldn’t be in trouble. His Aunt had stood frozen in the face of his rage, before twin spots of red overtook her cheeks. She had snapped to him, “Their names were Lily and James, you horrible boy. Now, go to your cupboard and don’t let me see you again tonight! Just you wait until your Uncle hears about this!”

Harry’s anger had gone as fast as it had arrived, replaced with a feeling that was light as air, but at the same time unimaginably heavy in his gut. Sitting in his cupboard that night (and for many nights after) Harry had repeated the names to himself over and over again like a mantra, seized with the terrible fear, like any child after such a monumental gift, that it might be taken away. In hindsight, his Aunt had probably just realised that it would be a little too suspicious if Harry appeared not to know his own parents’ names. As it was, his efforts at peeking at Dudley’s tree the next evening had earned him bed without dinner, again, and he’d resigned himself to making up the names for the rest of his family. Young as he was, he’d gotten wrapped up in the fiction; he had pulled the names of his grandparents from one of Dudley’s television shows, heedless of how believable the names were, or how appalling (in hindsight) his spelling might have been. This, along with a swarth of cousins and Great-Aunts and -Uncles he’d invented, each with similarly fantastical and rather incomprehensible names  - with a great deal of embarrassment, he recalled two Great-Aunts he’d unceremoniously named Cher and Madonna after scouring his Aunt’s CD collection - had given him away to his teacher. He’d received a letter home, along with a copy of his family tree. After his Aunt badgered him into admitting he’d made everything up, he was cupboard-bound for a week, and his Aunt, mystifyingly, moved her CDs into her and Vernon’s bedroom.

He’d never had any further luck in learning his grandparents’ names. Although his Aunt mentioned them from time to time, as he had gotten older Harry had the impression that his Aunt and her parents weren’t on good terms when they’d died; when Dudley occasionally asked about them, her face would take on the expression she usually wore when looking at or discussing Harry, and she'd quickly change the subject. Harry couldn't recall Dudley ever asking what their names were, and so Harry had been left in the dark.

Harry shifted in his seat as he considered the desk in front of him. The silence stretched after his announcement, and Harry thought he could feel Nott’s dark eyes burrowing into his head as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Alright,” Nott said, simply. “Your father’s parents shouldn’t be hard to work out. They’re bound to be in most modern genealogy books, at least. I think Pince has one that’s self-updating.”

Harry swallowed, and glanced up. Nott was scanning back over his notes, frowning a little as he scribbled something in the margin, and Harry felt his shoulders relax. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he knew if he’d admitted not knowing the names of his grandparents to Ron or Hermione, they’d find it hard to hide their pity – or their anger. And God knew what would happen if Malfoy heard him admit something like that. If Nott had any feelings on the matter, he hid them well.

“Right,” Harry said. “Yeah. Should I, er, do that now?” he asked, feeling a little like a young child hoping for direction.

Nott scratched something else out – Harry noted with mild annoyance that his handwriting was extremely neat - then looked up, closing his book. “It’s a little late. We should probably start heading back now,” he said, simply, watching Harry.

Harry blinked, and looked around the room. Sure enough, the Library was much emptier than it had been earlier. His friends – and the Slytherins – were still there (Harry noted with a rush of exasperated fondness that Ron seemed to have fallen asleep on one of Hermione’s thicker books), but the lamps were now all lit, and shadows crept across the walls. The whispers in the room had taken on that soft tone which only appeared in the evenings.

“Oh,” he said, and sat back to stretch his arms out. “Alright, then. I’ll, er. Do that research, and then d’you want to meet up again to finish things up?”

Nott nodded at him without looking up from where he was gathering his things. Glancing around, Harry noted with a start that the Slytherins were packing up, also. He felt his cheeks burn a little as he realised they had probably been waiting for him and Nott to finish up. Davis caught his eye and flashed him a smile, which Harry returned after a moment’s hesitation. After gathering their things, the trio stood idly at their table, chatting and clearly waiting for Nott. Harry turned to the other boy just as he swung his bag across his shoulders. Even after studying for a few hours in the library, Nott looked as composed as ever, not a crease on him. Harry didn’t want to imagine how rumpled and ink-stained he looked by now. Nott was as orderly as ever, and even his hair was still neatly swept to the side, falling only slightly across his forehead. In the dim light near their corner, his hair looked a little darker, and his eyes looked black. Harry blinked. He quickly forced himself to look away from the other boy before he noticed him staring at his fringe like a lunatic.

They both paused awkwardly for a moment as they stood, and Harry’s mind went blank. “Er,” he said at last. “Goodnight, then. I’ll see you – soon. Thanks for – you know.” Nott’s eyes flicked briefly down to Harry’s front, and Harry realised after a horrifying moment that he was clutching his own bag to his chest tightly as if shielding himself from something. He quickly shrugged it off onto the desk, clearing his throat as he tried to make the action look casual.

Nott was smirking, the bastard. “Goodnight, Potter,” he said, mild as ever, and Harry shot him a half-hearted scowl at the amusement in his voice. Nott eased his way around the table and gave him a quick nod, before joining the Slytherins, who fell into step with him immediately. Harry watched them until they were out of sight, before turning to the table his friends were sitting at. Hermione, of course, was too engrossed in her essay to notice anything, and Harry noticed with mingled horror and amusement that she seemed to be on her fourth scroll of parchment. She hadn’t even noticed that Ron had begun drooling on her book where his face was smushed (surely very uncomfortably) on the hardback cover. With a smile, he gathered his things and headed over to his friends.

*

Harry’s good mood lasted less than three minutes on the walk back to the tower before he remembered his friend’s bizarre behaviour. He whirled on Ron, who blinked at him warily, still somewhat drowsy from his impromptu nap. The dark red crease across his face from where he'd lain on the book gave him a slightly bewildered look.

“Mate – what the hell was that? I thought you were alright with me studying with the Slytherins?” Harry’s earlier annoyance was quickly catching up to him.

The corridor around them was empty, but Ron glanced up and down shiftily before shrugging. “I dunno what you mean, mate,” he mumbled.

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione chimed in, an annoyed frown on her face. “You were glaring at them like they’d challenged you to a duel or something.”

Ron wilted under their combined glares. He let out a gusty sigh and turned an uncharacteristically serious look on his friends. “Listen, Harry. What do you actually know about him?”

Harry blinked. “Who, Nott? I mean - not very much. What d’you mean?”

Hermione was looking between them with a confused expression. “Ron? You know they don’t know each other very well. Why are you asking that?”

Footsteps broke the silence. All three heads jerked in the direction of the noise, but it was only a pair of seventh year Ravenclaws. The taller of the two gave them a strange look as they huddled silently near a window, staring, but the pair passed without comment. As soon as they were out of sight, Harry turned back to Ron, and noticed that the boy’s ears had steadily turned bright red.

Harry and Hermione’s eyes narrowed as one. It got them in trouble with teachers more often than not, but sometimes it was helpful that Ron was so terrible at keeping secrets.

“Ron,” Hermione said, crossing her arms and fixing him with her most severe frown. “What did you do?”

Ron was looking distinctly guilty now. “Er,” he said. Harry shot him a look, trying to channel the scowl Nott had given him earlier. “Fine,” Ron said, rolling his eyes with an ungracious pout. “After you told me about - well, this stuff with Nott, I, well, I wrote to dad about him.”

Well, that was unexpected. “Alright,” Harry said, slowly. He met Hermione’s eyes, but she seemed as unsure as he was. “What did he say?”

Ron’s discomfort was palpable. He glanced down the corridor again, as if looking for escape.

“Ronald Weasley-!“ Hermione began, before Ron cut her off.

“He said his dad was a Death Eater!” he blurted.

There was a horrible moment of silence. Hermione’s face had gone rather blank and pale as she and Ron exchanged an unreadable look.

“Er,” said Harry, feeling rather suddenly out of his depth. “What the hell’s a Death Eater?”

                                                  *

They’d ended up talking late into the night. After Hermione had ushered them back to the Common Room, the trio splayed themselves out on their usual couch, and the ensuing conversation took up the rest of their evening. After an unintentionally loud ‘Voldemort!’ from Harry made a passing first year jump almost a foot in the air and turn wide eyes on the group, they managed to lower their volume a little. They’d discussed the Death Eaters – the official name for the most strident of Voldemort’s supporters during the war. Mr. Weasley had warned his son that Nott’s father was a particularly nasty character and was strongly rumoured to have been one of Voldemort’s oldest and most dedicated supporters. He’d apparently gotten off without time in Azkaban by pleading he’d been bewitched, like Lucius Malfoy had. They’d been unable to prove anything – or, more likely, according to Mr. Weasley, money had changed hands – but it seemed to be an open secret that the Notts were very proud of their Pureblood heritage, and most people knew Nott Sr. had likely been a true follower of the Dark Lord.

Hermione, naturally, had read a bit about them, and was able to fill in any gaps in Ron’s account. The conversation had opened up a lot of questions between them. Harry had wondered, darkly, how many other followers of Voldemort had gotten away with their actions during the war, and how many people knew about it, but could do nothing. Hermione had been equally grim when she told him that it was likely a good few more.

It was patently clear that Ron was worried about Harry spending time with Nott in light of this discovery, and Harry couldn’t quite fault him. The conversation had gone around in circles, eventually, until they had decided to call it a night. Lying awake in his bed, though, Harry couldn’t quite shut his thoughts off so easily.

The problem was - he simply had no idea what to do with this information. He’d suspected that Nott’s family might be a bit unsavoury – of course, he thought, shifting on his bed uncomfortably, he’d seen Nott’s bruise that day. He knew that his father couldn’t be a good man. But being a close follower of the man who murdered Harry’s parents – who had come after him again in first year, and whose shadow had almost killed him and Ginny just last year; it was too difficult to process.

But did Nott’s father being Dark mean that Nott was the same way? Harry racked his brain looking for anything the boy might have given away, but he came up blank. Nott didn’t seem close to any Muggle-borns, but Harry supposed that there weren’t any Slytherin Muggle-borns in their year. And Harry hadn’t seen him stand up to Malfoy, but Harry couldn’t think of a clear time Malfoy had spouted his bigotry in front of the other boy. Harry truthfully hadn’t noticed Nott or the other Slytherins much before this year. And wasn’t Davis a Half-blood, and openly interested in Muggles? Surely, if Nott hated Muggles, he wouldn’t be so comfortable with the girl? And wouldn't have asked him about his Muggle primary school earlier that evening? The arguments circled endlessly in Harry’s mind. The truth was that he just didn’t know Nott all that well. Harry tried to reconcile the things he’d heard of the Death Eaters with Nott’s gentle smile that day in the Forest, watching Davis try and befriend a Bowtruckle, and just couldn’t. But hadn’t everyone said that Voldemort was charming in his day? People could feign friendship and kindness. It was all just – too complicated.

Judging Nott by his father’s actions felt wrong, too. Remembering every nasty thing Snape had said to him based on his hatred of James Potter, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being unfair. But, he reasoned, Harry’s dad had hardly been a Death Eater; surely it wasn’t the same. Merlin, did the other Slytherins know? Bullstrode was a mystery, but Harry couldn’t imagine the easy-going Zabini or Muggle-studies championing Davis being friends with someone who supported Voldemort. And for that matter, Harry thought with a horrible plunge of discomfort, did Nott know? Surely he was aware that his dad had been accused, but did he think he really had been bewitched? What if Nott had no idea that his dad really had been a Death Eater? Would Nott Sr. have told him the truth? Would he suspect it?

It was all too confusing, Harry thought. What should he do? The room around him was dark and mercifully free from snoring tonight, but Harry couldn’t stop his thoughts long enough quiet his mind. Sleep was a long time coming that night, and Harry woke feeling more uncertain than ever.

                                                *

Sometime after lunch the next day, Harry found himself once again outside Professor Lupin’s door. A half-baked idea had come to him over his meal, and Harry had decided to follow it without any more thought on the matter. Now, standing outside the door to Lupin’s office, Harry tried to quash the uncertainty in his stomach and lifted his hand to rap stiffly against the wood, before taking a hurried step back.

“Enter,” came the Professor’s voice from within.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry had opened the door and stepped into the office.

It was as unkempt as the last time he’d been here, and the Professor looked as untidy as usual, but the man shot him a surprised smile when he caught sight of him

“Harry,” the man said, warmly, and Harry felt himself suddenly almost taken aback by the man's friendliness towards him. There was a familiarity there that was strange for someone he'd only known a short time. He hadn't given it any thought until now, but Lupin had jumped rather quickly to calling him by his first name, hadn't he? His other professors generally stuck to 'Mr. Potter' when addressing him. Harry supposed it must be because he'd known his parents. The idea settled rather warmly in his stomach. “To what do I owe this visit?” the Professor continued, indicating the chair Harry had occupied last time.

“Er,” Harry began, but the Professor surprised him by standing with a hum and turning to the kettle behind his desk before he could continue.

“Tea?” the man asked, and Harry nodded before remembering the man couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes please, sir,” he said, and glanced over to the desk the man had vacated. Lupin seemed to have been in the middle of marking. Harry hastily scanned the parchment on the desk in case it was his own essay, but the handwriting was thankfully unfamiliar.

Lupin returned after a moment, and sat Harry’s tea down in front of him, before resuming his own seat.

“Now, Harry. What can I do for you?” he asked, sitting back and watching the boy patiently.

“Right.” Harry cleared his throat again. “So, er, I wondered if it would be okay if I asked you something about… well, about my parents,” Harry said, watching the man carefully.

Lupin’s mouth twitched into a strange little smile, but beyond that his face gave nothing away. He didn’t look surprised.

“I expected you might,” the man said, mildly. There was a bit of a pause before he gave Harry a rather subdued smile.

“Of course, Harry," he continued after a moment. "You can ask me anything you’d like about them. I don’t promise to know everything, naturally, but I’ll answer to the best of my abilities. What did you want to know?”

Harry was suddenly a little lightheaded. Anything, Lupin had said. Whenever Harry so much as mentioned his parents, his Aunt Petunia acted like he was discussing the finer points of the sewage system. Harry, very suddenly, had no idea what to say.

Lupin must have seen something in his face, for he took pity. “Was there something specific you came to ask about today?”

Here was his chance. Harry sent a silent prayer that his voice wouldn’t waver. “Actually, yeah. Did you know that I, er, dropped Divination?”

Lupin’s lips twitched and amusement glinted in his strange eyes for a moment. “Ah, yes, I believe Professor McGonagall may have mentioned it in passing.”

Harry gave him a strange look. “Yeah, so, I ended up picking Arithmancy instead, and turns out I’ve got this project…”

Lupin smiled widely this time, leaning back in his seat. “An excellent choice, Harry. I was very fond of Arithmancy in school. Such a useful subject – it’s a shame they wait until third year to introduce it.”

Oh Merlin, Harry thought. He really is another Hermione.

Harry nodded politely and floundered for something to say. “Ah, yeah, I heard it’s... handy to have,” he managed, lamely.

Lupin chuckled. “Sorry, Harry. You were saying?”

“Right,” Harry continued, “so we have to create personal charts for our partners, and, well, there’s some information that I… uh… I’m not too sure about.”

Lupin frowned. “It’s been a long time since I’ve written a personal chart, but I don’t recall needing all that much information about parentage. Just names, really. Are you wondering about their middle-names?”

“No, I- wait, middle-names? Did they have any?” Harry only realised he’d sat forward when his arm bumped precariously against his tea. He steadied the mug absently.

Lupin was looking a little bemused. “James didn’t, but I think your mum did. Lily Jane Evans, I believe.”

“Lily Jane,” Harry mumbled. He felt seven years old again, learning about his parents for the first time. Suddenly, the scope of what he didn’t know about them felt insurmountable. The unfairness of the situation hit him out of nowhere – why did he have to scramble for titbits about his parents from one of his bloody school teachers, when they should have been here to tell him everything themselves?

He swallowed thickly, and swallowed again when his throat still felt full.

“Harry,” Lupin said, gently. “Would you like to have this conversation another time?”

Harry shook his head firmly, still not looking up from where he found his hands were clenched tightly around his mug. The ceramic was far too hot, but he couldn’t seem to let go.

“Okay,” said Lupin. “Let me just get a fresh cup, and we’ll continue.”

Harry knew the man’s mug was still full and steaming, but he made no comment as the man busied himself with his back to him.

Pull yourself together, Harry told himself sternly. It’s only a silly name. Harry sighed. He was unconvincing even to himself.

Lily Jane Evans.

Harry had managed to push down the feeling crawling up his throat by the time Lupin resumed his seat with a steaming mug. He was able to lift his eyes from the desk in front of him, but meeting the Professor’s eyes was too much. Harry settled for gazing somewhere near his nose. Merlin, but the man was scarred. One of them went straight across from his right cheek into the flesh of his nose. Harry shivered, momentarily imagining what creature would be capable of that. Certainly not a Bowtruckle.

Lupin cleared his throat and Harry started guiltily.

“So, if not middle names, what information is it you need for your chart?” Lupin asked.

“Ah,” Harry said, sitting up a little. “It was my Grandparents, sir. I need their names to complete it.”

Harry couldn’t see Lupin’s expression, but his silence was revealing. After a pause of several seconds, Harry heard Lupin sigh. “I suppose your Aunt wouldn’t know the names of James’ parents. I’m sorry, Harry. I hadn’t thought of – well. I suppose it didn’t occur to us how much might be kept from you.”

Harry took a sip of tea and held in a grimace. Wow, Lupin liked his tea sweet. Lupin's words hit him suddenly; us? Who was us? Had Lupin been involved in his being placed with the Dursleys? There was still so much he didn't know about his parents' deaths. Harry turned his attention with effort back to Lupin as the man continued.

“Well. Your father’s parents were named Euphemia and Fleamont,” Lupin said, simply.

Harry stared at him for a second. “Seriously?” he blurted. Lupin’s lips twitched into a smirk.

“Indeed. Very Pureblood names, unfortunately. Would you like me to write them down for you, for the spelling?”

Harry only had to think for a moment before nodding gratefully. Lupin smiled again and summoned a piece of parchment, before writing the names down with his nearby quill. His handwriting was neat and precise, Harry noted as he passed the parchment over, somewhat like Nott’s. He held the paper reverently when it was gently pushed towards him. Euphemia and Fleamont – his witch and wizard grandparents. He didn't have a leg to stand on with Nott, now. Harry hadn’t given much consideration to the fact that he must have came from a very long line of wizards and witches – being raised by the Dursleys, he supposed, made it very hard to rationalise the fact that he was likely the first person in the Potter family to be raised as a muggle. But now, the idea was surprisingly gripping. He was filled, suddenly, with the desire to know everything about them. But how much could Lupin actually tell him?

“Did you ever meet them?” he asked eagerly, his plan to act casual suddenly forgotten.

Lupin smiled. “I did, yes, briefly. Several times. They were always there to meet James at Kings Cross at the end of term. Blindingly proud of him, they were. You’d think no one had ever had a child before.” Lupin’s smile had gone a little sad. Harry jumped in before the man could be distracted.

“What were they like? What did they do?”

“Ah, your grandfather was actually a rather accomplished potioneer. Have you heard of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion?”

Harry shook his head.

“Well, your grandfather invented it. It was very successful – particularly in America. He sold the company eventually, but it’s still a very popular product. And it made rather a great deal of gold, I’d imagine.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. His grandfather was a Potioneer? And invented an apparently famous Hair Potion? Harry felt a sudden quiver of guilt over his frequent Troll grades in Potions. Did Snape know about this? Fuck, Harry thought, he probably does.

“That’s… brilliant,” Harry managed eventually. “Do you know much about my, er, grandmother?” The term was strange to use.

Lupin hummed. “I don’t believe her career was as successful as your grandfather’s, unfortunately. Truthfully, I don’t quite recall if she had a profession. They were both rather older when they had James, you see – I believe they were mostly enjoying their galleons when I knew them. I do remember that she wrote some articles for the Prophet, a few times, though I don’t remember what they were about. I only remember because she had a few published while we were still at school, and those were the only times that James would bother to get the paper before - well, before the war.” Lupin had that sad faraway smile again, and Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat. Lupin wore his grief with great familiarity; it was strange to imagine someone other than Harry being so affected by the deaths of his parents - it was almost like they were connected in some strange way.

Harry shifted in his seat as the Professor remained lost in thought – should he say something? It was impossible not to feel suddenly out of his element. Thankfully, Lupin spared him having to decide.

“Well,” the Professor said, blinking back into focus. “Was there anything else you wanted to know about them?”

“Er,” said Harry, “actually, I was wondering about my mum’s parents, too? I know you said you were mostly my dad’s friend, but…” Harry found himself unable to finish his sentence – to voice that there was no one else on earth he could think of to ask.

Lupin’s genial look vanished at this, replaced surprisingly by an apologetic frown. His scars complimented the expression, making the normally gentle man look suddenly rather formidable. His hands folded gently around his mug as he watched Harry thoughtfully. “Your mother’s parents? I’m not sure I can tell you more than your Aunt has, I’m afraid.”

Harry fought valiantly to fight down a flush. Merlin, he hated this. But, if he could actually learn something about them…

“Erm, she doesn't actually, you know… talk about them. Not to me, anyway. I don’t think they got along. So I don’t, y’know, know their names, or anything like that,” he shrugged, and quickly took another sip of his tea, aiming for nonchalance.

Lupin paused again, for a long moment, while Harry focused intently on his drink. Rather milky, too. Harry hoped absently that the man was making his own tea as full of milk and sugar – he still looked thin and under the weather, and Harry was beginning to suspect this was the man’s natural state.

Lupin broke the silence at last. “I see,” he said. His voice sounded peculiarly controlled, and Harry glanced up in surprise to see a rather blank look on his face, save for a slight twisting of his lips. “Well,” Professor Lupin continued, slowly, “I only met them a few times – once, I think at Kings Cross, our last year, and again at your parents’ wedding. They were a lovely couple. Your mother’s eyes – she got them from her dad, you know. His name was Will – William Evans. Her hair, too, though his wasn’t as vibrant.” He paused for a moment; his eyes lost somewhere in the distance. “He was very kind, I remember. I had – some health difficulties, at the time,” (Harry attempted to look politely surprised) “and your grandfather was awfully kind about it – kept checking in on me during the wedding. Your mother inherited his good nature, I think.”

The Professor smiled at him, and Harry found himself smiling back involuntarily. The man leaned forward to glance into Harry’s half-finished mug, before bringing his wand up to tap gently against its side. The tea immediately began steaming. “Thanks,” Harry said, ducking his head a little and taking a sip to hide his face. Lupin hummed in acknowledgement before doing the same to his own tea.

“Not to say, of course, that your grandmother wasn’t good-natured. Going from my few meetings with her, and your mother’s stories, I believe she was just as kind as your grandfather – just rather more reserved, I think. She was very intelligent, from what I knew. Even just from meeting her those few times – there was something about her. A distracted air, like she was always thinking about something else, something complicated. She reminded me a little of the Headmaster in that way. Perhaps not on that level, but, well. I remember Lily mentioning that she didn’t get away with much, growing up.” They shared a smile, again, before Lupin’s face became a little wistful. “Unfortunately, at the time she was growing up, being a woman – well. I remember your mother mentioning that she felt her talents were being wasted.”

There was an amicable pause for a moment while Harry digested this. He could almost see them in his mind – his grandad, with Harry’s own eyes and a gentle smile, next to this reserved, brilliant woman. That bitterness he had felt when talking to Ginny about her family reared its head again, slithering up from his stomach through his throat. Harry was getting rather sick of pushing it back down.

Both of their heads turned towards the door as they heard footsteps approach, but whoever it was passed the door and the steps became faint as they turned the corner.

Harry turned back to the Professor, clearing his throat. “What, uh, I mean – you said she was smart. Was there something in particular…?”

Lupin smiled. “I think she was just about good at everything she set her mind to. But – physics, I think, and maths. Numbers. She was a genius with numbers. I believe when Lily was a little older, she began teaching maths at a local secondary school. I suspect she was a formidable teacher, from what Lily told me.” He seemed to be momentarily lost in a memory, a small secret smile on his lips.

A genius, Harry thought, a little numbly. He sipped his tea while he tried to wrap his head around all that Professor Lupin had told him. If she was a genius, that meant there was brilliance on both sides of his family – by all rights, he should be doing amazing things. Failing to die as a baby under mysterious circumstances seemed rather pale in comparison to their achievements. He thought for a second, with a horrible sweeping feeling in his stomach, that maybe it was better they had never known him; sitting there with average marks and no real interest in academics, it was impossible to think they could have ever been proud of him. Stop it, he told himself firmly. His family being ashamed of him wasn’t anything new; he could think about this later, when he wasn’t wasting valuable time he could be using to learn more about them.

“Er, what was her name, sir? Do you remember?” Harry asked at length. He had come here for a reason, after all.

“Oh, sorry, Harry. I do. It was Dottie – Dorothy, really, but I don’t think anyone called her that. Dottie and Will.”

There was another moment’s silence before Harry asked, “How did they… uh…”

Lupin’s face was unbearably gentle. “It was a car accident, I believe. Shortly after your parents were married.”

The man opened his mouth to go on, but stopped after catching sight of Harry’s face.

“A car accident,” Harry said, in a voice he didn’t quite recognise. So – his Aunt had given his parents the death of her parents, in her cover story when he was a child. What was that – spite? Or some sort of displaced – something? The room seemed too loud and bright, suddenly, and Harry could feel something swirling dangerously in his stomach. Harry had no idea what this was he was feeling, only that there was so much of it he felt he might choke on it. He became aware, vaguely, of the sound of a teaspoon vibrating frenetically against the side of a mug before a large, thin hand came into his vision, resting just short of where his own hand seemed to be clenched into a fist on the Professor’s desk.

“Harry,” a voice said, gentle and firm all at once, and Harry felt himself blinking back into the present. With a muffled clink from somewhere near the kettle, Harry began to feel whatever had taken hold of him – recede.

Professor Lupin was watching him with an unreadable expression. Harry looked up at him, then down to the hand resting hesitantly near his. “Sorry,” he mumbled, somehow unable to tear his eyes away from the ink-stained fingers so close to his own. He couldn’t think of the last time an adult had tried to reach out to him physically with that kind of gentleness. He instinctively wanted to shy away from it, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He watched the hand’s progress as it returned over to Lupin’s side of the desk and wrapped itself around the man’s mug.

Harry’s mouth felt painfully dry. “Sorry, sir, I…” he tried again. His cheeks began to redden as he realised that, yes, he had just made a fool of himself in front of his Defence Professor – the only man who could tell him these kinds of stories about his family. What if he decided Harry was too delicate to know any more?

Harry looked up, suddenly desperate to make sure the man knew he was fine. “I’m sorry – I just – I never knew how they died, and…”

Lupin was sombre, and Harry’s face burned at the compassion in the man’s eyes. “Harry,” he said, letting out a sigh. “You don’t have to apologise. This is an awful lot to unload onto you all at once. Perhaps too much…”

“No!” Harry interjected, panic lacing through him. “No, sir, honest, I’m fine. That was – I was just shocked. It’s not too much, sir, I promise.”

The Professor looked a little doubtful, but after watching Harry for a moment longer, he slowly nodded his head.

“All right, but perhaps not much more for today. Was there anything else you needed, for your chart?”

Harry had momentarily forgotten the purpose of this visit. “Oh,” he said. “Er, I think it’s just the names, really. Do you know, um, if they had middle-names, by any chance?"

Lupin frowned apologetically. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. For the Evans family… I think only your Aunt would know. But for the Potters, you might have some luck with Genealogy texts. The library should have a few.”

Harry hmmed. “That’s what Nott suggested.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Oh,” Harry said, “my Arithmancy partner. Er, Theodore Nott? He’s in, uh, Slytherin.”

Now both the Professor’s eyebrows were raised. “I see,” he said, slowly. “Have you two been getting along alright?” Lupin’s tone was very even, and Harry felt himself shifting a little in his seat. Why on earth had he brought up Nott?

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he’s fine. We’ve, uh… studied together, actually, a few times, before now. Him and his friends.”

“Really,” Lupin said. Harry could tell the man was surprised and was trying to hide it. Merlin – would Lupin want him to be nice to Nott, or to hate him? He hoped, rather fervently, that it was the former.  

Harry thought around desperately for something that would endear Nott to the man. “Er, he’s really studious, you know. And,” he said, thinking back to his first conversation with the Professor, “he’s the friend I mentioned who really likes Charms.”

Harry may have been rambling; Lupin now looked more than a little bemused. After a long moment, the man simply said, “I’m glad you’re branching out to other Houses for friends, Harry. I worry sometimes that the importance we place on the Sorting can make us all a bit too insular.”

“Er, right,” Harry said. That sounded a little like what he and his friends had been discussing.

Harry shifted a little in his seat, wondering if it’d be impolite to ask, but, well, why not. “Sir? If you were friends with my parents, does that mean you were in Gryffindor, too?” Harry rather suspected the man was more fit for Ravenclaw, considering the state of his office, but he supposed Hermione showed there was more to the Sorting than that.

Lupin smiled, and thankfully didn’t seem to think the question was inappropriate. “I was, in fact. I shared a dorm with your father for seven years.”

Harry found he was rather pleased that he and Lupin shared a House, but it brought up one question he was a bit uncomfortable asking. “Did my parents, er – did they have many friends outside of Gryffindor, sir?”

Lupin looked away for a moment and seemed to be thinking something over carefully. Harry felt nerves flutter in his stomach – what, were his parents staunchly against interhouse mingling?

Lupin made up his mind before Harry could talk himself into a panic. “Actually,” the man said, a strange look on his face, “your mother’s best friend for most of school was a Slytherin.”

Harry felt something funny flutter in his stomach. “What?” he said. “Are you – really?” He’d seen some Gryffindors and Slytherins, on rare occasions, getting along fine, but best friends? The thought was completely bizarre – and strangely tantalising.

Lupin’s smile was strangely stilted. “Yes, for most of our time here. I think they – lost touch, eventually, and… I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t think it’s really my place to go into it. I’m not sure the person in question would want me discussing it. I hope you understand.”

Harry felt indignation well up in him - this was his dead mother they were discussing – surely that trumped whatever was holding Lupin back? But the man looked so genuinely apologetic and uncomfortable that Harry felt his anger melt away as quickly as it had come. “Alright,” he sighed. He'd leave it - for now. He'd finished his tea, but he clutched the mug to him to give his hands something to do.

“What about my dad? Did he have many friends outside Gryffindor?”  

Lupin’s face displayed his feelings plainly before he could mask them, and Harry felt something heavy expand in his stomach and take up residence. “Well,” said Lupin, rather uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think he had too many friends outside of Gryffindor. We were all very close, though, in our year, Harry, and although your father was very popular, he was largely content with our group. He didn’t really seek out new friends.”

Lupin spoke hastily, as if desperate to get his point across. He was trying to catch Harry’s eye, but it was Harry’s turn to stare ahead of him, trying not to lose himself in his thoughts.

“It’s alright, Professor, I understand,” he said, eventually.

There was silence for several moments. Harry couldn’t tell if it was amicable or uncomfortable. He couldn’t seem to turn his brain off, though, and he found himself bringing up the subject again without conscious thought.

“I – er – I don’t really think I’m friends with them yet. The Slytherins, I mean. But… I think I want to be.” Lupin was watching him patiently, giving nothing away. “Do you think… I mean, I’m just not sure…” Harry trailed off. He couldn’t seem to organise his thoughts.

“What’s troubling you about it, Harry? Does he not want to be friends?” Lupin asked after a moment, watching him carefully.

“No,” Harry said, hastily. “It's not that. It’s just, well…” Lupin seemed to be about to say something else, and Harry found himself blurting it out. “I know that his dad was a Dead Eater.”

Lupin blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He frowned. “A – a Death Eater, Harry?”

Harry gave him a strange look. “Yeah, one of those. Voldemort’s supporters.”

“Right,” said Lupin, lips twitching bizarrely. Harry’s frown seemed to snap him out of whatever thought he was in, and his attention turned serious again.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “You’re right, I think. Nott Sr. was a rather prominent Death Eater in the war. Where did you hear about it, though, Harry? Did… Did Nott tell you?” His face was rather wary.

“What?” said Harry. “No. Arthur Weasley did. Er – I mean, Ron wrote to him, and he told him that Nott Sr. was a Death Eater, and a nasty one. So, I suppose I’m just – not sure what to do about that,” Harry shrugged, and wished he knew how to actually explain all of his thoughts properly for once.

Lupin frowned thoughtfully. Footsteps passed the office door again, and both occupants listened to them fade. After a few moments, the Professor sighed. “That’s a tricky one, Harry. Are you unsure if you want to continue your relationship knowing his father was aligned with Lord Voldemort? Or are you simply unsure if you should want to?”

Harry stared. Not only because Lupin was so perceptive, or that he’d used the word relationship, but because he had never heard anyone beyond himself and Dumbledore say Voldemort’s name out loud. He was a little impressed.

“Er,” he said, after a moment. “A bit of both, I suppose. I mean, he doesn’t – seem like the sort of person who’d agree with that stuff. The Pureblood Supremacy stuff, I mean. He’s never expressed anything like that in front of me, and he seems fine around Half-bloods… But I don’t know him that well, and it seems like a big thing to ignore… It just seems so unfair to hold what his father did against him. Just because he’s got this Dark thing hanging over him, that shouldn’t mean people treat him badly. It’s not his fault,” Harry trailed off. He was just repeating arguments he’d had with himself over and over again.

Lupin wasn’t paying him any attention, however. Something complicated was happening across his face, and the man seemed to be thinking heavily before speaking. “I don’t think you should ignore it, regardless, but…” he sighed. “I can’t tell you what to do here, Harry. It would be unfair to write the boy off for being from a Dark family, but it would also be foolish to ignore the fact. I think… there’s a lot to be said for judging a person based on their own merit. If Mr. Nott seems like a good person to you, then I encourage you to pursue the friendship.” Lupin seemed to mull something over for a moment before continuing. “I think – that perhaps we all have certain things which cast shadows upon us. Looking beyond those shadows to the person underneath is sometimes difficult, but it can be the most rewarding thing a person can experience. If you want to carry on as you have been, then do so, Harry. Just – be careful, will you?”

Harry felt rather young, all of a sudden. He nodded, not sure what to say. Perhaps Lupin was right. He knew all he was going to, at the moment. And fine, he could admit it - he wanted to be Nott’s friend. He wanted to be friends with all of them – Zabini, Davis, and even perhaps Bullstrode. If it turned out to be the wrong choice, then, well – Harry had made plenty of those before. He would deal with that if it came to it.

Chapter Text

The echo of Harry’s feet sounded loudly in his wake as he trailed down the empty corridor. He was moving without a direction in mind, hoping the action would help smooth over his surly mood. Today was Halloween. This would normally be a strange day for Harry; as spectacular as the decorations and Feast were, it was also the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. This year, however, there was an added layer of misery: it was the third years’ first ever Hogsmeade trip, and Harry was the only student who wasn't going.

After the events of the summer, it was no wonder his Uncle hadn’t signed his permission form, but Harry had been hoping for some leniency from the teachers, owing to the circumstances. But typical of his luck, he was to be disappointed. It was hard not to feel bitter watching his friends trail off to spend a no-doubt very fun day in the village, while he had to stay behind, alone. He had even spied the Slytherins trudging off merrily in their group (well, as merrily as Nott or Bullstrode were wont to be). Ron and Hermione had felt awful leaving him, and he felt a twinge of guilt now at spoiling their excitement. He had tried to look unbothered, but they both knew him too well to be fooled. With the promise of many sweets upon their return, they had set off, Hermione casting him anxious looks over her shoulder until he disappeared from view.

Harry suspected that the situation with Sirius Black hadn’t helped matters. The adults were all rather jumpy around the subject of Black and the Dementors (with the exception of Snape, who Harry had long suspected to be some sort of distant cousin to the horrible things); the idea of setting him loose in Hogsmeade, unprotected, would likely lead to all sorts of bother. Harry had tried to be rational about it, but he couldn’t help the niggling feeling that they just didn't think he was capable of handling himself, despite everything that had happened in the last few years.

He had briefly entertained the thought of visiting Lupin again, but had quickly decided against it. Harry hadn’t seen the Professor outside of class since their conversation in his office the week before; he had left that afternoon feeling more than a little spent, and hindsight had only added a layer of embarrassment to the situation. He’d learned more about his family than he probably had since Hagrid had told him he was a Wizard. And, he reminded himself, he had confided in the Professor about his conflicted feelings surrounding Nott. Harry felt his ears burn at the memory. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to bring the boy up, but he was rather firm in his decision to perhaps avoid the Professor for a little while.

He and Nott had finally finished their Personal Charts. Their second meeting (thankfully, sans Ron and the others) had gone smoothly in comparison to their first, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that he was making no progress towards actually befriending the distant boy. They had kept their conversation strictly on Arithmancy, and there was no resurgence of the strange atmosphere that had overtaken them during their last meeting in the library. He waited for Nott to ask him where he'd gotten the information about his grandparents, but the other boy never asked, and Harry felt, bizarrely, a little disappointed.

He was now officially caught up on his Arithmancy work, and classes had been going… fine. He wasn’t exactly a natural, but Hermione and Nott had been right that the material came easier to him when he had a solid grasp of the theory. Ron had also cooled down a little about the other boy’s Death Eater connection. After Harry’s talk with Lupin, and after mulling the issue around in his head for a few more nights, Harry had told his friends of his decision to carry on as normal with the Slytherins. Hermione and Ron both seemed unsurprised, and thankfully posed no argument, though they both made him promise to be careful until they knew more. Harry had agreed easily.

At the moment, Harry’s feet seemed to have taken him downwards. The chill in the air signified that he was close to the dungeons, and Harry idly wished he’d brought his robes with him for his walk. On weekends, plenty of students forewent their robes entirely, wearing normal – or, rather, Muggle, Harry supposed – clothes instead. It was mostly only Pureblood students who wore robes as part of their everyday clothes. Harry couldn’t deny, right now, that they were at least warmer than his holey jumper and baggy jeans.

As he turned listlessly onto another corridor, a noise up ahead caught his attention and he stilled to listen. It sounded like voices – and not peaceful ones. Harry crept towards where the corridor branched off ahead of him. Approaching as quietly as possible, he began to make out the sounds of several people – older students, or maybe teachers? He strained his ears to try and make out any of the voices, but it was no use. A sudden low, cruel laugh sent a shiver of anticipation through him. Whatever scene he was stumbling onto, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

A horribly familiar cry of “Hey!” vanished all thoughts of sneaking around from his mind. Without a moment’s thought, Harry darted forwards around the corner and took in the sight in front of him.

Two older students – sixth or seventh years – were towering over three small figures. Harry recognised them at once. With a jolt in his stomach, Harry saw that the dark haired one – Ruth, he recalled – was on the floor, and blood was gushing steadily from her nose down her chin and pooling unevenly across the stone floor. Little Astoria and the gangly, terrified-looking Corwin were crouched protectively in front of her, wands in shaking fingers. Harry’s eyes swept over them quickly, but neither looked hurt – only scared, in Corwin’s case, and shockingly furious, in Astoria’s. Harry’s eyes swivelled to the older students as one of them let out another laugh. They were a boy and a girl, Harry could see now: tall, blonde, and sneering. A Slytherin and Ravenclaw, respectively. Harry saw that the girl had a Prefect badge pinned to her robes and Harry had to take a deep breath, utter fury rushing through him.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he managed to choke out, throat tight with anger. The three first years jumped as one, swivelling round, and Harry had to swallow suddenly at the sheer relief that appeared on all three faces as they caught sight of him.

The older students had looked wary at Harry’s exclamation, but now both faces – and Harry could tell, now, that they must be related – stretched into eerily similar grins. “Oh, look,” the boy said, and Harry could hear the cruel delight in his low voice. “It’s little Harry Potter to the rescue.” He smiled down at Harry with unnervingly cold blue eyes. Harry had moved closer and had to suppress a twinge of fear at just how much the two towered over him.

The girl glanced pointedly from his ratty trainers to his wild hair, rolling her eyes dismissively with a slight curl to her lip, before turning her attention unerringly back on the first years, who seemed to tense under her stare. “This doesn’t concern you, Potter,” she said, not taking her eyes off the younger students. “Leave now, and we’ll pretend we never saw you.” Her eyes were somehow colder than her brother’s. Her clear and complete dismissal of him as a threat send a rush of indignation through him.

“Wh- I’m not going to leave!” Harry snapped, standing straighter. “Ruth, are you alright?” He aimed this at the girl who was still on the floor, but he didn’t take his eyes off the older students. Neither had their wands drawn, but Harry noticed that their hands were resting, casually, near their pockets. Careful to move slowly, Harry’s own hand began inching towards where his wand rested in his jeans, and Harry saw both sets of blue eyes tracking the movement.

“I’m okay,” came Ruth’s sniffled reply. Out of the corner of his vision, Harry saw the girl slowly rise to her feet. Her face was flaming red, and she held her wrist gingerly as she stood. His gaze flickered back to the blood on the stone below her, and Harry suddenly couldn’t take his eyes away. There was so much of it, all down her robes and pooling on the stone. He blinked, a little dizzy suddenly, and then it was himself on the ground, with Dudley and his friends sneering down at him; pain pulsing from his nose, or his ankle, or his stomach. Blood, startlingly dark on the pavement. He remembered, on several occasions, someone appearing in his vision – other children, eager to see a fight; friends of Dudley's, delighted at a new game of Harry Hunting; or in one horrible case, a woman Harry knew to be friends with his aunt. He could remember clearly the burst of emotion, sharp in his mouth the first few times, the way desperation and relief and a sliver of unendurable shame had all rushed through him at the sight of the newcomer. And he remembered, just as sharply, the way those feelings slowly, quietly, dripped away each time his potential saviours turned away, looked at the ground, hung their heads – or sneered. He remembered the dawning numbness that swiftly pushed out his hope for a feeling that was too dark to be called anger. The burgeoning hatred that grew and grew as he realised no one was ever coming to help him.

Watching Ruth now, her rapidly watering eyes trained on the ground, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, Harry felt that furious numbness rise through him like it had never left. He wasn’t – he couldn’t leave. He would never become like those people who had turned a blind eye to Dudley and his gang when it was him lying on the ground, bleeding. If he had the choice, he’d see his own blood darken the stone before that of someone he could protect.

The older students must have seen something in his face, because they dropped their smirks as one. Harry saw a disturbingly satisfied glint in the blonde boy’s eyes. Clearly Harry wasn’t the only one itching for a fight. “Ruth,” Harry said, quietly, “get behind me.” The girl cast him a wide-eyed look before she skittered somewhere out of his peripheral vision. The Prefect looked bored at the display. “Aright, Potter. Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” she said, falling back slightly into a loose duelling stance.

Harry felt his fingers finally brush the wooden grip of his wand, and at the same time saw the two older students whip theirs out in one fluid moment, so fast it was almost imperceptible. Harry’s wand rose and a spell formed on his lips, but he knew he’d never be fast enough. Red was glowing from the tip of the girl’s wand and he was so, so, screwed. “Exp-!”

“What in Merlin's name d'you think you're doing?” a voice demanded furiously from behind him, and the world rushed back into focus.

Blinking rapidly as the adrenaline coursed through his body with nowhere to go, Harry saw the wands of the older students disappear back into their pockets as if they’d been there all along. The older student’s faces shifted immediately into placid expressions, but Harry didn’t miss the flash of pure rage that overtook the boy’s face for a moment, before it was replaced by a lazy smirk. Whirling around, Harry came face to face with – an older Hufflepuff boy.

The new boy was tall and broad, and his currently thunderous face was strikingly handsome. He looked to be in his sixth or seventh year, and Harry spotted a Prefect’s badge on his lapel. His eyes were jumping from the trio of scared-looking firsties (Harry saw his eyes flash dangerously at the sight of Ruth and felt the first flutter of hope breaking through his rage) to the older students, and finally to Harry, who realised after a moment that he still had his wand pointed foolishly at the pair.

“We're not doing anything, Diggory,” the girl said, smoothly. “We were just having a chat with the baby snakes when Potter came along, waving his wand around like a foolish little Gryffindor.”

Harry felt his face flush as Diggory’s eyes trained on him again, searching. He shoved his wand into his pocket roughly and tried, unsuccessfully, to school his expression into something less murderous.

“Right,” said Diggory after a moment. “And why is this first year bleeding from her nose?” His tone was calm, but Harry heard something hard underneath.

“Oh,” the boy took over now, easily. “She was bleeding when we arrived. We were just asking what happened when Potter showed up, wand blazing, sticking his nose in our business and making assumptions.” The boy shook his head, as if disappointed, and Harry was so angry his stomach hurt from it. The boy wasn’t even pretending to sound sincere – he still had the edge of a smirk around his mouth!

Diggory, thank Merlin, didn’t seem to buy it either. He turned to the first years, who Harry now saw were huddled together by the wall, looking utterly miserable. Ruth’s nose was still dribbling blood slowly, but her fear seemed to have melted away to be replaced by a look of anger so strong it might have been comical, under different circumstances. Corwin and Astoria each had hold of one of her hands, bracketing her like tiny bodyguards.

“Is that what happened?” Diggory asked them, voice now gentle. Harry waited for them to burst into speech, but when the silence stretched on a few moments, he turned back to look at them, confused. Only Ruth met his eyes – with a desperate, pleading look. Astoria and Corwin were staring at the ground, the boy shockingly pale under his red hair and the girl now clearly trying to hold back tears. Ruth opened her mouth as if to say something, but Harry saw, with a sinking feeling, that the other two were now squeezing her hands so tightly that they’d gone white. Her mouth closed with a click of her teeth, and she closed her eyes tight. She nodded, once.

Harry could feel a flush creep up his neck. “Ruth,” Harry tried, but the girl just flinched, avoiding his eyes.

“Well,” said the older boy slowly, oozing smugness, “there you have it. Potter was sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.” His eyes were trained on Harry’s face, soaking up his rage with obvious enjoyment.

“That’s enough, Rowle,” Diggory said, sharply. He had an unhappy cast to his mouth, but he stepped forward to face the pair, on level with Harry. “You have rounds to complete,” he said pointedly, eyeing the girl coldly. She smiled at him in response, and Harry tried to smother a shiver at how empty the gesture was on her face. Without another word, she turned to leave. The boy’s eyes trailed over Harry and the others slowly, with relish. “Until next time, Potter, firsties,” he said, before turning to follow her.

When the pair disappeared around the corner, Harry swung on the first years with a scowl. His hands were shaking, he noted in the back of his brain, as he tried to push down on his anger enough to speak. He opened his mouth – to say what, he didn’t know – but froze when he saw their faces. Astoria and Corwin were both crying, the former pale as parchment and the boy blotchy with tears. Harry felt his anger die in his stomach, replaced with a queasy feeling of uncertainty. Ruth was staring at the ground with a strange look of abject misery mixed with rage; Harry could empathise.

He was saved from speaking by the appearance of Diggory at his shoulder. The tall boy sunk gently to one knee a few feet from the first years, heedless of the spot of blood Harry could now see soaking into the edge of his robe. “Hi, there,” he said to the top of Ruth’s curly, bowed head. “Are you alright? That looks painful.”

His voice was smooth and calm, a far cry from his barely restrained anger moments ago, and Harry found some of his residual anxiety ebbing away.

The girl nodded jerkily without looking up. A hiccup caught Harry’s attention, and before he knew what was happening, his arms were full of a sobbing Astoria.

“Ha-Harry,” the girl cried, “please don’t be mad at us. We d-didn’t know what to do.” Harry, who was standing frozen as the small girl clutched at his middle, felt another impact from his side as Corwin wasted no time in flinging himself haphazardly against Harry’s side, his gangly arms around them both. He could see Diggory giving him a pointed look over the two heads attached to him. Hesitantly, Harry lifted his arms to gingerly pat at the first years’ backs, pushing down his bewildered discomfort.

“Er, I’m not mad,” he said, and realised it was true. “I’m just... a little confused?” Astoria let out another little hiccup, and Harry resumed patting her back with only an internal grimace. Merlin. He’d just wanted to go for a walk.

“It’s my fault,” came a muffled voice from behind them. The two first years detangled themselves from Harry (he tried to mask his relief) to peer around at Ruth, who was watching them from under her eyelashes, eyes red and expression severe. Her left hand was clenched tightly in her robes.

Diggory stepped in once again. “I doubt that,” he said, gently, but the girl only turned her glare on him. They stared at each other silently for a few moments, before Diggory sighed, and ducked his head. “I can’t do anything unless you’re willing to talk to a teacher, no matter what you say now,” he told her, voice a little sad. “I know what the Rowle twins are like. I don’t blame you.”

Harry swept his eyes between Ruth and Diggory bemusedly. “What are you talking about?” Astoria shot him another guilty look. Corwin was looking at the ground, red creeping up his neck, and looking utterly miserable. On a bizarre impulse, Harry reached out to pat him gently on the shoulder. The boy started, before turning a watery smile on Harry in gratitude. Turning back to the others before the boy could think of hugging him again, Harry looked between Ruth and Diggory, waiting.

“If they heard us grassing on them to a Prefect, they’d never leave us alone. They're crazy and they have loads of powerful friends, and I can’t -  I’m sorry, Harry.” Ruth was looking at him beseechingly, dark hair falling messily out of her ponytail. Her tawny skin was still flushed, and the blood was beginning to dry on her chin. She was trembling slightly, and Harry could see that her mouth was pursed, as if she was in pain.

Harry felt the last of his anger disappear as he absorbed her words. “I… you can’t just let them get away with that,” he found himself saying, and regretted it instantly.

Ruth’s eyes flashed, and even Astoria shot him a displeased look, before saying, “We’re not letting them do anything, Harry. But they’re bigger than us, and they know magic we don’t, and she's a Prefect, and, and, what else can we do?” With horror, Harry saw that her eyes were filling with tears again.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Harry said, and sighed. “It’s just… Shit. They’re awful. Why were they going after you lot?”

All three first years flinched when he swore, and Harry smothered the impulse to smile. It definitely wasn’t the time.

Ruth’s glare was back. “They found out I was Muggleborn,” she said, voice low. Harry tried to hide his confusion, but Ruth continued without prompting. “Turns out there’s a small Pureblood family named McNess, and apparently everyone just assumed I was one of them. They didn’t take it well when they discovered differently. Apparently, you don’t get Muggleborns in Slytherin.”

Harry couldn’t stand the bitterness he could hear in the girl’s voice. She reminded him, in that moment, of Ginny talking about the diary that night in the Common Room. Stronger than she should have to be and resigned to the necessity. Harry hated it.

“Those –” he began, but Diggory interrupted, and Harry jumped. For a moment he had forgot the other boy was there.

“Right,” the Hufflepuff said, decisively. “Even if you’re not going to report this, I still have to escort you to the Hospital Wing. Your nose’ll need looked at, and likely that wrist you’re trying to hide, too.”

Ruth let go of her wrist, guiltily.

Diggory continued calmly. “It’s policy that if a Prefect finds an injured student, they have to report it to the student’s Head of House afterwards. No exceptions,” Diggory added, after all three of the first year’s mouths opened to argue. Harry couldn’t blame them. Snape was the last person he’d want to see while hurt.

The three first years shot each other looks, and began miserably shuffling towards Diggory.

“Er, Diggory?” Harry asked, cursing how uncertain his voice came out.

The older boy turned to him with an open expression.

Harry floundered for a second. “I just – can I, uh, come with? To the Hospital Wing, I mean? I just…” he trailed off and shrugged. His eyes kept flickering to Ruth’s blood drying across the stone, and his mind kept replaying the look of relief the first years had shot him when he appeared. He was seized by the urge to see them safely into Madame Pomfrey’s care, silly as it sounded.

Thankfully, Diggory seemed to understand. “Of course,” the boy said, gesturing ahead of him. “And you can call me Cedric. No need for surnames.” The boy smiled at him, lopsided, and Harry felt his steps falter briefly. It was more than a little disarming to have the full force of D- Cedric’s smile aimed at him. He ducked his head and fell into step with the older boy.

After a moment, Harry realised Cedric was waiting for a reply, and mumbled, “Er, alright. You can, you know, call me Harry, if you’d like.”

Cedric smiled again out the corner of his eye. Harry got the impression that his face was rather more used to smiling than all the frowning he had been doing earlier. It definitely suited his him better.

“It’s a good job you came along when you did, Harry,” the boy said in a low voice, eying the small trio shuffling several feet ahead of them, heads bent together and whispering furiously.

Harry shrugged, avoiding Cedric’s eyes. “I don’t think I helped at all, really. I wouldn’t have been able to beat them in a duel, and it would’ve just made things worse for them, probably. You’re the one who stopped them.” It was painful to admit it, but Harry knew the Rowles would have wiped the floor with him if they’d had the chance to duel. If anything, Harry was lucky Cedric arrived when he did.

The older boy frowned down at him. “Don’t sell yourself short. You could easily have walked away to save your own skin, and it clearly meant a lot to them that you tried to help.” He nodded to the trio ahead.

Harry shrugged again, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under the boy’s gaze. He racked his brain for another topic to bring up and found one quickly. “How come you’re not in Hogsmeade with everyone else?” he asked. He hadn’t really expected any students above third year to still be in the castle.

Cedric accepted the subject change graciously. He smiled down at Harry ruefully. “Prefects take it in turns to stay behind when the rest of the school goes. I pulled the short straw and got the first visit. Although, it's not the worst thing to miss out on. The novelty fades and there's only so many things to do in the village after your dozenth visit.”

Cedric’s mention of Prefects reminded Harry of something else that was bothering him.

“That girl,” he said, “Rowle? Is she a Prefect, too? I saw her badge.”

Cedric sighed. “I’m afraid she is. Most Prefects take their responsibilities seriously, but unfortunately some selections aren’t the best. Our year is a little light on students, and Rowle has at least always kept her nose clean in class. She doesn’t usually target students like this. She usually leaves that to her brother.” Cedric’s look of disdain was pointed. He clearly had nothing nice to say about the Rowle boy. Harry agreed wholeheartedly.

“How did you end up friends with three Slytherin First-years, anyway?” Cedric asked after a moment. “They seem rather fond of you.”

Harry’s shoulders bunched as he remembered the two firsties flinging themselves at him. “It’s… complicated,” he murmured, eventually. Thankfully, Cedric let it be.

They were soon approaching the Hospital Wing. “Are you really going to tell Snape?” Harry asked before they arrived.

Cedric shrugged ruefully. “I have to. Maybe I can’t get proper justice, but at least he’ll be aware that it’s happening.”

Harry nodded, though privately he wondered if Snape would even really care. “Won’t they ask questions, though?” Harry asked.

Cedric smirked. “You clearly haven’t spent enough time around Slytherins, yet. They’ll come up with something.”

They had reached the large wooden doors to the Hospital Wing. The trio of First years preceded them in, and Harry head Madam Pomfrey bustle over to them with her usual no-nonsense routine.

Harry was just in time to witness Astoria begin her performance.

“It was the stairs, Madame Pomfrey,” the girl began in a wobbling voice, “we were walking back to our dorms and we were distracted, and we didn’t see the stairs move from under us! I w-was going to fall, but Ruth grabbed me to pull me back and then she fell instead! It was awful! Her nose is bleeding, and I think her wrist might be broken. Oh, Madame Pomfrey, will she be alright?” Astoria was crying again, and Harry stood watching, gobsmacked. He heard a muffled snort and turned to see Cedric trying to suppress a smirk. Harry blinked, and turned back to the unfolding scene. Pomfrey was comforting a still upset Astoria while directing Ruth towards the nearest bed. The Matron cast a quick glance over the boys by the door before heading back into her office.

As soon as she was out of sight, Astoria’s crying stuttered out with a few sniffs. Harry cast her a bewildered look, and the small girl smiled deviously up at him from where she was wiping her eyes.

Harry shook his head, impressed, and turned back to Cedric. “Are you going to get Snape now?” he asked. Harry had no intention of being here when the Professor arrived.

Cedric’s smile was tight, and his eyes were trained over Harry’s shoulder. “Looks like I have no need.”

Harry whirled round in time to see Snape exiting the Matron’s office, sweeping absently at some soot from his robes. A Floo network, he realised after a second. Well, shit.

Sure enough, Snape’s eyes immediately landed on Harry.

“Potter,” the man’s lips curled. “Have you resorted to pushing first years down the stairs, now? Venting your frustrations at being denied permission to visit Hogsmeade, are you?” His tone was acerbic and there was a cold fire in his eyes.

Harry felt indignation flood through him. To Harry’s utter shock, it was a still petrified-looking Corwin who jumped to his defence. “No, sir!” the boy squeaked. “Harry and P-prefect Diggory found us and helped us!”

Snape blinked at the boy slowly, but Corwin didn’t back down. Astoria and Ruth shared a look, before turning to the man. “It’s true, Professor,” Ruth said, while Astoria nodded. “We were really scared, but Harry and Diggory helped us calm down and brought us down here.”

Snape’s eyes trained on Harry again, and the man’s frown could cut glass. Harry didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know that the man saw through their lies, but there was clearly nothing he could do. Not with witnesses, anyway. His stare lingered on Corwin's earnest face, and Harry wondered if he could read the sincerity in his defence. He turned to Harry, who tried to tamp down on his irritation and look calm.

“I see,” he said at last, lips barely moving and eyes never leaving Harry's.

Corwin, who seemed not to know when he’d already won, piped up again. “Yeah, Harry’s our friend!” the boy said, shooting Harry another watery smile.

Harry might have laughed at the look on Snape’s face, if he was inclined to be turned into Potions ingredients in the near future. Instead, he tried to will away the sudden heat in his cheeks and attempted to look earnest, nodding stiffly.

“Friends…” the man said after a long moment, in the tone that most people would say ‘child-murderer’.

Possibly taking mercy on Harry, Pomfrey chose this moment to interrupt. “I’ll need some privacy to check on my patient, please.” Sweeping them all with a look, she continued, “If you don’t mind. I’m sure Miss McNess will be able to join you shortly. Mister Diggory, if you don’t mind staying to escort her when we’re done, the rest of you can wait outside or return to your dorms.”

Cedric mumbled his assent and fled, and Pomfrey swept the rest of them (sans Snape) with a pointed look. When the remaining first-years failed to move, she turned her eyes on Harry expectantly. With a jolt, Harry realised that she expected him to corral the younger ones. “Er, right,” he said, nodding to the other two. “Come on, guys. Let’s wait for Ruth… elsewhere.”

Astoria looked like she might protest, but one look from Snape had her nodding hurriedly and mumbling her goodbyes to Ruth. She and Corwin hastily made their way over to Harry, and with one last look back, the trio departed the Hospital Wing.

They walked in silence for a few moments, before Astoria let out an unhappy sounding sigh. “That was awful,” she said.

Corwin was wringing his hands. “Do you think they believed us?”

After a pause, Harry realised he was aiming this question at him.

“Er, probably,” he said. “Well, maybe not Snape, but he won’t be able to prove it. And I don't think he trusts anyone about anything, so it’s not a reflection on you guys.”

Corwin seemed to relax minutely. “Yeah,” he mumbled, still looking rather glum.

Harry made an effort to lighten the mood. “That was impressive, back there. The story you came up with? You were very believable.”

It was Astoria’s turn to blush. “Thanks,” she mumbled, unusually shy. “Daphne taught me. Our mum and dad are pretty strict, so we had to get good at lying or we’d always be in trouble.”

Harry wasn’t sure that her logic checked out, but what did he know about parents, or siblings for that matter?

“Well,” he said, after a moment. “Good job, anyway.” He tried to ignore how surreal it felt to be congratulating a first year on lying, but he supposed he was hardly a good example.

They both beamed at him, and Harry felt himself smiling back reflexively. Without meaning to, Harry realised he’d led them to the Library. God, Hermione and Nott were rubbing off on him. Well – might as well wait here, as anywhere.

Harry led them in and found himself automatically looking round to what he’d subconsciously deemed the ‘Slytherin Corner’, before remembering that everyone was away in Hogsmeade.

Before he could get maudlin all over again, another voice piped up. “Hey, Harry!” He turned, and saw Ginny Weasley waving happily from a desk she shared with – Merlin help him – Colin Creevey.

Holding in a sigh, Harry turned to the two first-years, who looked between him and the second years apprehensively. Merlin, they were like nervous kittens trailing in his wake. He took pity. “You can come with, if you’d like. You’ll like Ginny and Colin, they’re very, er - friendly.”

The pair seemed to communicate silently, before Astoria nodded with a tight smile. Trailing behind him, they followed him over to where Ginny and Colin were waiting.

“Hiya, Harry!” Colin said brightly as he reached them. “Want to sit with us? We’re just doing some homework.”

Ginny was looking between him and the Slytherins, openly curious.

“Sure, Colin, sounds great,” Harry said, trying hard to sound enthusiastic.

Feeling rather ridiculous, Harry gestured loosely between the two pairs. “This is Astoria Greengrass and Corwin Clearwater. And, er, this is Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevey.”

Ginny had been watching him closely as he introduced them, and Harry tried to send her a pleading look with his eyes. She must have understood, for she turned a friendly, if forced, smile onto the two first years, and nodded to the spare seats around the table.

Once they were all seated, a thoroughly awkward silence descended on the table.

“So…” Harry started, when it began to get unbearable, “what kind of homework are you doing?”

Harry felt an unprecedented rush of gratitude towards Colin as the younger boy happily took up the mantle and began rambling enthusiastically about their Charms essay. The two first years watched with wide eyes for a few minutes as the trio talked around them, before they gradually began to relax.

When Corwin piped up nervously about something they had covered in class, Harry felt something in him unclench. Colin beamed at the boy happily, and Harry tried not to think about the ramifications of introducing the two most thoroughly enthusiastic people he’d ever met. Ginny caught his eye at one point, and Harry tried to convey his gratitude in his smile. Her returning smile was somewhat uncertain, but genuine. When Astoria began contributing to the conversation, Harry let himself sit back fully, and tried to put the day’s events to the back of his mind.

                                                                                                                                  *

The Great Hall that night was abuzz with tension and nervous excitement. Although the Professors had called for lights out ten minutes ago, there was still a persistent undercurrent of whispers all around him. Harry was lying in his conjured sleeping bag with Hermione and Ron flanking him on either side

The evening had gone smoothly, compared to the events of the afternoon. Ron and Hermione had arrived back at the castle windswept and flushed, and absolutely laden with sweets. Harry found even his jealousy took a backseat faced with the evidence that Ron and Hermione had been thinking of him during their outing. They had tried to pace themselves with the sweets so as not to spoil the feast, but even Hermione found her reserves waning eventually, dentist parents or no.

The meal had been as spectacular as they’d expected. Giant pumpkins littered the room, and the food was so delicious that even Harry found himself eating until he felt he might burst. They were chatting aimlessly about Hogsmeade and their classes, until Dean began launching into a tale about how he’d narrowly avoided a hag in Hogsmeade who had tried to make him her supper, with interjections from Seamus who was insisting with increasing volume that it was him the hag had been after. Once everyone around them at the table was thoroughly engrossed in the argument, Harry leant towards his friends and regaled them with the events of the day. Hermione and Ron were both pale by the end of the story. Harry had felt himself grow a little queasy as he described the blood, but he felt it would be unfair to Ruth to downplay things. They worried over the events together, but none of them could think of what to do to help. Hermione had half-heartedly suggested going to a Professor, but even Ron agreed that if the firsties weren’t willing to talk, there wasn’t much that could be done. And Harry was still conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to ensure the Rowles couldn’t bother anyone else; but he knew first-hand, from witnessing Dudley bully half the school as a child, that teachers could be pretty useless when it came to these things, and often telling the teacher did lead to things getting worse. Dudley might lay off a particular child during school hours, but it only meant that they’d get it worse outside of school, where there were no teachers to go to for help. Harry simply hated the idea of Ruth and the others going back to Slytherin, where there might be no one to stand between them and the Rowles of the House.

Harry had been peeking unsubtly at the Slytherin table all throughout the feast. The first year Slytherins were present (as were the third year Slytherins, but Harry was trying not to look at them too often), but they seemed rather subdued. Ruth was eating with her right hand and didn’t seem to be in any pain (and there was no trace of blood remaining on her robes, he noted with a shiver), but Harry couldn’t help but flit his eyes over to them every so often. It was hard to avoid the feeling that if he wasn’t watching, something might happen.

By the end of the feast, conversation had dwindled and the atmosphere became comfortably dozy. They chattered happily amongst themselves on the way back to the tower, walking sluggishly behind Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to have endless reserves of energy and were arguing happily over the best shop in Hogsmeade. The good cheer vanished by the time they arrived at the entrance to the tower and found the Fat Lady’s portrait had been slashed by none other than Sirius Black.

On the floor of the Hall, Harry huddled near his friends as they argued back and forth on how Black had entered the castle without alerting the Dementors. Harry was only half paying attention. It wasn’t that he was unconcerned – far from it; the idea that Black had been so close to them – that if it had been any other night than Halloween he likely would have come face-to-face with the man – made him shiver, and kept him checking over his shoulder every few minutes for anything happening. The threat of Black had become all too real, and Harry wondered whether the teachers might put more restrictions in place in light of the attempted attack.

Harry kept finding himself glancing around the Hall every so often, though being unable to see more than ten feet in any direction, he wasn’t sure who he was looking for.

As they’d arranged their sleeping bags, his Gryffindor year-mates had, rather unsubtly, fixed themselves in a loose circle around him. Harry had pretended not to notice the shuffling, but he’d had to swallow down a strange mix of emotions he couldn't quite name. Ron and Hermione had seemed to reach a stalemate in their argument, and all was quiet around them for a few minutes, as Harry began to feel himself doze off.

He was brought back to wakefulness sharply by the quiet clip of shoes on stone. He could hear voices nearby, and they sounded like they were discussing Black. Harry strained to hear over the sounds of rustling and faint snoring around him.

Harry would recognise Snape’s silky tones anywhere. “You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before — ah — the start of term?” The man was speaking quietly, and Harry tried to strain his eyes in the dark to see him without moving his head, but it was no use.

“I do, Severus,” Harry heard Dumbledore respond, and the man’s voice was uncharacteristically hard.

 “It seems — almost impossible — that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed —”

 “I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it,” said Dumbledore, and now there was no hiding the remonstration in his voice. The topic was closed. “I must go down to the Dementors,” he continued. “I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

 “Didn’t they want to help, sir?” asked, of all people, Percy Weasley.

 “Oh, yes,” Dumbledore replied, and Harry felt himself shiver at the coldness in the man’s voice. “But I’m afraid no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster.” Harry heard footsteps and closed his eyes quickly when the unmistakable profile of Snape glided into his view. The footsteps stopped nearby. Harry waited, holding his breath for a long moment, until he heard the footsteps pick back up as the man left the Hall. His eyes shot open. What was that about?

Harry had no time to ponder Snape’s odd actions, as a strange noise quickly made itself known to him. Whipping his head around, Harry blinked as he saw someone attempting to shuffle towards him across the floor in their sleeping bag. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, casting just enough light that Harry could see the unmistakable visage of-

“Zabini?” he whispered, baffled.

The boy smiled at him cheerfully as he finally shuffled within a few feet and collapsed.

“Hey, Potter,” Zabini said in a whisper. Harry quickly scanned around him, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Ron and Hermione must have finally fallen asleep. “I’m the most personable, or something, so I’ve been sent to check you’re not dead or dying, and then report back. We heard something about the Gryffindor portrait being set on fire, or Sirius Black blowing a hole in the wall to the common room, so I'm supposed to make sure you’ve not been exploded or grievously injured. So - you’re okay? Haven’t been murdered by Black, or anything?”

The boy watched him expectantly, as if genuinely wondering.

“Er,” Harry managed after a moment, blinking slowly. “Nope, not murdered. Or, ah, dying. I’m fine. Who – who sent you, sorry?”

They both froze briefly as a prefect swept by – bloody Percy Weasley – and Harry had to smother a strange laugh at Zabini immediately feigning sleep, snoring softly until Percy wandered away. Once the coast was clear, Zabini grinned. “Just us. Well - there are ears everywhere, apparently, so when they heard I was going to check on you we were jumped by some adorably threatening first years – honestly, Potter, are you collecting Slytherins now? – but I was heading over anyway. Theo’s all frowny, and we’d like to get some sleep tonight, so, y’know.”

Harry felt himself flush, for several reasons, and thanked both Merlin and God that it was dark in the Hall. He had no idea where to start. “W- I, uh. Shit. Sorry about the firsties. We, uh, had a bit of a day. What do you mean, that Th- Nott’s all ‘frowny’?”

Zabini gave him a considering look. “We can handle firsties, don’t worry. And I meant what I said. Theo gets all frowny when he’s worried about something. Normally it’s funny, but when there’s a mass murderer on the loose, I suppose it’s a bit more serious.”

Harry just blinked back at the other boy, but Zabini seemed to take it in stride.

“Right,” Harry managed after a moment of Zabini watching him patiently. “Well, thanks for checking up on me. Black just slashed at the Gryffindor portrait when she wouldn’t let him in. No explosions, unfortunately. I was at the Feast, so, I’m, er, fine, thanks.”

Zabini just smiled again. Harry wondered, absently, if he should introduce him to Cedric Diggory. Between them they could probably power all the lights in the Dursley’s house with just their smiles.

“I’ll make sure to report back that you’re ‘er, fine, thanks,’” Zabini gave a little mock salute, and Harry felt a laugh burst out of him unintentionally. They both immediately ducked down and waited, but thankfully Percy didn’t descend upon them.

“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asked after a moment, when the boy showed no signs of leaving. He seemed awfully wide-awake for the hour, and his eyes were very bright.

“Oh, I’m a bit of a night owl,” the other boy responded. “I’ll probably be up for a bit yet. That’s why they sent me, probably. If Millicent doesn’t get her full nine hours she’s hellish the next day. It’s very funny, but I think Theo and Tracey would actually kill me if I subjected them to that, so here I am.”

Zabini had a bizarre way of talking that made you feel as if you were in on some sort of joke, punchline somewhere in the distance. He had a sort of confidence that Harry hadn’t ever seen on anyone else before. He found himself grinning at the boy, who returned his smile easily.

“Well,” Harry said. “I don’t think I’ll sleep soon, either, so feel free to stay here for a bit if you want company.” He tried to shrug nonchalantly, before realising Zabini might not be able to tell in the dark.

They chattered for a while further – largely, and Harry suspected, typically for the boy – about their impending History essay, and everything wrong with Binns’ approach to the topic. Harry was happy to lie back and listen. Zabini’s rants were bizarrely entertaining, even given in halting whispers and even if Harry barely knew what he was talking about. Soon though, Harry found himself drifting off, and with a quiet “Night, Potter!” Zabini made his way as stealthily as possible – which wasn’t very much, ensconced in a bright purple sleeping bag – back across the Hall. Watching the boy attempt to shuffle away back to his friends, avoiding trampling on sleeping students, Harry found himself smiling as he turned towards a snoring Ron and settled in for the night.

                                                                                                                                     *

The next week passed in a blur of studying and Quidditch practice. Now that November had arrived, the first Quidditch match of the year was on the horizon, and Gryffindor were scheduled first against Slytherin. When Harry resurfaced from his anxieties over the impending match, all anyone seemed to be talking about was Black. McGonagall had had a ‘chat’ with him the day after Halloween, just to let him know that they hadn’t found any trace of the man, but were all on guard, and Harry was to be extra careful going forward, etc, but Harry honestly hadn’t spared the man much thought. Wood had become fanatical, which was saying something. It was his last year at Hogwarts, and Harry was genuinely worried that Wood would die of heartbreak if they didn’t manage to win the cup.

As the end of the week approached, the weather became worse and worse, and Harry’s worry grew.

“Relax, mate,” Ron told him one evening after catching him staring anxiously at the rain falling heavily out the window. “You’ll beat Slytherin no bother. The wind’s hardly going to sweep you off of your broom.”

Harry was unconvinced. The morning before the match, Harry’s bad feeling was proven justified.

“What do you mean we’re not playing Slytherin?” Fred demanded, standing.

Oliver was slumped on one of the benches in the changing room, head against the wall.

“Apparently their seeker, Malfoy, is ill. They’re claiming he’s come down with the Flu again, so we’ll be playing Hufflepuff instead.” Oliver’s voice was utterly morose.

“That’s nonsense!” Harry cried. “There’s nothing wrong with Malfoy - they just don’t want to play in this weather!” Now that Oliver mentioned it, Harry realised that Malfoy hadn’t been in class today. Harry had been quite happy with this fact at the time, but now anger roiled through him.

“Well, we know that, but it’s not like we can prove it, can we? It’s Hufflepuff we’re playing now, and they’re going to wipe the floor with us.”

As the others jumped in to try and cheer Wood up, Harry found himself scowling down at his lap. That pointy little bastard. It was just like him to try and weasel his way out of losing. That conniving, devious-

“You alright, Harry?” It was Angelina, standing over him with a frown.

Harry snorted, and forced himself to calm down. “Yeah,” he said. “Just – unfair, is all.”

Angelina hummed agreement and sat next to him on the bench. “I know, but nothing we can do about it now. We’ve still got a great team, and I know we can defeat the ‘Puffs.” Her smile was inviting and infectious, and Harry found himself returning it despite his foul mood.

The others were apparently still arguing about their chances of beating Hufflepuff. Oliver was being distinctly pessimistic.

“But they’ve got a new Captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory-”

Oliver was interrupted by Alicia and Katie giggling loudly, just as Harry gave a start at the name. Oh. He’d likely played Cedric before, without realising.

Fred and George turned identical looks of scorn on the two girls. “Honestly,” George said, “He’s not that good-looking.”

Alicia laughed, delightedly. “Oh, jealous, are you?”

George spluttered exaggeratedly, and Fred came to his brother’s defence. “What he makes up for in looks, he loses in brains. Honestly, I-”

Harry found himself interrupting with a frown. “Hey, Cedric’s really nice, actually.”

Everyone (sans Wood, who was still staring miserably into the distance) turned to look at him. Angelina tilted her head, a strangely searching look in her eyes, while the twins looked thoroughly betrayed.

“Harry!” Fred cried. “You haven’t fallen under Diggory’s charms too, have you? We’ll never forgive you.” George clutched at his chest, and Harry felt his face heat horribly.

“Wh- no!” he spluttered. “He just – he helped me out once, is all. I'm just saying he's alright. It's not - Merlin, stop taking the piss.” He could tell he was overreacting, but it was suddenly important to him that the twins know he wasn’t – charmed, or whatever, by Cedric, like Alicia and Katie. He was just a nice bloke. George and Angelina shared a strange, brief look over his head, but the others just laughed, and to Harry’s relief, the conversation soon turned to strategy.

The morning of the game dawned dark and stormy. Harry could barely stomach his toast, but Hermione was always insistent he eat on the mornings of matches. The day before had only gone downhill after Oliver’s announcement. They had shown up to Defence late, only to find Snape was covering for an apparently ill Professor Lupin. Harry was instantly concerned. He knew the man’s health was poor, but surely nothing major had happened? His worry was almost enough to mask his ensuing rage as Snape spent the class berating them for not knowing things they hadn’t covered, taking points for anything he could think of, and even calling Hermione an ‘insufferable know-it-all’, causing her to almost start crying in class. Harry still burned with rage when he pictured her eyes welling up with tears, and Ron clearly felt the same, as he’d immediately earned a detention by shouting at Snape in her defence.

All-in-all, Harry was in rather a rotten mood during breakfast. The table was full of its usual excitement on match mornings, though Harry could sense a little more unease than usual, as students kept eyeing the storm clouds outside with trepidation. Harry’s year-mates were trying their hardest to cheer him up, but Harry couldn’t shake his worry.

“Want me to paint your nails Gryffindor gold and red?” Parvati offered cheerfully at one point while buttering her toast. Harry blinked at her, before he felt his shoulders rise defensively as he cleared his throat. Why had she offered him that? She’d never offered to paint the nails of any of the other boys.

Ron gaped at her before Harry could respond. “Wh- of course he doesn’t! Honestly, Parvati. He’s not a bloody girl.”

Parvati gave him a withering look, which Lavender mirrored a moment later. Even Hermione was frowning at Ron. Neville looked nervously around at them all before taking a long sip from his goblet. The atmosphere was suddenly very chilly.

“What?” Ron demanded.

Harry found it rather hard to meet his eyes, suddenly. “Er, that’s alright, Parvati. Thanks anyway, though.”

Parvati just sniffed, though she seemed less icy than the moment before. “Any time, Harry,” she said, giving Ron a filthy look.

“Honestly,” muttered both Ron and Hermione at the same time, which started them up bickering for the rest of breakfast. Harry shared a commiserating look with Neville, who also seemed not to be eating.

“Nervous, Harry?” the boy asked, fiddling with a piece of toast.

Harry shrugged, and tried to muster up a smile for the shy boy. “A bit, I suppose. The weather’s pretty awful, and we hadn't really prepared to play Hufflepuff.”

Neville nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I heard about th-that. I’m sure it’ll go fine, though. You’re the best Seeker we’ve ever had, everyone says so. You’ll do great.”

He said it so simply that Harry found himself smiling genuinely for the first time since the morning before. “Thanks, Neville,” he said, as the other boy returned his smile shyly.

Soon enough, it was time to embark. The team met for their pre-game pep talk, but Wood seemed rather unable to speak. He was looking a disturbingly pale shade of green. Instead they milled around, warming up, until it was game time. As they walked out onto the field, Harry tried desperately to scan the stands for Ron and Hermione, but the rain was too thick to see or even hear the students. As they mounted their brooms, Harry sent a quick plea to the heavens that the wind wouldn’t blow him away, and then they were off.

                                                                                                                                      *

The cold and the rain were dragging his body down like physical weights, slowing him and causing his fingers to numb where they were clenched tightly to his Nimbus. Hermione’s Impervius on his glasses had helped him see a little, but things were still going poorly. His world was limited to ten feet in front of him, and there was no way he’d be able to spot the Snitch unless it flew directly in front of his face. He became gradually aware of another sound, muted under the constant waterfall noise of the rain – Wood was shouting at him. Harry could just make him out on the edge of his vision, hair plastered to his manic face as he waved frantically and pointed behind Harry. He spun, as fast as his frozen limbs would allow, and – there! A flash of gold. Leaning forward jerkily, Harry sped towards it, frozen arms outstretched. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Cedric, racing towards him and gaining, now. He just had to hold on for a few moments longer – nearly there! – but suddenly, the cold enveloping Harry changed. The howl of the wind in his ears died down from one breath to another, until a thick, horrible silence flooded the pitch. What little light had made it through the clouds seemed to vanish in the space of a blink as Harry swivelled, disorientated, and felt the chill that he’d only felt once, but recognised immediately. No, he thought desperately. Not now. But there was no use. Spreading onto the pitch below were what had to be a hundred Dementors, pitch black against the grass and gliding towards him, arms outstretched.

Someone was screaming… but how could they be, when everything was suddenly so quiet?

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” a voice cried, pure fear. It was a woman’s voice, and something about it sent frozen horror all through him. Everything was dark around him, and the voice was becoming clearer.

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…”

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —”

What was happening? That voice… someone was in trouble… he had to help her… and he knew that voice…

“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…”

“Have mercy,” repeated over and over in his head as he reached out a hand, trying to find the woman, but there was only darkness and cold, and the ground approaching fast, far too fast, and suddenly Harry knew no more.

                                                                                                                                  *

The hospital wing was eerie at night. Dark, draughty, and silent, it was one of the places in Hogwarts that truly drove home to Harry that he lived in a castle for most of the year.

It didn’t help matters that he couldn’t sleep. He had awoken that afternoon to the sight of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (plus, of course, Ron and Hermione) gathered round him, faces pale with fear and a misery that sent an immediate jolt of panic through Harry’s stomach. The halting explanation of Dementors, and his fall, and his broomstick, did nothing to help matters. There wasn’t anything wrong with Harry now, physically, but Madame Pomfrey had been white with anger or fear, or perhaps both, when he’d woken up. Hermione had told him, in an underside, that it wasn’t just her. Apparently, most of the teachers (Harry automatically excluded Snape) were enraged by the Dementors descending on the pitch. Hermione told him she’d never seen Dumbledore so mad. The fact that he’d fallen nearly a hundred feet only to be saved at the last minute by the headmaster hadn’t quite sunk in.

By the time the matron ushered his friends away, Harry was almost glad for the quiet. He’d lost a Quidditch match for the very first time. More than that, he’d lost his team the match. If he hadn’t fallen, he might’ve caught the Snitch. Wood wouldn’t be stuck crying in the showers and Angelina wouldn’t have squeezed his shoulder with that long, pitying look. What was worse, the whole school had seen him fall and lose them the match. All because some Dementors had appeared. The guilt and embarrassment were almost too much to bear.

Harry had tried to close his eyes, but every time the black was replaced by the sight of the pitch rushing up to meet him, and he ended up just tossing and turning until he had given up on sleep entirely. No matter what, he couldn’t seem to stop his brain from replaying his fall, loop after loop.

One small act of mercy – the hospital wing was currently empty. The matron had vanished somewhere – Harry supposed she had to have her own quarters someplace– by the time it was properly dark, and Harry had been alone, nursing his thoughts, for what felt like an eternity.

He was dragged from another replay of his fall by the almost imperceptible clip of a shoe on stone floor. Immediately zoning in on the heavy wooden doors, Harry snatched his wand from the dresser and curled up, feigning sleep with his eyes opened only to slits. When the door began to silently, glacially creep open, Harry realised he needn’t have bothered; in walked Theodore Nott, pyjama-clad but with a heavy set of robes making him blend with the shadows. Nott’s eyes zeroed in on him immediately, and both boys froze for a moment of pure surprise.

Nott was the first to move. Darting a quick glance to the back of the room where Pomfrey’s office lay dark and silent, the boy crept quietly over towards Harry’s bed.

He stopped with his knees nearly touching the end of the frame. Harry realised he was still clutching his wand in a death grip under the covers and jerkily placed it back on the dresser, safely within reach. Nott’s dark eyes tracked the movement unblinkingly. The boy seemed to be waiting for Harry to speak, which seemed remarkably unfair to Harry seeing as he wasn’t the one sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night. That thought, however, reminded him of the last time he’d met Nott out of hours.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry asked, voice croaky. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, taking a sip of water from the glass at his bedside.

The boy finally opened his mouth. “No,” he said, and Harry refrained from rolling his eyes with great difficulty. Instead, he squinted at the boy, noting the dark circles – heavier than usual – under his black eyes. His hair was ruffled, as if he’d been tossing and turning. Nott was drooping; normally so poised, the effect was enough to wring some sympathy from Harry. He nodded jerkily at the lone chair that Pomfrey placed next to each bed vainly, in the spirit of the one-visitor rule, which had been immediately broken. Nott blinked rapidly at the chair before pulling it over and collapsing into it, thankfully remembering to keep his movement quiet.

Nott fell into another silence after sitting, and seemed suddenly to find his lap very interesting. The rain, which hadn’t eased up all day, was still cascading in a steady backing patter which Harry had gotten rather used to, but now found unbearably loud in the silence. Lightning flashed suddenly from nearby, casting the room in an eerie white glow for a split second, and Nott jumped.

This, at least, seemed to jerk the boy into motion. “Are you alright?” His voice was almost too quiet to be heard over the rain.

Harry licked his lips quickly and nodded. “No, uh, no damage.” To him, at least, he thought, remembering his unsalvageable Nimbus.

Nott met his eyes for a few seconds before looking sharply away. In the dim light from the moon, Harry thought he saw his lips purse, like he was gritting his teeth.

“For a second,” the boy said, slowly, as if judging every word, “we thought you had died.”

The silence was sharper, this time. Expectant.

“For a second,” Harry said, tone light, “so did I.”

Nott didn’t respond. Another beam of lightning hit, but this time Harry wasn’t sure he even noticed; Nott’s eyes hadn’t left his.

“Did you mean it?” the boy asked, after a moment. His voice was more serious than Harry had ever heard it.

Harry floundered for a moment – mean what? – but Nott must have seen it on his face, for he elaborated.

“That silly speech you made. About wanting to be friends.”

Now it was Harry who couldn’t look away. His mouth was awfully dry.

“It – it wasn’t silly,” he said, at last. “And – yes. Yeah. I meant it.”

The silence stretched longer than ever. Nott didn’t look surprised, and his eyes still held Harry’s unblinkingly, but still – Harry could feel that something had changed.

“Alright,” Nott said, finally relaxing. “Then you really need to do something about those Dementors.” The bastard had the audacity to frown reprovingly at him.

Harry blinked, and his lips twitched, despite – everything. “Prick!” he laughed. It felt like a bubble popping this horrible day. “I’m trying! I talked to Professor Lupin at the start of term, and he said he might be able to help, but that it might take a little while.”

Nott’s frown deepened. “Don’t call me a prick,” he said, mildly. “And how exactly is Lupin going to help you?”

Harry shrugged, and found meeting Nott’s eyes suddenly rather difficult. “Oh. Er. D’you remember how you mentioned that there might be a Charm to repel Dementors? Well, I asked him about it. You were right. It’s called the Patronus Charm. Lupin said he’d teach me it, but that there were things he’d have to set up first.”

Nott was silent, and Harry could feel his eyes on him. Merlin, did they make it a point of making hospital blankets as itchy as possible?

“He’s going to teach you the Patronus Charm?” Nott asked, at length, his tone unreadable.

Harry shrugged, and finally managed to drag his eyes up. “That’s the idea,” he said, simply.

Nott looked thoughtful. “That might work. But what’ll you do in the meantime? Even once he starts teaching you, it’s an advanced spell; it’ll take you some time to master.”

Harry felt the tips of his ears burn at Nott’s easy assumption that he’d be capable of learning it at all; Harry was far less confident.

“Well… I don’t know. D’you think there’s anything I can do, really? I mean, besides just trying to avoid running into another flock of Dementors.”

Nott’s gaze was sharp. “You didn’t run into them – they sought you out. And – I don’t know. I’ve been reading up a little on how Dementors work. They force their victims to re-experience strong negative feelings from their past; or, in more severe cases, their victims are forced to relieve certain traumatic memories.”

Nott may have carried on speaking, but now the rain was the only thing filling Harry’s ears.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

Because - of course. Of course it was a memory. He’d recognised that voice. He knew he’d recognised that voice. Perhaps, he thought, nausea creeping thickly up his throat, he’d known from hearing the first scream on the train, the first cry: it was…

“Mum,” he whispered, and promptly turned and vomited straight into his bedside bin.

There was a horrible silence once he stopped heaving. Rain pattered against the window, and through his closed eyes, Harry saw another flash of lightning.

Over the sound of the blood rushing in his head, Harry heard a soft whisper of Evanesco, and the sour smell beneath him disappeared. Harry couldn’t open his eyes.

Harry waited for – anything to happen, but Nott was silent. All Harry could hear was the rain, his heartbeat, and Nott’s soft breathing, forming a slow, steady rhythm as his own breathing calmed down.

There was nothing else for several minutes, as Harry’s breathing slowly evened out, falling, without intention, in sync with the other boy’s.

Then, quiet, and strange: “Do you hear her dying?”

Harry’s eyes flew open. Nott was sitting where he’d been, but if possible, he looked even paler. His hands were clenched on the armrests of his chair, and his eyes were locked on Harry’s with an intensity that was nearly frightening. Harry just – couldn’t believe he’d asked that. He opened his mouth – and closed it.

Nott’s eyes fell to his mouth, and stayed there, for one beat; two. “Because – I do.”

Harry’s mouth was open again. “You – you hear my mum dying?” he asked, strangled.

Nott stared at him for a second, and then his head tilted back, and he - laughed. Harry stared. His hair fell off his forehead, and his eyes were closed, and it was over in a second, but Harry felt sure, suddenly, that even if he saw Nott laugh a thousand times more, he’d still remember this time.

Harry felt his face heat as his brain caught up to him. “I – oh.”

There was another silence, and Nott’s smile fell away, slowly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, after a moment, heart pounding in his chest. “I do.”

Harry breathed out, and Nott breathed in.

He found himself speaking. “She begged, when- when he—.” He took a deep breath, and it escaped him in a gust. “I didn’t know that. But she – she wasn’t begging for herself. She was begging him for me.” He had to stop, suddenly. His eyes were burning, but he couldn’t even care. Nott was just listening, silent.

“He was going to spare her. He offered, and,” his voice was horribly wet. “And she just kept begging. She died for me. Because of me. For me.”

The room was loud with his breathing.

“Yes,” said Nott after a moment, quiet, eyes trained somewhere out into the night. “She must have loved you a lot.”

He said nothing else, and Harry felt whatever was crawling up his chest stop its ascent. They sat together, breathing, for a few minutes more. Harry wanted to ask, suddenly, desperately, what Nott had meant about his own mother. But it was clear, wasn’t it? What was there to ask, really? Nott, Harry was certain, suddenly, would tell him when he wanted to. Until then they could sit, and listen to the thunder.

Harry lost track of the time, eventually. His eyes were drifting closed, when Nott finally moved. Harry’s eyes jerked open, but Nott just stood. Harry tried to sit up but could only manage to lean on an elbow. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose, and Nott was a little crooked through their lenses.

The rain had eased, slightly, and the room had taken on an almost bubble-like feeling. As if any loud noise would shatter it all.

Nott was looking at him. Harry focused, and from somewhere within, managed a smile. Nott’s lips moved into something that seemed a little too honest to be a smile, but his voice was warmer than usual when he said, quiet, “Go to sleep, Harry.” There was a touch, there and gone, against his hand which rested on the covers.

Harry blinked slowly, and his head dug into his pillow as he heard the soft shift of the door opening, and closing with a soft thud. He was almost asleep, thoughts foggy, when he processed Nott’s last sentence.

His eyes sprung open. 

Several long moments passed as he stared at the ceiling, before he let his breath out in a sigh, and rolled over to finally get some sleep.

                                                                                                                                   *

During breakfast the next morning, Harry received his second surprise visitor.

“Professor Lupin?” he asked, as the man appeared at the door. His surprise was only partly due to the unexpected visit; Lupin normally looked haggard, but this morning he looked simply dreadful. He had huge shadows under his eyes, and the man’s face was horribly gaunt. If Harry hadn’t seen him four days ago at Dinner, he’d have thought the man in front of him had been bedridden for weeks.

“Hello, Harry,” Professor Lupin said, with a soft smile. He lowered himself gingerly into the seat Nott had occupied the night before. Harry found himself surprisingly ill at ease in the face of the man’s visible unwellness.

“Are you alright, sir?” he asked, sitting up properly.

“Oh, yes, I've just been a little poorly, nothing to worry about,” Lupin said, dismissively. “I just thought I’d come check in and see how you’re doing. I, ah, heard about what happened, yesterday.”

Harry began fiddling with his wand, avoiding Lupin’s strange eyes. Great, he thought. He wouldn’t even be surprised at this point if even the Dursleys had heard about Harry falling off his broom and costing Gryffindor the match.

“Harry,” Lupin said firmly, and his tone caused Harry to look up in surprise. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. The dementors stormed the pitch; anyone would react strongly to that.”

“But no one did,” Harry couldn’t help but mutter, “except me.”

“Harry,” Lupin said again, still implacably calm. He and Nott ought to compare notes. “I’ve told you before that your response to Dementors is perfectly natural for someone in your position. And, as a matter of fact, several students were admitted to the Hospital Wing while you were unconscious. The only difference was that they weren’t flying one hundred feet in the air at the time.”

Harry blinked at this. He had the bizarre urge to ask which students, but thankfully managed to keep that question inside. “Oh,” he settled on, meekly. He licked his lips. “Professor,” he ventured on after a moment, “I meant to ask – you haven’t, er, had a chance to think any more about teaching me the Patronus Charm, have you?”

Lupin, surprisingly, smiled. “Actually, that was one of the things I came to talk to you about. I’ve managed to procure us a Boggart,” he said this triumphantly, and Harry offered him a weak smile which he hoped wasn’t as bemused as he felt.

He must have failed, for Lupin continued, with a rather fond look. “Sorry, Harry. What I mean is, if you’re right – and I’m sure you are – that your Boggart will turn into a Dementor, we should be able to use that to practice the charm.”

Oh. That was actually very clever. “Are you sure that’ll work, sir?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Lupin nodded and sat back. “I don’t see why not. It should at least reproduce the effects of the Dementor, and I imagine that’s all we’ll need.”

Harry couldn’t fault that. The idea of coming face-to-face with a Dementor again, even one he knew wasn’t real, was already making him feel a bit queasy. Surely that’d be almost as good as the real thing.

There was a companionable silence. Lupin seemed content to let Harry think; or maybe, Harry thought grimly, he was grateful for the rest. The shadows under his eyes were almost as bad as Nott’s had been the night before. He looked as if he could use a few nights of good rest.

Harry knew it was rude to pry, but… “Are you sure you’re alright, sir? I mean… will you be back to class on Monday? We had Snape as cover, and he went off schedule and taught us about werewolves instead.” Harry tried to keep his tone polite, but he knew he’d let some of his resentment slip.

Lupin’s reaction was rather bizarre: the man blinked, heavily, as if startled, and he looked at Harry searchingly as if waiting for something. A moment later, though, his lips twisted into a strangely rueful smile and he relaxed with a little snort. “Professor Snape, Harry. And did he, really?” he asked mildly, as if nothing had happened.

Merlin, the man was strange about his curriculum. A Ravenclaw in Gryffindor clothing, indeed. He went on, rather musingly, “How was it? Educational?”

“Er,” said Harry, after a moment. “I s’pose so. Honestly, I was a little distracted. He set us an essay on how to identify a werewolf, and it’s due on Monday. Oh Sh- Merlin, that’s tomorrow.” Shit. He hadn’t even thought about it. Where was Hermione when you needed her?

Lupin’s lips twitched severely at his slip, but he straightened his face quickly, and said, bizarrely cheerfully, “Oh? Well, never mind that. I’ll cancel the essay. I haven’t even started you on werewolves, so it would be very unfair to expect an essay from you.”

Harry blinked, and tried to smother his grin lest Lupin think him too happy and set him another essay. “Oh? Thank you, sir.” His face fell. “Hermione’s going to be raging.”

Lupin smiled. “Well, I’m sure I can still mark hers, if she’s written it already. That’s only fair.”

Another silence fell, and Harry chewed on his lip. He’d had an idea, that morning, and the thought wouldn’t leave his head; it was surely a sign that Lupin had arrived when he did.

“…Sir?” he asked, fiddling with the edge of his glasses. “D’you think… I mean, you know how you said that there were other students who reacted badly to the Dementors, aside from me?”

Lupin nodded, watching him thoughtfully. “Well, since you’re going to teach me the Patronus, d’you think maybe you could teach someone else, too? With me, I mean?”

Lupin paused. “Do you mean Ron and Hermione?” the man asked, tone light.

“Well, no,” Harry admitted. “They seem fine – or, well, as fine as anyone – with the Dementors. Actually,” he said, his voice studiously casual, “I was thinking, maybe, Theodore Nott?”

Lupin stared at him, then frowned, slowly. Harry rushed in. “I mean, it’s just, we’re, uh, friends now, and – well. I think he’s affected by them, too. And he’s brilliant at Charms, like I said. I just thought…” he trailed off, and rubbed the back of his neck. It had just been an idea, after what Nott – Theodore? Theo? Merlin – had said last night, but now that Harry had given voice to it, the idea made a great deal of sense. If Lupin was going to teach him the Patronus Charm, it was only fair that Nott, who had given Harry the idea in the first place, get to learn, too.

Lupin was still frowning, and Harry felt his stomach sink. The idea was suddenly so appealing that Harry felt an unusual burst of desperation in him that Lupin would agree. “Please, sir,” he said, without conscious thought, and balked a little; he knew exactly what asking an adult ‘please’ got you. But Lupin’s eyes shot to his and held him there for a second.

“Sorry, Harry,” the man said, seeming to come back to himself. Harry felt a surprising wave of disappointment crash over him. “I was only thinking of logistics. Of course, if Mr. Nott wishes to join us, I'd be more than happy to teach you both.”

Harry blinked. “What - really?”

Lupin’s eyebrows were raised. “Of course. Far be it from me to turn away someone wanting to learn. Have you spoken to him about this?”

Harry shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance. But he’ll say yes,” Harry promised, with a confidence that surprised even him.

The man smiled. “Alright, then. If he agrees, why don’t the two of you come to my office around 7pm on Wednesday? That’ll give me a few days to prepare.”

Harry felt himself grinning but did nothing to curtail it. “Brilliant. Yeah, I mean, we’ll be there, Professor.”

Lupin returned his smile, then patted his legs, before standing carefully. “Well then, Harry. I won’t waste any more of your time. I hope you’re feeling better, now, and try to relax. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry watched the man turn to go, and blurted, “Thanks, Professor. Uh. For, you know. Thanks a lot.”

Lupin’s smile was gentle. “You’re very welcome, Harry. Now, rest up.”

Harry smiled, and Lupin turned away, and he was gone.

Chapter Text

The dream began like all the worst ones do – with a memory. It was cold on the playground – early on in the year Harry had learned he was a wizard, his last term of Primary School. Frost was still thawing under the weak January sun, and all of the children were bundled up in winter coats – all except Harry, who had to make do with one of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, a thin thing which had a large rip from a sledding mishap and was missing several buttons. Harry was, at that moment, hiding – one of his most common pre-Hogwarts hobbies.

Dudley and his gang terrorized the school rather equally, but they always had their favourite victims. Top of the list was of course Harry, every bully’s favourite target. But sometimes Dudley would get bored with him, or Harry would manage to hide successfully, or would run away, and then Dudley and his gang would move on to whoever was nearest. One of their favourite Harry-substitutes was a small boy in their class named Michael. He was a rather sickly child, small and frail, and had wispy blonde hair almost as pale as his face. He always had a note for P.E. from his mum due to his health, much to Dudley’s delight. He was easy pickings, and Dudley took full advantage on days where Harry wasn’t available. Harry had always felt a sense of kinship with the blonde boy. He was only marginally more popular than Harry – he’d seen him playing with some of the younger kids sometimes – and it was hard not to feel like they had something in common, even if it was just their patheticness. He hadn’t really talked to Michael – no one talked to Harry if they could help it – but a few times, over the years, they’d both been the odd ones out when it came to picking partners for things, and they’d ended up having to work together. One school trip, several years before, they’d had to sit next to each other on the bus. Michael had kept nervously glancing back to where Dudley sat up the back, and hadn’t said a word to Harry all day, but Harry didn’t really mind, rather used to being treated as if he didn't exist. When they stopped for lunch, Michael seemed to notice that Harry didn’t have anything – Aunt Petunia had forgot to pack him a sandwich – and to Harry’s utter amazement, and while pointedly refusing to look at him, Michael slid half his sandwich over to him. Harry hadn’t even known what to do for a moment – Michael carried on eating, only a tell-tale pink on his pale cheeks giving him away – and the sandwich itself was full of some strange salad and bland meat (he remembered vaguely that Michael also had a bucket-full of allergies), but Harry found himself savouring every bite. He couldn’t remember a time when anyone had shared their food with him. Even when his Aunt fed him, there was a sense of reluctance.

That cold January morning, Harry had successfully managed to hide round the back of the school, near the bins. It wasn’t the most dignified hiding spot, but the place stunk so much that most students wouldn’t dare get near. Harry’d become rather good at tuning out physical discomfort after years in the Dursley household, so he’d perfected the art of screwing up his nose and making up distractions to wile away the time (and the smell).

On this day, however, he had been halfway through a very satisfying daydream about being one of King Arthur’s knights -  a story they had learned about in class that morning - when he’d heard Dudley’s unmistakable laugh carry loudly across the playground. That laugh usually meant pain – his or someone else’s. This was something else Harry had had to get used to: on days he managed to evade Dudley and his gang, he knew that someone else would have to pay the price. The knowledge always settled like lead in his belly, even as he tried to reason it away. Surely he deserved some small respite from Dudley’s bullying? Surely it wasn’t his fault that he was fast, and used to it, and could sometimes slip away? He’d try to convince himself that it wouldn’t be fair if he had to make himself Dudley’s target all the time just to spare everyone else, but the argument always fell flat. Because, in some ways, maybe it was right that Harry bear the brunt of things; Dudley was his cousin, after all. And Harry knew that if he managed to evade him, Dudley would be even angrier with whoever he found instead. There was also the little niggling voice that argued, insidiously, that Harry could take it. He was used to it. He didn’t like getting beat up, or teased, or whatever else the gang had in store: but he was used to it, now. It didn’t really bother him the way he knew it bothered the other kids who had to take his place. Most of them didn’t know how to take a punch, or how to rile Dudley up so that he skipped straight to the beating and got it over with sooner. Some of them pleaded, or tried to suck up to Dudley, or fought back. Harry knew better, and the idea always seemed to creep guiltily into his mind on these days: that if he just sucked it up and took the brunt of it, then fewer people would suffer.

Sometimes he’d manage to run far enough away that he could pretend that they’d give up, or it would be late, or the weekend, and he knew that Dudley and his friends would give up, and would instead head to one of their houses to play some new game. But on days like this, listening to the sound of Dudley picking on someone else and knowing that whoever it was was only suffering because Harry had managed to slip away – it was too much for him. 

Peering round the wall out onto the playground, Harry spotted them immediately: Dudley and Piers, standing tall over little Michael who was sprawled on the ground, trying to pull himself up. Harry could see the tell-tale red on his palms from where he must have skinned them. Piers had something in his hands, and was clearly taunting the boy with it, holding it over his head while Dudley laughed like he was watching one of his grislier cartoons.

Harry couldn’t help himself.

He was still ten feet away when he managed to work out what Piers was holding: Michael’s watch, the fancy-looking one he’d brought in that morning to show the class as part of a project. It had been his grandfather’s, who’d died in the war. Harry wouldn’t have been listening all that closely, except that heirlooms, passed on down the generations, always gave him a funny feeling of longing in his stomach. He knew it was probably because he had nothing of his family – his real family, anyway – but that just made him think about his dead parents, so he tried to put it out of his mind.

Piers spotted him the same moment he spotted the watch.

“Oi, Dudley, look who it is! It's Potty Potter, feeling left out,” Piers said, gleeful, that horrible glint of excitement in his beady eyes. Michael’s desperate gaze found his, and Harry swallowed at the pleading look being sent his way. He couldn’t even blame the boy for the hint of relief he saw: everyone knew Harry was Dudley’s favourite punching bag.

Dudley’s head whipped round, and his grin was wolfish. “What do you want, then? Get lost on the way to the girls' loos, did you?” Piers laughed as if this was a terrific joke. Harry didn’t even spare him a glance.

“Leave him alone,” he said, in his most serious voice. Dudley and Piers glanced at each other in surprise, before both boys began snickering. Dudley lifted his chin at Harry, and took a menacing step forward.

“Leave him alone? Oooh, very scary. What are you, then, his boyfriend?”

Piers seemed to find this even funnier than Dudley’s last joke. The scrawny boy began guffawing, as Michael on the ground turned an alarming shade of pink. “Nice one, Dud.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he could feel his ears begin burning. “Shut up, Dudley. What, trying to nick his watch so you can finally learn how to tell the time? I’m sure Michael would tell you if you just asked him nicely, Diddykins.” Harry knew he was treading on thin ice – and pointlessly, as Dudley would never stop once he got going – but Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off him, and there was something about the situation that filled him with guilt. At the end of the day Dudley was his cousin, and Michael was only hurt because Harry had managed to hide today. He owed it to the boy to try and help, however pointless. Harry had half a plan in his head to maybe lure Dudley into a chase and hope he managed to evade him for the next fifteen minutes, until the bell rang, but he knew already that most of his plans tended to go awry.

Dudley turned scarlet at the nickname, and Harry knew he had him. There was something almost satisfying about winding Dudley up, even if he knew how it would end. Some sort of small payback, like waving a big red flag at a raging bull you know will get you eventually.

“Shut up, Potty,” Dudley snarled, his meaty hands curling into fists. Harry felt a little thrill at his anger.

“Aw, you don't like ‘Diddykins’ anymore? I’ll be sure to let your mum know,” Harry said, keeping light on his feet in case Dudley decided to charge.

Dudley’s nostrils flared, but the look was soon replaced by a nasty grin. “At least I have a mum. Yours doesn’t call you anything, because she’s dead.”

There was a soft gasp from the ground, and even Piers looked a bit surprised for half a second. Harry felt the words like a slap, but he managed to force a smirk onto his face. “Nice one, Duds. How long did it take you to work that out? I’ve only been living in your house for ten years.”

Piers had always been a bit cleverer than Dudley, and he jumped in at the first sign of Dudley’s snarl. “Like you’re so smart, Potter. Running in to defend Wittle Michael. I bet he is your boyfriend, right, Dud?”

Dudley seemed to calm a little at the prospect of making fun of Harry. He laughed loudly, turning back to Michael, who was indeed crying now. “Ha! Is Potty your big scary boyfriend, coming to save you?” he sneered, aiming a mock kick in Michael's direction and laughing gleefully as he flinched.

“Shut up, Dudley,” Harry snarled, but Dudley ignored him. Michael’s tears seemed to be egging him on.

“Big, brave Potty, coming to rescue the princess. Maybe he fancies you, cause you're such a girl. Don’t you, Potty?” Dudley was looking between them now, mean little eyes narrowed in glee at scenting blood. Michael finally struggled to his feet, wincing as his bleeding palms made contact with the ground. He was almost as short as Harry, who was the shortest boy in his class. He looked between them all, watery eyes wide with fear and nose red from crying.

Harry could feel his face flush, now. “Just – leave him alone, Dudley! I mean it!”

“Ooh, Harry’s mad!” Piers sniggered, delightedly. He seemed to remember the watch in his hand, for he held it back up, taunting Michael, whose eyes had latched onto it immediately. “Come on then, Harry. Come get your boyfriend’s watch for him.” His smile turned cruel. “Or maybe I should just throw it on the roof?” he asked, mockingly thoughtful. Michael let out a sob and made a pointless grab for the watch, which Piers easily dodged.

"Please! It was my grandad's!" Michael said, voice thick with tears. Dudley and Piers both laughed.

Piers waved the watch towards Harry, whose feet felt rooted to the ground. He’d never get it off Piers before Dudley jumped on him. But what could he do? Michael was looking utterly miserable, eyes darting between the watch and the boys, hands wringing in front of him and tears fresh on his face. Harry swallowed. Piers would do it. He wouldn’t be able to back down, not in front of Dudley. And even if a teacher could retrieve the watch, surely it would break on contact with the roof. The thing looked delicate, as well as old. Harry was stuck with no good options, but running away wasn’t even one of them. Could he trick them, somehow? But as soon as the thought came, he felt a blanket of exhausted hopelessness wash over him. What was even the point? They’d get him, eventually. They always did. Maybe he’d evade them today, but tomorrow he wouldn’t be so lucky. And when he made them mad – like when he managed to outrun them – the beatings and the taunts were always worse, the next time. Truthfully, the fastest way out was through.

Harry drew his eyes from Michael’s wide, watery ones to Piers’ calculating, knowing little smile. He knew the rules, too. Sometimes Harry hated him even more than Dudley. His cousin was an idiot, throwing his weight around because he thought it was his right, like Uncle Vernon. Piers, though, just enjoyed being on top. There was a certain logic to it – Piers was small and scrawny, almost as bad as Harry, and he wasn’t anyone’s favourite, or good-looking, or very good in school. He’d be nothing without Dudley, and being with Dudley meant that every day he got to watch other people hurt, safe from the sidelines. Piers knew how this would go, and so did Harry.

Stepping forward, Harry walked into the line of fire. Dudley’s smile was victorious, as if he’d managed to pull off a great trick. Harry kept his eyes on the watch, twirling in Piers’ outstretched fingers. He got within two feet before Piers’ hand suddenly closed around his prize, face turning thoughtful. His eyes darted from Dudley, who looked a little confused, to Harry, whose eyes hadn’t left his.

“Michael,” Piers said, contemplatively. “Do you want your watch back?”

Michael looked between them, smart enough to sense a trick when he heard one. He nodded, hesitantly. “Do you really need Harry here to get it for you? I didn’t know you were actually a baby.” The younger boy’s ears turned dark red, bright against his pale hair.

“’m not a baby,” he mumbled.

“What was that, Wittle Michael?” Piers asked, tauntingly. Harry held in his sigh. Things never ended well when Piers got an idea into his head. One thing he and Dudley could agree on – they both preferred a straightforward beating to these mind games.

“I’m not a baby!” Michael snapped, voice too wet to sound anything but. Harry winced.

“Well,” said Piers, smirk spreading slowly across his face, “I think you should tell Harry here to stop treating you like one.”

Dudley still seemed confused as to why there was no hitting going on, but like a dog, he seemed to be getting excited just from the atmosphere. “Yeah,” he said, sneering, “go on, Michael.”

Harry had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Poor Michael looked between him and the other two nervously, shifting his weight and sniffing once.

He was taking too long for Piers. “You’d probably have your stupid watch back already if it wasn’t for Harry, sticking his nose in your business. He thinks you’re a baby. He wants to protect you. Isn’t that sort of creepy? I think you should tell him.” Piers’ lip was curled up slightly, and his eyes were trained unerringly on Harry.

Dudley seemed to be catching on. “Yeah,” he sniggered, “he probably fancies you. Break up with your boyfriend, if you're not too much of a baby.”

Michael had been looking at Harry apologetically, but at this his eyes snapped round to Harry. “I’m not a baby! And he’s not my boyfriend! I – I don’t even like him! He’s – he’s creepy, and weird. No one likes him.”

Harry swallowed. Knowing that Michael was only saying all this because Dudley and Piers were making him didn’t make it hurt any less. And, the little voice in his head which always sounded like Aunt Petunia whispered, it didn’t make it untrue.

“Tell him, not us,” Piers said, giving the watch a little wiggle, as if encouraging a puppy to do a trick. “Or do you need your boyfriend to protect you?”

“No!” the smaller boy yelled, and Harry flinched as he turned on him, eyes desperate and furious. “Go away, Potter! I don’t want your help and I’m not your stupid boyfriend. This is none of your business. Stop being weird!”

Harry heard a surprised laugh from behind him, and finally noticed that a small crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. They were all laughing, and half were sneering at Harry. Some were whispering behind their hands, giving him looks. Dudley and Piers grinned triumphantly. Nausea turned his stomach, and Harry felt shame engulfing him as his face burned. He was dimly aware of Piers sneering a mocking, ‘Good boy,” to Michael before tossing his watch in the air, and Michael crying out and diving to catch it, but he turned away before he could see if it smashed. The crowd parted for him as he dashed through them blindly, and the rushing in his ears drowned out most of the jeering. He ignored a chuckled, “Get chucked, Potter?” and ran.

But within moments, the scene began to change. Harry was trying to run, but his legs or the air felt too heavy, like trying to run along the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything was blurring around him, and all the background noise began to fade. He heard, suddenly, a laugh from somewhere nearby, malicious and clear.

He looked up, and froze. Blaise Zabini was looking down at him, a sneer making his friendly face almost unrecognisable. Suddenly Harry was on the ground, and something was dripping from his nose. He reached a hand up to touch, and it came away red.

“I don’t even like him, he’s so creepy,” someone was saying. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it for a second, because the words were so incongruous.

“Ron?” he said, as the boy came into view, “Hermione?” They were standing together, identical looks of disdain on their faces. The crowd had vanished around them, and the playground was hazy and still.

“Help me up,” Harry said, trying to pull himself to his feet, but he seemed to be stuck to the ground. His body suddenly seemed to be too heavy to move. He stared at his arms, lying motionless at his sides, and willed them to move; they didn’t even twitch.

“Ron, Hermione,” he said, the first claws of panic crawling up his spine.

This time it was Hermione who spoke. “No one likes him,” she was telling Ron, whose eyes seemed to be turning as red as his hair. “I wish he’d just leave us alone - he’s always sticking his nose into our business.”

“No,” Harry mumbled. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Hermione doesn’t think that. She doesn’t. He started struggling in earnest, filled with sudden certainty that if he could just stand up, his friends would stop saying these things, but it was no use. A strange shiver went through him, and he began to feel hot – too hot; the ground was burning him. “Ron,” he said, panic entering his voice, “Ron, help me!” Why wasn’t Ron helping him? He was his best friend. His best friend.

But this Ron just laughed, low and cruel like Harry’d never heard before. It sounded so wrong in his voice. “I wouldn’t help a nasty little boy like you,” dream-Ron scoffed, but that was wrong too; it was Aunt Petunia who’d said that to him once, years ago.

“I…” Harry tried to wriggle to find some reprieve from the burning ground; he felt like he was being cooked in his Aunt’s frying pan. A new voice brought his focus back to his friends like a slap to the face.

“I don’t want your help,” the gaunt form of Theodore Nott spoke in a cold, disgusted tone he’d never used with Harry before. “I’m not your stupid boyfriend. Stop being weird.” Harry had to swallow the nausea creeping up his throat. No, Michael had said that, not Nott. Not Theo. Harry heard Ron and Hermione laughing again, but they seemed to have disappeared from sight.

“No!” he said again, firmer, pulling with all his strength at his useless arm. “Stop it!”

“Just stay down, Potter. We’re not friends. You’re being weird again.” Theo's lip was curled hatefully.

“No!” said Harry, and with one great tug he was on his feet, but suddenly his hands were on Nott’s face, and he wasn’t Nott anymore: he was Quirrell, and he was burning. “No!” Harry cried, as the man screamed and his skin fell away from his face, “Please!”

But now his hands were stuck like glue to Quirrell’s face, and within a blink of the eye, the face changed to Ron. His friend was screaming now, and Harry felt pure terror flash through him. Blink, and it was Hermione writhing in pain, begging him to stop. Blink, and it was Ginny, small like she was when Harry found her in the chamber. Blink, and it was Theo again, and his dark eyes were wide with fear. “Harry, please!” the boy cried, before he turned back into Ron, whose eyes were pure red now as he lunged—

Harry woke up panting, with the distinct feeling of being damp. He blinked at the blurry tapestry above him and felt his covers clenched tight in his hands as he gulped in air. He was in his dorm, in Gryffindor. It was early morning, judging by the light through his curtains and the snores around him. His hands came up to his face, and he felt wet. For a horrible moment he remembered the blood from his dream. Had it been real, after all? But squinting at his hands in the dim light, he saw they were clear.

Oh. He felt shame fill him again; he hadn’t cried in a very long time, and over a silly dream of all things. He’d been sweating too, he realised, shifting in his damp pyjamas uncomfortably, and would have to shower. He managed to push down the sob in his throat as his heartbeat calmed and tried to take stock. He was fine, physically. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and he hurriedly brought the bottom of his shirt up to dry his eyes. His pyjamas were Dudley’s old t-shirts, threadbare and holey things he wouldn’t wear outside his dorm, so there was plenty of spare material. The leftover panic was receding now, leaving him damp and wide awake and shivering slightly. Already the vividness of the dream was fading, leaving him with just the impression of the cold, and that plunging twist of shame in his stomach.

He’d barely fumbled for his glasses when the curtains around his bed were dragged open, and a half-asleep Ron stuck his torso through. Harry jumped, and felt mortification fill him as he hastily wiped at his eyes for any remaining dampness. “Ron!” he snapped, and immediately felt guilty. Ron didn’t seem to notice though, his wide eyes stuck on Harry’s cheeks, where Harry could feel the remnant of tears and a sharp sting from rubbing them so roughly. Harry cleared his throat, desperate for him to stop looking at him like that, and Ron blinked. “Uh, sorry, mate. I heard… you alright?”

Harry nodded hastily. He could feel his shoulders rising, and suddenly he couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. I wouldn’t help a nasty little boy like you.

Ron wasn’t leaving. Why wasn’t he leaving?

“Did you have… a bad dream?” His friend asked, his voice characteristically awkward. Harry could feel the heat in his face now like a living thing.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “‘S fine, though. Sorry for waking you. Uh, you can go back to bed, I’ll just...” he waved his hand at the general area, gesturing at nothing in particular, but hoping desperately Ron would take the hint.

Ron nodded slowly from his peripheral as Harry studied his duvet and willed the boy to leave. But instead, Ron seemed to think something over quickly, before he set his mouth in a stubborn line and pulled the curtain back round, clambering onto the bottom of Harry's bed, gangly legs tucked under him uncomfortably. Harry blinked at him in alarm, but Ron wasn’t paying him attention; it was his turn to study the duvet, his fingers trailing over the fabric aimlessly as he settled in at the bottom of the bed. “I have bad dreams too, sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. In the low light, with Ron’s tousled bed-head and dark red pyjamas, the soft snores of their dorm-mates created a strange soundtrack to what suddenly felt like a very intimate moment. “They’re just ‘bout spiders, usually, or the ghoul, but sometimes… Sometimes, I dream about the Chamber, and Ginny. Mainly what might’ve happened, y’know - if you hadn’t got there in time.” He began picking at a loose thread, mouth tight, and Harry could see his ears turning red. He felt like there was something heavy in his stomach. The silence was as thick as a rock as Harry waited for Ron to continue. After a moment, he did.  

“I caught mum crying, a few days after summer started.” He was still speaking to the duvet. “Ginny locked herself in her room, and I reckon mum was just... I dunno. She pretended like she hadn’t been crying, but I’d seen her. I wish she hadn’t pretended. The twins kept trying to cheer everyone up with jokes, and Percy was, well, Percy, and dad didn’t know what to say, really. It was just me and mum who, well. I just wish she hadn’t pretended she was fine, is all. Made me think about Ginny, and how she pretended nothing was wrong all last year. If we had known something was wrong we could've...” Ron shrugged, and Harry saw how uncomfortable he was, and felt a rush of something through him – something very warm, that made him clear his throat before he could speak.

“I’m sorry, Ron. And,” he took a deep breath, “I promise not to pretend I’m okay if I’m not. Alright?”

Ron finally looked up from where he’d pulled the thread loose, and his smile was small and awkward, but so genuine and Ron that Harry couldn’t help but return it.

“You alright, then, mate?” Ron said, after a moment, tone casual but voice expectant.

Harry nodded. “It was just a stupid nightmare, honest. It was…” His lips twisted, but Ron deserved at least a bit of sincerity. “…upsetting, but I know it wasn’t real. I’m fine now. I promise.” And Harry found that he was telling the truth. His smile grew, as he stretched and wiped the rest of the wet from his face, clearing his throat again.

“I bet breakfast’ll be starting soon. Want to head down?”

Ron’s face lit up, and Harry laughed.

The dementor lesson dogged Harry’s thoughts in the days leading up to it. Of course he was excited – regardless of the subject matter, receiving personal lessons on advanced magic from the best Defence Professor they’d ever had was undeniably - well, cool; the real weight on his mind, however, was that he’d yet to inform Nott – Theo – that he’d signed him up for the lessons, too.

Every potential anxiety had flown through his mind since his conversation with Lupin. Would Theo be angry at him for telling Lupin that he also had trouble with Dementors? It was pretty much tantamount to admitting that Theo had some difficult things in his past, and Harry knew if it was him he wouldn’t want anyone – even a friend - talking to a random teacher about his own personal business; would he think Harry had overstepped, asking Lupin? Or would he just think Harry was being weird, worrying over the wellbeing of someone who had only decided they were friends recently? The last one had been making him feel rather ill, even if it seemed the least likely; he knew it was just his dream from the other night talking. Theo wouldn’t think he was being weird. He might be mad, but probably not about Harry caring too much. If that were the case, he would've told him to leave him alone long before now.

The worry stayed with him until dinner on Tuesday evening. Hermione had gotten fed up of him pushing his peas around on his plate, and had, in no uncertain terms, told him to just go and talk to Nott. Harry had cleared his throat, embarrassed at being read so easily, but had acquiesced pretty quickly: he was really running out of time, now. He had already spotted the Slytherins eating at their table earlier, and now cursed them for sitting near the middle, instead of at the end where he’d be able to intercept them a bit more subtly.

He was hoping they’d leave before him, so he could catch them at the doors instead of the table, but he seemed to be out of luck. Ron and Hermione were both finished, and Harry had given up on his dinner early, too nervous to muster up an appetite.

“Want us to come with you to talk to him?” Hermione asked, concern clear on her brows.

“No, ‘s alright. Easier if I just talk to him myself. Thanks, though, Hermione.” She smiled at him, but Harry could tell she was still a little worried. Harry had only shared the basics with his friends, which had left him feeling a little guilty. But he really didn’t think it was his place to tell them any details about Nott’s life. He’d told them that Lupin had offered him the lessons after all, and that he’d asked if Nott could join him, since he’d given him the idea in the first place, and he wanted to learn to defend himself from Dementors, too.  He’d seen a flash of hurt across Hermione’s face at this, and knew she was wondering why he hadn’t asked for Hermione to join him instead; there wasn’t a spell on Earth Hermione wouldn’t want to learn. But the hurt had quickly made way for that calculating look she wore sometimes, when she suspected there was something he wasn’t telling her. He’d tried to convey with his eyes that he wasn’t trying to leave her out, and her face had relaxed somewhat. Harry had never been more grateful that his friend knew him so well.

Hermione shot him another concerned look as they stood up from the table, and Harry tried to smile reassuringly at her. They had just past the end of the Gryffindor table, Harry trailing behind a little reluctantly, when a voice called, “Alright, Harry?”

Cedric Diggory was approaching from the Hufflepuff table, friendly grin in full force. Harry smiled awkwardly at the older boy and tried to casually scan himself for any spilled food. Finding nothing, thank Merlin, he nodded. Cedric sent Ron and Hermione friendly smiles as he reached them. Both blinked at him in vague bemusement. Harry cleared his throat quickly. “Yeah, er, you?”

Cedric shrugged good-naturedly. “Not bad, thanks. I just wanted to check how you were doing, y’know, after the game.”

Harry shrugged. “Oh, fine. Uh. You deserved to win,” he said, trying to sound at least a little sincere. “You played well. No, y'know - hard feelings.”  

Cedric frowned, watching him for a moment before speaking. “I mean – when you fell. I tried to visit you in the Hospital Wing, but Pomfrey was on the warpath, and wasn’t allowing visitors.” He rolled his eyes good naturedly.

Harry blinked, and felt a tinge of embarrassment rise in his stomach. “Really? Uh, thanks, Cedric. That was… really nice of you.” He could feel Hermione and Ron’s eyes boring into him, as well as more than a few nearby Hufflepuffs, who were shooting them unsubtly curious looks. Shit. He willed his cheeks not to flush, and cleared his throat.

Cedric just shrugged. “Least I could do. I’m glad you’re alright.” His smile was sincere, and Harry felt bizarrely touched. It was strange to think the older boy actually cared about his health, despite having only met him properly once. Maybe it was a Hufflepuff thing. “Well, I’d better get off. Got patrols tonight.” He pulled a face, and Harry forced a smile. “Take care, Harry,” he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he passed.

Harry mumbled a goodbye and tried desperately to will his face to cool down as he absently rolled his shoulder. His eyes caught another pair at the Gryffindor table, and he felt a dash of panic to see Angelina watching him with raised eyebrows. Hastily he turned back to the direction of the Slytherin table, pointedly ignoring the older girl. He could see Ron smirking at him out the corner of his eye, the bastard.  

He ignored his friends pointedly, and said his goodbyes a few feet away from the table. Hermione sent him one last searching look, before being dragged away by Ron. Taking a deep breath, and painfully aware of the looks he was already receiving, he approached.

Bullstrode saw him first. Her eyebrows raised slowly as he drew closer, and he thought he detected genuine surprise in her eyes. After a moment, Theo noticed her expression and followed her gaze to Harry, followed quickly by Zabini and Davis. Harry saw the same surprise echoed in Theo’s eyes for a second before his usual calm neutrality returned. Zabini and Davis has no such qualms about hiding their feelings: Zabini’s face stretched into a grin, and Davis sat up in eager anticipation.

He took a moment to take in the students around them, and spotted Greengrass and Parkinson a few seats down, talking quietly together and mercifully not having spotted him. Harry felt an overwhelming pulse of pure relief as he realised Malfoy and his goons were nowhere to be found.

“Er, hello,” he began as he neared, giving a little wave to the group and immediately regretting it. Zabini’s smile grew and he waved back, only a little sardonic. Harry rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling at the boy anyway.

“Hello, Harry. Everything alright?” Theo asked slowly, head cocked a little like a curious bird.

“Yeah,” he said, the sound of his name from Theo’s mouth eliciting an awkward little smile as he hovered behind Davis’ chair, the girl twisted round in her seat to watch him with unabashed interest. “I was just wondering if I could talk to you for a sec, uh, Theo?”

Theo’s lips twitched – probably at his awkward fumbling over his name, the bastard – but he nodded smoothly, and made to rise.

“Hang on,” said Bullstrode suddenly, her hand poised near, but not quite touching, Theo’s wrist. “He hasn’t finished his dinner,” she said, her eyes trained on Harry and expression unreadable. There was a charged pause. Theo was watching her, the slightest of frowns on his face. Harry glanced between them awkwardly for a moment, before Theo sighed heavily and turned to give Harry a vaguely apologetic look.

Bullstrode continued. “Maybe Harry should wait with us until you finish, Theo,” she said, voice faux-pleasant, before dropping pretences and saying, tone firm, “Take a seat.” She nodded to the small gap between Zabini and Davis, who obligingly slid further apart on the bench, looks of amusement on their traitor faces. It clearly was not a request. Harry held in a rueful sigh. He didn’t have to be a Slytherin to know a test when faced with one.

He scanned the Slytherin table cautiously. It wasn’t unreasonable, he supposed. Just because he and Theo were friends now, didn’t mean it was the same for the others. The other two, maybe. He liked both Zabini and Davis, and he would cautiously bet that the feeling was mutual. But Bullstrode had regarded him with nothing but suspicion from the beginning. And Bullstrode was protective of Theo, he reminded himself. Whatever was in their history, that at least was clear. And Harry could admit a tiny bit of curiosity in himself – what would happen, if he sat with them? There was a tiny thrill in the idea of breaking such an unspoken rule: a Gryffindor, sitting at the Slytherin table. He could see the same mischievous excitement in Davis and Zabini’s eyes, and felt his lips twitch in answer, mind made up.

“Sure,” he said, casually, as he stepped over the bench and plopped down between them. “Take your time,” he added pleasantly, and felt another little thrill when the corner of Theo’s lips twitched up in a smirk. Bullstrode’s eyes were narrowed, and by the slight tightening of her mouth, Harry figured she had expected him to turn tail. Clearly, she hadn’t spent enough time with Gryffindors. Running in head-first at the slightest challenge was sort of their thing.

“So,” he said, sitting back a little, eyes locked with Bullstrode, the picture of relaxation, “how’s your week been so far?”

Zabini did laugh at this, finally, hand coming up to cover his mouth reflexively. It made him look much younger, and Harry had to force his face to stay absently pleasant.

“Stupendous, Potter,” Bullstrode said, drily, after a moment. Theo picked up his fork with another roll of his eyes and began delicately picking at some of the veg on his plate.

There was a small pause as Harry tried to think of something to say. Thankfully, Davis seemed to be on the same page. “Are Granger and Weasley alright?” the girl asked, rather abruptly, sipping at what looked like pumpkin juice, “only I saw them arguing earlier. It looked a little heated.”

Harry must have been watching the pumpkin juice a little too closely, as Theo leaned forward to snag an empty cup from a nearby empty space, and deposited it in front of Harry with a nod to a nearby jug of juice. “Help yourself,” he said, casually.

“Thanks,” Harry said, surprised for some reason. Reaching for the jug, he glanced at Davis, who was watching them with a vaguely amused expression. “Oh, Ron and Hermione – yeah, they’re fine. They, uh, bicker a lot. It was probably about Crookshanks and Scabbers.”

At four blank looks, he grimaced. “Sorry. Hermione’s cat – or, well, Kneazle – and Ron’s rat. Crookshanks keeps going for him, and Ron’s not taking it well.”

Surprisingly, it was Bullstrode who frowned at this. “Kneazles are very smart animals. Granger’s shouldn’t be attacking any other pets – they know which animals to leave alone.”

Davis seemed to agree. “That’s bizarre, Harry. Has she tried talking to – what did you say his name was? Crookshanks?”

Harry blinked, then blinked again. He didn’t know whether he was more surprised at her use of his given name – shit, should he be calling her Tracey now, too? – or at her suggestion for Hermione to try reasoning with her pet cat. He glanced cautiously at the others for help; Bullstrode was frowning thoughtfully, and didn’t seem to find anything amiss with this question, but Zabini seemed to be smothering a grin, and when he met Theo’s eyes, the boy was giving Davis – Tracey? – a frankly indulgent look.

“Er – I don’t think she has, but I’ll pass the suggestion along,” he settled on eventually, and was relieved when she smiled. “Thanks, uh,” Gryffindor, he reminded himself, “Tracey.”

She beamed at this, and Zabini snorted. “You might as well call me Blaise too, then, Harry,” he said with a smirk that looked too friendly to be malicious, sharing a look with Tracey, who rolled her eyes.

Harry pointedly avoided looking over at Bullstrode, who made no such offer.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “what did you think of-”

He was interrupted by a clatter from a little way down the table.

“Potter?” Pansy Parkinson seemed to have noticed him at last. At the sound of his name, heads all along the table on either side of them whipped round to stare in his direction. He saw Theo’s face fall into his blank mask, and Bullstrode’s shoulders rise, but his attention was grabbed by the numerous thunderous looks now being sent his way, particularly by the older years.

Harry swallowed, and with a thought of, oh well, what the hell, he glanced back over at the girl with a frown. “Yes, Parkinson?”

Zabini had a sudden mysterious itch near his nose and had to hide his face, but the atmosphere around them was undeniably tense as the girl spluttered for a moment, clearly at a loss for words. “W-what are you doing! This is the Slytherin table! You – you can’t be here, Potter!”

Harry frowned thoughtfully and took another languid sip of his pumpkin juice before answering. He knew he was pushing his luck, but, well. Self-control had never been his strong suit. “I’m just having some pumpkin juice, Parkinson,” he said, reasonably, and wiggled his cup at her.

A younger student to his left – a second year, he reckoned – let out some sort of squeak at this, and Parkinson scowled. “Don’t play stupid, Potter. You’re not allowed to sit here. Go back to Gryffindor,” she said, looking genuinely perturbed.

Harry licked his lips and let his pretence fall. “I’m not doing anything, Parkinson,” he said, as calm as he could manage with all the eyes on him. “And there’s no rule against sitting at another table, as far as I’m aware.”

She stared at him for a moment, floundering, before clearly deciding to switch track. “What, Gryffindor finally get sick of you, Potter?” she smirked, a cruel gleam in her eye now. “We’ve got better things to do than play host to Gryffindor’s rejects.” He heard a laugh from further down the table, and rolled his eyes, trying to swallow down the anger at her words.

Parkinson clearly smelled blood, for her smirk only grew. “Just because the Gryffindors have finally realised what a loser you are, doesn’t mean you can come bother us, Potter. I’d say go try the Hufflepuffs, but I’m not sure even they would want you.”

Harry’s mouth opened in a snarl, and he just had time to see a victorious glint in her eye, before a foot collided with his under the table. Blinking, he turned to see Theo giving him a steady look. Harry swallowed. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Parkinson, to say – something, but he was beaten to it.

“Leave it, Pansy,” Daphne Greengrass muttered, not taking her eyes off the plate in front of her. The other girl blinked, clearly shocked, but she was stopped from responding by another voice.

“Yeah, if Potter wants to take advantage of our good company, who are we to stop him?” It was an older boy – a fifth year, maybe – who Harry recognised from the Slytherin Quidditch team. Pucey, he thought, bewildered. He was stocky and looked like he could hold his own against most, but he was treating Harry to a smirk, and seemed bizarrely amused.

“Plus,” the older boy added, lifting his own cup as if in toast, “everyone knows the elves give us the best pumpkin juice.” That garnered a few laughs, Harry noted in surprise. Pucey met his eye and shot him a wink, to Harry’s alarm, before turning back to his friends. He seemed to take all the tension with him. Several people were still glaring his way, but the atmosphere was suddenly far less fraught; Harry saw Parkinson scowling down at her food, Greengrass silent beside her, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Harry spared a moment to wonder what on earth that was about, before he turned back to his – friends.

“Well,” he said, after a long moment of silence as they all stared at each other, “That went well.”

There was a second of quiet, before Tracey and Blaise began laughing in unison. Harry couldn’t help but grin with them as Blaise elbowed him friendlily.

“Honestly, Harry. You’re like a magnet for trouble. Never a dull moment with you around.”

Harry rolled his eyes. You don’t know the half of it, he thought grimly.

“I’m sorry about that.”

The voice was quiet, and it took Harry a moment to place it as Bullstrode’s. Harry looked over at the girl, puzzled. Her face was serious, and she made reluctant eye contact for a moment before frowning down at her plate.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse than Parkinson,” he shrugged, fiddling with the rim of his goblet. An idea occurred to him suddenly. “She won’t, uh, give you any trouble, will she? You two share a room with her, don’t you?” He looked between Bullstrode and Tracey, the latter of which gave him a small smile while the former let out a snort.

“We can handle Parkinson,” Bullstrode said, and watching her easy confidence, Harry believed her.

He glanced between them all, the thought only burrowing further into his mind. “The rest of your house, though. Will you be okay? After me, y’know, having dinner with you? In public?”

It was Theo who responded. He smiled, and Harry felt another stupid flutter in his stomach. “Don’t worry about us, Harry. We’ll be fine. We know what we’re doing.”

Harry wanted to argue that Bullstrode didn’t quite seem to be onboard with him befriending them, but he found himself bizarrely disinclined to argue when it might make Theo drop his smile. They’d talk about it another time, maybe.

He changed track, leaning back in his seat to try and cast a subtle glance down the table. “What about Pucey? Why d’you think he stood up for me?”

Theo shrugged, and Harry saw a frustrated frown flash over his face for a moment. “I’m not sure what his play is,” he admitted. “Perhaps he was just trying to keep the peace – fighting at the table doesn’t look good for anyone.” He didn’t seem quite convinced.

“But you don’t think so?” Harry pressed.

Theo sighed, and rested his cutlery against his plate. “Probably not. Pucey has always seemed decent, but I can’t imagine him putting himself in the limelight just to stop a squabble. He’s not even a Prefect. He must gain something by having you here. I just don’t know what, yet. Just… keep an eye on him, for now.”

Harry nodded, holding back a sigh. He hated all this duplicity, but he supposed he’d signed up for Slytherin intrigue when he set out on befriending them.

“Now,” said Theo, gathering his bag. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Dusk was setting in by the time they came to a stop, somewhere on the fourth floor. They were near one of the windows that looked out onto the grounds, and Harry perched against the ledge, looking out. Theo had let him stew in his own silence as they walked, and now seemed content to wait for Harry to speak, leaning against the wall by the other window, watching.

Harry cleared his throat, and focused on the miniature figure of Hagrid, doing something laborious in his garden far below. “Uh, so. When I was in the Hospital wing, Professor Lupin came to visit me.” Theo said nothing, and Harry let out a breath, before continuing, slowly. “Do you remember how I said Lupin was going to teach me the Patronus Charm?”

Theo nodded, cautiously. His eyes were intent when Harry glanced back, and he turned back to watching Hagrid quickly.

“Well,” he said, in a rush now, “when he came to visit, I sort of asked him if you could learn the charm, too.”

Harry’s body was stiff as he waited for Theo to say something. Hagrid was dragging something from his garden and lifting it onto a wheelbarrow. Harry swallowed as the silence stretched.

“I mean, I didn’t tell him anything – personal,” he blurted. “I might’ve implied that you had trouble with them, too, but I didn’t say anything, you know, or-”

“Harry,” Theo cut him off, softly, and Harry felt his breath leaving him in a rush. He steeled himself, and turned quickly, bracing himself for Theo to look - fine. Theo looked fine. A little amused, maybe, and rather thoughtful, but not like he was about to hex Harry and declare their friendship over.

Harry blinked at him, a little stupidly. “You’re not – you’re not mad? That I told him – y’know?”

Theo seemed to be studying Harry, but whatever he found, his mouth relaxed a little, and he glanced out the window before replying. “I mean – it would’ve been nice had you asked, first, but I imagine it was a rather spur of the moment decision?” Harry nodded frantically, and Theo’s mouth twitched like it did when he found something amusing, and Harry was so relieved he felt momentarily faint. “But no, Harry, I’m not mad.”

Harry almost couldn’t believe it. “Are you – are you sure?” he couldn’t help but ask, even as he chastised himself for looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Theo did smile now, and Harry found his own mouth mirroring it, despite his confusion. “Harry,” the other boy said, a little exasperated, but gentle, “you’ve arranged for me to receive private tutoring on a very advanced charm that I’d otherwise have to learn on my own; I promise I’m not mad. If anything, I’m grateful.”

Harry had to swallow again, suddenly. This hadn’t gone as he’d expected. At all. “Oh,” he said, leaning back against the stone wall. “Right. I mean – you don’t have to be, you know, grateful. You gave me the idea in the first place, so, y’know,” he shrugged, and they both paused momentarily as two fourth-year Ravenclaws wandered past, chatting animatedly, watching them until they were out of view.

Theo hummed, and Harry glanced back at him. It was the other boy’s turn not to meet his eyes. “I know,” he said, after a moment, turning to look out the window near him. “But I am.” His mouth twisted a little, before straightening out. “Thank you, Harry,” he said, and his eyes were suddenly locked with his for one long second, before he looked away again. “For thinking of me.”

Harry wanted to say something smart, then, or something cool and casual about how it was no big deal, but words were failing him, because it was, wasn’t it? It was always going to be a big deal to be thought of, for him, and he was beginning to suspect, for Theo, too. Maybe they’d never quite get used to it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he managed at last, and caught the edge of Theo’s smile as they both turned to look out the window, watching the sun set for a moment longer.

Chapter Text

“Okay, boys, are you ready to give it a go?”

Lupin’s voice contained a lot more optimism than Harry felt was truly warranted. The man had spent the first ten minutes of the lesson going over the theory of the Patronus Charm – mostly for Harry’s benefit, he imagined, as Theo politely nodded along as if he knew it all already – and until moments ago Harry had been itching to skip to the actual casting. Now, eyeing the case on Professor Binns’ desk with trepidation, Harry suddenly felt woefully unprepared.

Harry and Theo had arrived at Lupin’s office at six sharp, and the Professor had wasted no time in leading them down to their History of Magic Classroom, which, he’d assured them, was available for the evening. Harry supposed he was a professor, and had the authority to be there, but he couldn’t help casting nervous glances towards the far wall, expecting Binns to glide through and catch them out at any moment.

Watching Theo and Professor Lupin interact was bizarre; like two parts of his Hogwarts life were suddenly colliding into one. He had felt oddly caught between them, watching them watch each other with blandly polite expressions, feeling strangely defensive of them both; unsure whether he cared more about Lupin’s good opinion of Theo, or the boy’s for their teacher. With an uncomfortable swoop of guilt, Harry had suddenly remembered confiding in Lupin his concerns over Nott’s family history not that long ago. He had become almost lightheaded from a dash of ridiculous panic at the idea that Lupin might casually bring it up during the lesson, before common sense returned to him. Lupin was hardly about to bring Theo’s father being a Death Eater up in casual conversation. He was being paranoid.

His worries – bizarre as they were – thankfully seemed to be unfounded. Theo was as polite as Harry had always observed him to be around adults, and while Lupin was less familiar with him than he usually was with Harry (and wasn’t that a strange thought), he was treating Theo normally. When thinking about it rationally, Harry had to admit he found it hard to imagine Lupin treating any of the students unkindly, even the particularly odious ones, like Malfoy. Harry supposed the man must already be familiar with Theo from his own Defence class. He knew he was being silly, worrying, but he couldn’t seem to switch it off.

Harry was brought out of his spiralling by a smooth, “Yes, sir,” from Theo. Harry blinked at the other boy sheepishly, remembering where he was, and nodded quickly to Lupin, who was watching them both patiently. Probably wondering if Harry was about to pass out, he thought mulishly.

“Right,” the man said, removing his wand from a pocket in his shabby brown robes and holding it out in front of him. Harry and Theo quickly followed suit. “The wand movement is straightforward. Try to copy me.” He demonstrated, and both boys obediently mimicked the movement. Harry watched Theo’s wand out of the corner of his eye and noted with resignation that his wandwork looked smooth and effortless. Compared to him, Harry cast like a toddler suffering from arthritis.

“Excellent,” Lupin said with an encouraging nod. “Next, the incantation. Repeat after me: Expecto Patronum.”

Once Lupin was happy with their pronunciation, he had them try both spell and wand movement together.

“Now,” Lupin said after he had judged them both acceptable, “finally, and this is crucial, boys.” He met both their eyes for a moment before continuing, “For the spell to be successful, at the moment of casting you must be focusing on a single, purely happy memory. If you lose your concentration, or select a memory which isn’t happy enough, the spell will not work.”

There was a heavy pause after the man’s words, and Harry wondered if Theo was feeling the same sudden disquiet as him. A single purely happy memory? Options rattled through his mind, but none felt exactly right. Finding out he was a wizard? Riding a broom for the very first time? Gryffindor winning the House Cup? Which would give him the best shot at the spell working? They were all certainly happy, but were they enough to repel a Dementor? He made uncertain eye-contact with Theo, who was frowning slightly at the ground. At least the other boy was in the same boat, Harry thought.

“Do you both have a memory in mind?” Lupin asked after a few moments of tense silence, moving to rest his hand on the clasp of the case.

Theo nodded curtly, and after a moment Harry followed suit. Lupin’s expression became gentler. “Don’t worry,” he told them, “so long as you remember the spell and the memory, you’ll be on the right track. The first hurdle is making sure you can concentrate in the presence of a Dementor.” The man wasn’t looking at him in particular as he said this, but Harry felt a jolt of shame in his stomach nonetheless.

The moment stretched, and Harry became aware of the sound of his heart thumping. Could they feel the apprehension rolling off him?

Lupin’s eyes met his briefly, and the man shot him an encouraging smile.

“Don’t expect too much on your first try, boys. You won’t be creating a corporeal Patronus today.”

Harry forced his mouth into what he hoped was a confident smile.

“Alright. Harry will have to go first, as we need him to force the Boggart into a Dementor. Are you ready, Harry?”

Harry blinked and forced down his panic. After a moment, he gave a curt nod, and squared his shoulders.

Lupin smiled again, and Theo took a step back to clear the space for him as the man turned to the chest and began to undo the straps holding it closed.

“Okay, I’m releasing the Boggart.”

The creak of the chest lid opening was jarring in the sudden quiet of the room. Harry could hear his heart in his ears, and he felt like he was watching in slow motion as the lid creaked open and the Professor briskly backed away. His wand was held rigidly in his hand, stretched ahead of him like a continuation of his arm. With a hiss like releasing steam, a dark shape began to form in the space above the chest.

Something was happening to the air in the room; the light seemed to fade second by second, and the silence became thick and almost porous. Almost as an afterthought, Harry noticed that he could no longer hear himself breathing, his senses transfixed by the creature taking shape in front of him, unfurling to its full and awful height: a Dementor.

The cold took a moment to set in, curling up through his belly and out his mouth in a burst of steam which did little to block his view of the creature’s hands reaching slowly, slowly towards him.

Harry had been waiting for it, but the screaming still took away what little breath remained. The classroom had faded around him, and it was becoming harder and harder to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

Knowing now, with no pretence, that it was his mother begging for his life – Harry felt as if something sharp was lodged in his stomach; the pain of the basilisk bite last year was nothing in the face of this.

But another voice was making itself known, deeper than his mother’s and shocking for its lack of fear – a man’s voice, steady and calm.

“Harry, remember: a happy memory.” The sound of Lupin’s voice came to him as if through a fog, but it quelled the confusion like water over a flame.

A happy memory. Pictures flashed through his mind too quickly to focus: a birthday cake with his name in green icing; standing round an unconscious mountain troll with Ron and Hermione, young faces flushed with sweat and shock and exhilaration; soaring high above the castle on his broom, skin chafed with the wind and a feeling of joy so complete even the memory lightened something in him.

As the feeling rushed through him, Harry moved on instinct, wasting no time. “Expecto Patronum!” he yelled, brandishing his wand like a sword towards the creature.

As the last syllable left his mouth, something pale and almost translucent seemed to pool from the end of his wand, spiralling towards the Dementor before trailing off into the air.

“Riddikulus!” Professor Lupin exclaimed from somewhere behind him. Within a blink the Dementor had disappeared; in its place was a pale white orb, hovering motionlessly, almost menacing for how innocuous it seemed.

A strong hand landed on his shoulder, and Harry whipped round to see Professor Lupin smiling down at him. “That was excellent, Harry!” His hand squeezed once more, before falling back to his side.

Harry tried to muster up a smile. He felt almost winded, like he’d actually been flying instead of just remembering it. “Thanks, sir,” he said after a moment, trying not to let his disappointment come through, “but there was only a little bit of mist that came out. Nothing really happened.”

Lupin was already shaking his head. “That mist is what will eventually form a Patronus. With enough practice, it should begin to take the shape of an animal. This is the first stage for everyone, Harry, and you got there impressively quickly.”

That actually did serve to cheer Harry a bit. He supposed it was a little silly to expect a fully-fledged Patronus on his first try, and Lupin had warned him that wouldn’t happen.

“Now, Mr. Nott, if you’d like to step forward?”

Harry jumped a little. With the intensity of the last few minutes, he’d almost forgot he and Lupin weren’t alone.

Theo gave him a knowing smirk, as if he could tell what Harry was thinking. He looked perfectly calm, Harry noted with a frown. But – he wasn’t stepping forward. A thought suddenly occurred to Harry, and he turned to the Professor.

“Sir? How’s Theo going to keep the Boggart as a Dementor? Won’t it just – turn into whatever his Boggart is, if he gets near it?”

Lupin’s smile suggested he was glad Harry had asked. Teachers, he thought, stifling the strange urge to roll his eyes fondly.

“Excellent question, Harry. There isn’t a way to force a Boggart into a particular shape, unfortunately, but we should be able to use you as a sort of buffer between it and Mr. Nott. As long as you are nearest, it should maintain the shape of a Dementor.” Lupin frowned apologetically at him. “It does mean you’ll have more exposure to the Dementor than I’d like, but it seems the surest way to make the Boggart available for you both. We’ll just have to make sure to take breaks, so you’re not spending too much time exposed to it.”

Lupin’s worry over him sent a rush of embarrassment through Harry, but he supposed if it meant that Theo could join them, he could stomach the Professor treating him like he was delicate.

Harry peaked over at Theo, but if the boy had any thoughts on the matter, they weren’t obvious. He’d probably worked out what Lupin would do long before the problem had even occurred to Harry, he thought, refraining from rolling his eyes.

“Are you ready, Mr. Nott?” Lupin was watching him patiently.

Theo’s eyes darted from Harry to the teacher, his only outward sign of nerves, before he nodded once, sharp.

“Excellent. Harry, if you’ll approach?”

Harry swallowed as he focused back on the Boggart. Taking a step forward, he was aware of Theo behind him, following at a careful distance.

It didn’t take long for the Boggart to sense him and for the white orb to slowly darken and melt into the dark, billowing robes of a Dementor. He heard Theo take a sharp breath behind him, but Harry couldn’t take his eyes from where the Dementor swayed. Standing still and not even trying to defend himself from the creature felt completely alien to him. His instincts were begging him to lash out with his wand, his fists, to bolt for the door - to put as much distance between himself and the monster as he could; but he forced himself somehow to stay still. This was for Theo. Unbidden, the image of the other boy’s face in the Infirmary that night flashed across his mind. His voice, normally so controlled, raw as he talked about his mother. Harry felt resolve harden in his stomach; he would do what he had to in order to offer Theo this meagre protection, even if it meant standing by and facing his greatest fear every week for the rest of the year.

He was so distracted by keeping himself in control that his mother’s voice almost surprised him. Swallowing, he tried to focus on the presence he could feel behind him. Theo hadn’t cast yet; as the seconds trailed by, Harry began to feel worry building in his stomach. If he turned around, would the Boggart lose its shape? The screams were getting louder, and still nothing was happening. Screw it, Harry thought, risking a quick look behind him, zeroing in on Theo’s face instantly.

The taller boy was pale. His eyes were unfocused, and his forehead looked clammy. His wand was outstretched, and Harry felt a jolt of something unpleasant as he noticed that it was shaking, just slightly. He wasn’t going to cast. Harry warred with himself for a second – but there wasn’t any point in maintaining the form if Theo wasn’t going to do anything. With a mental shrug, Harry tried to catch the other boy’s eyes. “Theo,” he mumbled, softly but clear in the space between them.

Theo’s eyes darted to his and he flinched, stricken. Harry kept his gaze and nodded, once, projecting all the confidence he didn’t feel into the steadiness of the motion. His mouth curled up, despite everything, and Theo blinked at him with a strange expression, before turning with visible effort back to the monster. His mouth opened.

“Expecto Patronum!” he managed in a choked but carrying voice. A thrill of pride went through Harry as the tip of Theo’s wand began glowing a bright silver, faint but undeniable.

The cold vanished as soon as it had come. Harry blinked, disorientated, as he realised Lupin had already neutralised the Boggart. The man was busy herding it back into the case as Harry gathered himself.

“That was excellent, Mr. Nott!” the Professor said with a smile as he returned to them, something thin and shiny in his hands. Harry realised it was a bar of chocolate as the man unwrapped it and began snapping pieces off. He handed a square to Harry, who accepted it gladly, remembering how it had helped on the train, and extended his hand for Theo to take his.

Harry stuffed a piece of chocolate in his mouth before he turned to the other boy. Theo still looked rather ill, but there was now a flush high in his cheeks that Harry decided meant he probably wouldn’t be passing out any time soon. He caught Harry’s eyes, briefly, and his mouth curled up into a small but disarming smile.

“Chocolate helps soothe the after-effects of a Dementor,” Lupin explained kindly as the taller boy accepted the chocolate with an air of polite confusion. Theo began obediently nibbling on one of the pieces, and Harry had to hide a smirk.

“Well,” the man said after they had both made a dent in the chocolate, “you both did very well. Producing even the beginnings of a Patronus is an excellent achievement, especially on the first try.”

Harry shifted a little, warm at the praise, but Theo didn’t seem to react, and Harry had to stop himself from frowning at the boy. Lupin seemed to have some sort of super Teacher awareness, however, and said gently, “You did well, Mr. Nott. Today was simply about acclimatising yourself to the presence of a Dementor. It’ll take a long while until it becomes effortless to resist their call. You ought to be proud of yourself for facing it, and for being able to cast at all in its presence. Both of you.”

Theo’s eyes were lowered, but some of the tension seemed to leave him, and he offered the Professor a quick nod. Just as Harry began to feel as if he was intruding on a personal moment between the two, Lupin straightened, and the mood brightened easily. “Well, that’s enough for one day. Like I said,” he continued, seeing Harry’s expression, “today was just an introduction. We’ll have to take things slowly. This isn’t something that should be rushed.”

Harry nodded reluctantly, but he was a little relieved despite himself. The double exposure had left him feeling surprisingly exhausted, and relaxing by the fire sounded very nice suddenly.

The boys made their farewells and agreed to meet with Lupin at the same time and place the following week. As they left, Harry and Theo fell into natural step with each other.

They walked in silence for a few minutes as they made their way to their respective common rooms, before Harry eyed the other boy in his periphery. “How was that, then? Still glad I signed you up?”

His tone was light, but Harry felt a sliver of guilt nonetheless. What if Theo really was having second thoughts about the lessons? Would it make things awkward between them if Theo decided to stop? Would-

Harry was brought out of his inner panic by Theo’s laugh, small and tired-sounding. Harry felt the last of his tension draining away at the sound. The other boy was still pale but looked less like he was about to collapse. His mouth was set in a way that made him look thoughtful. “I’m still glad,” he said at last. They walked in silence for a few more moments as Harry tried to work out how to respond, but Theo saved him the trouble. “I hadn’t properly faced a Dementor like that before. You know, so full-on.” Harry watched him, waiting as he gathered his thoughts. They were nearing the turnoff where they’d have to part, and both boys slowed their steps without mentioning it. “I thought I was prepared, but I suppose facing the real thing is always going to be different than you’d expect.” He pursed his lips, a gesture Harry hadn’t seen him make before, before continuing. “Now that I know what I’m facing – I’m determined to see it through. We’ll learn the Patronus Charm, and then they won’t hold any power over us anymore.”

He looked so determined that Harry could do nothing but believe him. For the first time, he felt confident that he – that both of them – would master the charm. He wouldn’t be forced to relive his mother’s death every time he got too close to one of the creatures, and neither would Theo. Harry felt a grin grow over his face without conscious thought, and Theo returned it with an ease that made something warm settle in Harry’s stomach.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, mate?” Ron groused for the fifth time as they walked along the corridor.

With great effort, Harry managed not to snap. “Yes, Ron, once again: it’ll be fine. It’s just studying; they’re not going to bite you.”

Ron made a noise that quite clearly cast doubt on Harry’s assertion, but Harry maturely decided not to respond.

They were heading to the library for what Harry hoped would be a successful study session between the Slytherins and his friends. He’d brought the idea up with Theo after their second Patronus lesson. Things had continued to go well that evening. Lupin still only let them face the Dementor once each, but Harry had noticed that both he and Theo were quicker to react than their first session. Their actual attempts at Patronuses hadn’t advanced any further than silver mist, but both boys were feeling slightly less fraught than the week previous.

Harry had attended another study session with the Slytherins that week, with Ron and Hermione once again at another table, glaring and reading, respectively, when he found himself frustratedly considering how much simpler things would be if they were all sat together, getting along. Of course, that was easier said than done, but Harry had mulled the idea over in his head and had concluded: why not? It was worth seeing if the two groups were capable of being around each other without bloodshed. He’d steeled himself on the walk back to their dorms after the lesson and had simply asked Theo if he thought the group would be okay with him bringing Hermione and Ron along sometime to study. Theo had thought about it for a few moments, before promising to ask the others that night.

Davis – Tracey – had intercepted him at breakfast that morning and had let him know they were studying that evening and to bring his friends along if he’d like. She’d seemed her usual cheerful self, but Harry wondered if she was really that relaxed about him upsetting the status quo. And what about the others? Merlin, he couldn’t imagine Bullstrode welcoming his friends with open arms. She barely tolerated him as it was, let alone his two friends who – well. He supposed all three of them weren’t naturally social butterflies. Perhaps that’s why their friendship worked so well: they were all the odd one out. He’d found himself becoming increasingly defensive of Ron and Hermione in his head, imagining what the Slytherins might think. Neither of them were great at first impressions, he allowed. Hermione could be a little full-on – he still thought with shame about how he and Ron had avoided her the first few months after they met – and Ron, well. He’d already made a terrible first impression, what with all the glaring and glowering he’d been treating the others to in the library. He might as well have held up a sign saying ‘I Hate Slytherins! Stay Away From Harry Potter!’. But Ron was just protective. Harry had no doubt he’d come around eventually, but would the Slytherins give him that chance? He’d had to consider the horrible possibility that his two friend groups might just not mesh. And what would happen then? Would Harry be able to go on as he had, with keeping his friends separate? What if the Slytherins said something awful to Ron? Would he still be friends with them, knowing it would hurt his best friend? The idea had weighed on his mind heavily throughout the day, and he’d come to the surprisingly firm realisation that no, he wouldn’t. He’d never hurt Ron – or Hermione – like that. Even if it meant giving up this new – thing that he had with Theo and the others. Nothing would be worth jeopardising what he had with his best friends.

Somehow the realisation that this evening would decide things one way or the other made things a little easier for Harry. It was out of his hands now, and whatever was going to happen, would happen.

Ron wasn’t quite seeing the situation with the same nuance. “Still, I don’t get why I have to sit with them. Can’t we just do it like last time?”

It was Hermione who jumped in, perhaps spotting the dangerous flare of Harry’s nostrils. “Ron, it’s just a study session. And this means a lot to Harry. He wants us to get along with his new friends so he doesn’t feel caught between us. Honestly, the least you can do is try to be civil.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat as Ron turned a stupefied expression onto him. “Is it really that important to you, mate?”

“Er,” he managed to say before Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Yes, Ronald, he’s made that perfectly clear. Just try to be a little more open-minded, please?”

Ron grumbled something, but didn’t pose any more arguments, and Harry noted with relief that they had almost arrived.

The trio made their way into the library. It was fairly busy for a weekday evening, with a slight susurration making the area inviting instead of intimidating. Harry led the way across the main section and up to the back where the Slytherins usually preferred to study. He spotted them easily after a moment, and Theo met his eyes across the room with a nod of invitation.

Steeling himself, Harry led his friends across the room.

“…which means basically that you calculate the distance between these two stars here, and then divide that by whatever scale you’re using, and then that’s you! You’re ready to tackle the star chart.” Tracey finished her explanation with an enthusiastic smile which Harry tried valiantly to return. Astronomy was apparently a particular favourite of Tracey’s, and the subject came under her jurisdiction for the study group. She wasn’t awful at explaining – Harry would take her over Sinistra any day – but there was only so much that could be done to make Astronomy homework interesting.

Most of the group were managing to look attentive enough – with the exception, Harry noted with an internal sigh, of Ron, who still looked like he was serving an unjust detention with Filch. Things had been – okay, so far. Ron’s permanent scowl was a little awkward, but Harry and Hermione were able to ignore it through years of practice, and the others (with the exception of Bullstrode, who was more than happy to rekindle their glaring match) seemed rather unfazed.

At least Ron hadn’t been overtly rude, Harry reminded himself. His best friend was trying, and that was enough for him. Hermione, on the other hand, seemed to be in her element. She had nodded encouragingly along to Tracey’s explanation – her smile only becoming fixed when Tracey went on a few tangents that were off-book (she apparently had a few things to say about the curriculum for third years) – but Harry had felt very grateful that Hermione was making such an effort – that, and a little guilty; was this the sort of thing Hermione wished they did? Had Hermione given up on the idea of a study group when she became friends with Ron and Harry? It was clear she was enjoying discussing their classes with someone else who cared (almost) as much as her. Generally, Ron and Harry did everything they could to get out of those kinds of conversations.

Harry was seized from his guilt by Tracey grandly declaring, “The floor is now open for discussion.” Bullstrode and Blaise rolled their eyes impressively in sync, but Theo’s lips quirked up, and Harry felt his own mimic the movement helplessly. To Ron and Harry’s complete lack of surprise, Hermione was the first in with a question.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense to go with the original method that the textbook lays out? Professor Sinistra told us that was the most dependable method of interpreting planetary positions…”

Tracey smiled, apparently unfazed by Hermione’s frown. “That’s the way they teach us to do it, but that’s just ‘cause we’re third years and they don’t want to overcomplicate it. When you get to OWL Level they start teaching you other ways.”

Hermione frowned, seeming personally offended that this information had been kept from her. Tracey seemed to pick up on this, suggesting a few books on the subject Hermione could look into if she wanted to know more. Judging by the look on his friend’s face, Harry figured he could write the study group idea off as a success already.

There was a little more conversation on what Tracey had covered. Bullstrode and Ron were the most reserved; the former seemingly from the subject, and the latter, the company. Eventually they pulled out that week’s Astronomy homework, figuring since they had time they might as well complete it together.

Without having to discuss it, Harry and Hermione had sat flanking Ron on both sides. This left the three of them on one side of the table, with Blaise at the head perpendicular to Hermione, and the others opposite them. Theo was directly across from Harry, and to his increasing embarrassment, they kept accidentally catching each other’s eyes during Tracey’s explanation. Harry immediately swung his eyes around for a safer target to land on, like the wilting potted plant in the corner. The fourth time it happened, Theo’s lips twitched into an irrepressible smirk, and Harry felt his stomach swoop stupidly as he prayed for a small earthquake or other natural disaster to swallow them up. What was wrong with him? He kept his eyes fixed strictly to either his notes or Tracey for the remainder of her lesson, but he could feel Theo’s amusement like a balm across his face.

Ron hadn’t directly addressed any of the Slytherins yet, and his discomfort was palpable. While the others were idly filling out their homework and chatting quietly, Harry and Hermione shared a glance over Ron’s bowed head. Harry figured Hermione’s expression was a mirror of his own face. Merlin, how to engage Ron in conversation with the others? What did they have in common? Casting about wildly, Harry fell back on one tried and true topic.

“So, do any of you follow professional Quidditch?”

Five confused faces turned to him, and Harry dimly registered Hermione’s I-don’t-know-why-I-bother look of general exasperation. He forced a smile and prayed one of them would take pity on him.

Tracey, thank Merlin, barely blinked. “Of course,” she said, brightening a little. “Puddlemere are a shoe-in for the league this year, but my heart belongs to the Harpies.”

Ron straightened with a scowl, and Harry held his breath. “They are not a shoo-in,” he declared, chin jutting out in indignation. “There’s still loads of time!”

Bullstrode, of all people, let out a snort. “No, there isn’t,” she scoffed. “It’ll be Puddlemere or the Magpies, as usual.” Her eyes narrowed, scenting blood. “Why, who do you follow?”

Ron somehow managed to lift his chin higher. Harry winced in anticipation. “The Chudley Cannons,” he said, bravely.

Eyeing the gleam in Bullstrode’s eyes, Harry wondered if it was too late to start a small fire as a distraction.

“They’ve got a good shot this year!” he interjected instead, voice alarmingly high. He silently begged Bullstrode for mercy with his eyes.

“Well,” Tracey jumped in quickly with a strained smile, just as Bullstrode opened her mouth, “you never know! They’ve as much a chance as anyone.” A muffled thump came from somewhere under the table, and Bullstrode shut her mouth with a glare in Tracey's direction.

“Are they the orange ones?” Blaise tried gamely from the end of the table, mouth twisted unhappily. Harry didn’t need to be told that Quidditch wasn’t his thing. He had the look Hermione adopted when exposed to too much sport-talk.

“Yeah,” said Ron, stiffly. There was another painful pause, and Harry gave in and looked at Theo, not caring to hide his desperation.

Theo smiled again, slowly, and Harry wondered if there had been something in the water at Breakfast today. “I’ve never really followed Quidditch. I don’t know much about it,” the taller boy admitted after a moment. Harry absolutely did not feel a plunge of disappointment at this terrible news. His eyes didn’t leave Harry’s, and his smile only grew at whatever he saw there – heartbreak, probably.

“The Harpies, though,” Hermione interjected, a little desperately, “they’re the ones Ginny likes, aren’t they?”

Hermione of all people trying to talk Quidditch finally seemed to get through to Ron that they were trying hard to include him. His shoulders unclenched a fraction, and he gave a curt nod. “Yeah, the Harpies are okay,” he admitted, and Harry wanted to roll his eyes in exasperated fondness.

“Granger,” Blaise said suddenly, not seeming bothered about changing the subject tactfully, “what did you get for Venus? I think my calculation is off.”

Hermione blinked at the sudden address. Now that Harry thought about it, Blaise had been unusually quiet this study session. Normally he was bickering cheerfully with Tracey or complaining about the syllabus; now his eyes were fixed ahead of him, on his notes, even as he waited for Hermione to respond.

As the girl hesitantly began answering, Harry glanced at the others, frowning. He was just in time to see Tracey share an eye-roll with Theo, who was smirking. Bullstrode let out a long-suffering sigh. Ron was still moping, so Harry just shook his head and attempted to finish his Astronomy homework.

Harry and Ron were making their way down from the Owlery the next night after checking in on Hedwig. Harry knew she didn’t get to send as much mail as most of the other owls in the school and was always worried she felt a little neglected. He’d made a habit of checking up on her every week or so, just to pet her and feed her some of the owl treats she favoured. Ron had come with him to send off a letter to his parents. They had at least half an hour before curfew, and they were both taking their time. Ron was trying to convince Harry that they ought to talk Lupin into starting up another Duelling Club to see if he would get Snape back up as an assistant, like Lockhart had done. It was an unseasonably mild night, and Harry felt contentment wash over him.

“All I’m saying is it would be entertaining. Can you imagine? I can’t even picture Lupin duelling anyone. He’s so mild,” Ron’s voice carried down the stairway, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“I bet Lupin could beat Snape, though. Remember how he was on the train? I wouldn’t underestimate him.”

Ron made a noise of consideration, and both boys spent a happy moment picturing Lupin sending Snape flying. They approached the last set of stairs before the landing.

“I wonder if we could get McGonagall in on it? I bet she’d love to-"

Ron’s voice cut off abruptly as something invisible made contact with Harry’s face. Jolting, Harry stepped out onto thin air. The world whirled around him dizzyingly for a long moment, before his shoulder slammed into stone with an explosion of pain, his head hitting the ground with a horrible dull thud. He heard a voice yelling his name and regained consciousness just long enough to see a flash of blonde hair disappearing round the corner, before his vision faded entirely.

Chapter Text

Harry came awake slowly to the familiar no-nonsense tones of Madame Pomfrey admonishing someone. Blinking against the bright lights of the Hospital Wing, Harry tried to sit up, only for a hand to quickly find his shoulder in a gentle grip.

“Slowly does it, Mr. Potter,” Madame Pomfrey chided, helping to ease him up. The world was out of focus, and Harry automatically reached out a hand to find his glasses on the bedside table, only to grasp at air. Frowning, he turned to the table, finding it empty of anything other than a glass of water. His head whipped round to Madame Pomfrey, only for a sickening jolt of pain to rock through his skull at the movement. “Ow!” he yelled, clamping a hand against his forehead.

Madame Pomfrey tsked. “Slowly, Mr. Potter. You hit your head rather hard.”

“I can feel that,” Harry grumbled, utterly fed up to realise that he’d somehow landed himself in the Hospital Wing again. Merlin, they should just reserve him a bed, save some time.

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a concussion, Madame Pomfrey?” Ron’s voice was weak with worry, and Harry – carefully – turned to find him perched on the visitor's chair near the bed, leaning forward at a dangerous angle. Although rather blurry without his glasses, his face was visibly pale, freckles standing out alarmingly. The anxiety clearly emanating from his best friend sent a curdle of fear through him. What exactly had happened? He remembered being on the stairs with Ron – had he fallen? This would be so much easier if he could just find his glasses -

“I am still sure, Mr. Weasley, as I’ve already told you.” She turned to Harry, voice softening. “Do you remember what happened, Mr. Potter?”

Harry blinked at her, and in a rush the pieces clicked into place. “We were on the stairs and – I fell. It felt like something hit my face, or –” he looked up at her. “Did something happen to my glasses?” he asked, cold fear spreading through his veins.

Her mouth pursed. “It sounds, from Mr. Weasley’s account, as if someone summoned your glasses from your face as you were coming down the stairs, causing you to overbalance and fall. Your head and shoulder took the brunt of the damage, though your ankle was mildly sprained. I’ve healed the rest, but I’d like to keep you here overnight to monitor the injury to your head. That’s non-negotiable, Mr. Potter,” she added, seeing his expression. “Head injuries are very serious and I’m not taking risks with your health.”

He sighed, not minding how petulant he sounded. Madame Pomfrey had seen him worse. “What about my glasses, though?” he pressed after a moment. A sense of dread spread through him as the woman paused.

Madame Pomfrey’s blurry face was decidedly grim. “I’m afraid whoever summoned them must still be in possession of them. Rest assured, I’ve spoken to Professor McGonagall about this incident, and she will be looking into it with the severity it deserves.”

Harry blinked, straining to sit up despite the pain. “But – what am I supposed to do without them? I don’t have another pair!” Panic was starting to build. He’d always hated it the most when they were little and Dudley managed to get hold of his glasses. It was one of his favourite taunts, holding them up and making Harry jump for them, desperate and panicky. Harry’s skin felt hot with anger and nausea just thinking about it. The idea of being so vulnerable, powerless – this was a nightmare.

“I know, Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley has mentioned the fact. Normally, I’m qualified to perform eye tests for students during term time, and the purchasing of spectacles is arranged by the student’s guardians. However, as your guardians are Muggles, and, Mr. Weasley assures me, would not be comfortable sending anything via Owl post, we’ll have to take a different approach.”

Harry’s anger deflated flatly into shame. Of course he couldn’t do it the normal way. He could just picture the Dursleys’ faces if they received an owl asking them to shell out for a new pair of specs because their careless nephew had lost his. They’d begrudged him his original pair, only taking him to the optician at the insistence of one of the kinder teachers, who’d noticed how much trouble he’d had copying from the board, and for some reason hadn’t just written him off as lazy, like everyone else. His aunt had snatched the first pair she’d seen off the bargain shelf – his thin, round frames – and that had been that.  

Harry tried to get himself under control. No point in making himself seem even more pathetic. He took a deep breath. “Alright. What will I have to do, then? Can I send away for a pair?”

The matron sighed. “Normally, yes, but since you’re currently without any visual aid and your eyesight is very poor, it wouldn’t be fair to make you wait several days for the new glasses to arrive. Leave it to me for now, Mr. Potter. You’ll stay here for the night, and I’ll let you know what will happen in the morning.”

Harry rankled a bit at having everything decided for him – he was to sit here, practically blind, and just wait while the adults sorted things out? – but he tried to reign it in. No point in taking it out on Madame Pomfrey.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, easing himself into a more comfortable position with resignation.

“Now, Mr. Weasley, it’s past curfew, and Mr. Potter needs his rest. Can I trust you’ll head straight to your common room, or shall I call for someone to escort you?”

Harry had almost forgotten Ron was there. His friend sat up quickly. “Please, ma’am, can’t I just have five minutes with Harry before I leave?”

Harry thought Ron had no chance, but perhaps Ron’d had more of a fright than he’d thought, for the Mediwitch only pursed her lips, and said, sternly, “You have two minutes, boys, then it’s off to bed.”

She turned and swept off to the other side of the room, busying herself with arranging some potions, allowing them a modicum of privacy.

Ron wasted no time. “Are you really alright, mate?” he asked, concern plain on his blurry face.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, just a little sore. What the hell happened?”

Ron’s frustration was clear. “I don’t know! One minute you were fine, then the next your glasses went flying and you tripped and just went arse over teakettle. I rushed after you but there was no one there and you were out cold. Your head was bleeding and – for a second, I thought –” he cut himself off, swallowing. Harry noticed for the first time that Ron’s eyes were suspiciously red. Had he been –? He felt a lurch in his stomach.

“I’m alright, Ron. I promise.” His friend nodded quickly, shuffling in his seat. Harry mulled it over in his head. Suddenly he recalled the flash of blonde hair he’d seen sweeping round the corner. Quietly, and with a glance over his shoulder to check Madame Pomfrey was still out of range, he told Ron what he’d seen.

Ron’s expression was immediately thunderous. “You don’t think it was Malfoy, do you?”

Harry shrugged. “Who else do we know who’s blonde and hates me?”

They settled into an uneasy silence, and after a few moments the Mediwitch came over to herd Ron out of the Hospital Wing, with only minimal protest and a promise to visit first-thing.

He downed the pain potion Madame Pomfrey handed him with barely any fuss, and settled into bed, mind awhirl. Why would Malfoy attack him like this? And why now? He hadn’t had any run-ins with the other boy recently, and something about this just didn’t seem like the Slytherin’s style. Lying back, he tried to ease himself to sleep, and attempted not to think about the fact that, before retiring to her office, Madame Pomfrey seemed to ward the Hospital Wing doors.

Harry had barely finished breakfast when he was ambushed by some sort of bushy-haired whirlwind.

“Hermione!” he said, laughing despite himself as the girl untangled herself from him.

“Harry!” she cried. Her concern was obvious, despite the blurriness. She scanned him for injury. “We were worried sick when you and Ron didn’t return to the common room last night. And then Ron came back and said someone attacked you and you probably had some sort of head injury.”

Harry shot a glare at Ron, who looked slightly guilty.

“I don’t have a head injury, Hermione. Well, my head was injured, but it’s completely fine now. Madame Pomfrey checked me this morning, and she thinks I’ll be free to go around lunchtime.”

This was less of a comfort to Hermione than he’d hoped. “Is she sure? Head injuries can be really serious, Harry. It might take a while to see the damage.”

Harry snorted. “Hermione, I think Madame Pomfrey knows what she’s doing. She’d hardly release me if she thought there was any risk. She’d make me stay for an extra week if I looked a little pale. I’m fine, really.”

She didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded, sitting back. “Still. Merlin, Harry. Who do you think it was?”

Harry shrugged, then winced at the jolt the action sent through his head. He tried gamely to cover up his wince with a sip of water at Hermione’s suddenly narrowed eyes, avoiding her gaze. “Er,” he said quickly, “well, I thought I saw someone blonde disappearing round the corner just as I fell, so we were thinking Malfoy, but…”

Hermione frowned. “But it doesn’t really seem like his sort of thing, does it? He wouldn’t do anything like that without making a scene and crowing about it to his gang for weeks. I watched him at breakfast, just in case, and he seemed normal. Half asleep on his bacon, actually. I think they were discussing Quidditch.”

Hermione was right. Malfoy would have made a production about it, had it been him. And, he thought, he’d want Harry at least to know who had attacked him. Dudley might want to hurt you for the sake of it, but Malfoy would want you to know who’d hurt you.

They shared an uneasy look. “If it’s not Malfoy…” Harry said, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Then there’s someone else in Hogwarts who wants to hurt you, badly, and we haven’t the faintest idea who it is, or why,” Hermione finished.

They sat in silence until the bell.

Not long after, Harry’s peace was interrupted again.

“Good morning, Harry.”

Harry’s head snapped up to find Professor Lupin approaching his bed. Suppressing a wince at the movement – how did he keep forgetting? - Harry blinked owlishly at his professor. “Good morning, sir,” he managed to mumble, wondering with a resigned sense of embarrassment if the man was getting used to seeing him banged up in the Hospital Wing.

The Professor must have been thinking along the same lines, as he smiled conspiratorially and said, “I’m getting a bit of Déjà vu. You must be sick of the sight of this place by now.”

Harry pulled a face. “I do try not to get in trouble, honest. I must be setting some sort of record.”

Lupin chuckled. “I daresay it could be worse. Once, in our fifth year, your father landed himself in here three times in the one week. I believe Poppy said at the time that it’d been a first, at least in her career.”

Harry perked up immediately at this unexpected information. Had his dad had the same bad luck? He must’ve spent nights stuck in this horrible room, too. He might even have slept in this very bed, he realised with a funny lurch in his stomach. He tried to imagine a fifteen-year-old James Potter lying in his place, watching the stars at night through the window above as Harry liked to do, but the image was surprisingly hard to conjure. In the photo album Hagrid had given him in his first year, there’d been several photos of his parents in school. He’d treasured them like he treasured anything to do with his parents, but seeing them so young always made him feel strange. He hadn’t even known them as adults; seeing them around his age felt like skipping a step, or like being given a bunch of unconnected jigsaw pieces and being expected to fit them together without the picture on the box. Most kids knew their parents as adults first, and then only later realised they must’ve been kids too at one point. Harry felt almost like he was skipping a right of passage.

Lupin must have sensed his turn for the morose for he cleared his throat and took the seat Ron had vacated earlier.

“Right, onto business,” he said. “About your glasses, Harry. Did Madame Pomfrey explain to you the usual process?”

Harry dragged his thoughts back to the present. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “She said normally she could do a test and then the student’s guardians would send for them. But my guardians won’t go for that, sir.” Harry felt the usual embarrassed twinge at having to talk about the Dursleys with anyone magical, but somehow Lupin’s kind eyes just made it worse. If Lupin had any thoughts on the matter, however, his face didn’t show it. He simply nodded.

“Indeed, so, instead, Poppy has talked to the Headmaster, and he’s given his permission for you to visit an optician and collect your glasses in person this afternoon.”

That was unexpected. Harry frowned. “What, leave Hogwarts? Is there a place in Hogsmeade?”

Lupin smiled. “Not in Hogsmeade, unfortunately. We’ve an appointment this morning at Opalinski’s Opticians in Diagon Alley. If it’s alright with you, we’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

Harry didn’t know what to say for a moment, until he registered the ‘we’ and an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “I’m sorry you have to take me, sir. You must be missing classes for this.” The sudden curl of guilt made him squirm. Lupin still looked sickly and had missed several days already this term. The stress he’d be under if he fell further behind on his work surely couldn’t be good for him.

Lupin looked surprised. “Not at all, Harry. I happened to be visiting the Headmaster when Poppy’s message came through, and I volunteered for the task. My morning is free, and I’d never turn down a trip to the Alleys.” His smile was conspiratorial, but Harry’s return attempt must have been unconvincing, for Lupin grew a little more serious. “It’s certainly not your fault someone stole your glasses, Harry. You were attacked unprovoked and I’m just relieved you weren’t hurt worse. You’re holding up remarkably well.”

This was somehow worse than the guilt. Harry cleared his throat and searched desperately for a change of subject. “So how are we getting to Diagon Alley, sir? Not the train, surely?”

Lupin let the subject change gracefully. “We’ll be travelling via Floo. I believed you’ve used the Floo before?”

Harry didn’t bother asking how he knew that. At this point he was used to people knowing random facts about his life. He nodded. “Although that time I didn’t exactly end up where I intended,” he admitted with a grimace, remembering that horrible shop where he’d spied on the Malfoys, up to no good as always.

Lupin didn’t seem put off. “Well, we’ll be very careful this time, then, and we shouldn’t have any trouble. Have you had breakfast yet?” Harry nodded. “Excellent. I’ll wait in Madame Pomphrey’s office for you to get ready, then.”

The man left with another smile, and Harry waited until the door had closed behind him before getting his things together.

When Harry knocked at the office door a few minutes later, Lupin directed him to the fireplace and explained that they’d first have to Floo to the Headmaster’s office. “His is the only Floo with access beyond the school. I assumed you wouldn’t mind the shortcut. Being poorly does come with some benefits.” His smile was mischievous, and Harry found himself returning it easily, in spite of his discomfort. Despite his apprehension that he’d end up stepping out of Snape’s fireplace, or somewhere else equally dreadful, they managed to reach Dumbledore’s office without issue. It was strange being in the Headmaster’s office again; it was possibly the most magical room he’d ever seen, but the last time he’d been here he’d been pleading his innocence after stumbling over the petrified body of Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, answering what seemed to be very important mail if the little tawny owl waiting with grandiose impatience was anything to go by. And standing in front of his desk, looking almost as unhappy to see them as they were to see him, was Professor Snape.

“Ah, hello, boys. How are you feeling, Harry?” Dumbledore smiled at him over his glasses. His robes were a burnt orange colour that reminded Harry of Ron’s bedroom at the Burrow.

“Er, I’m fine, sir, thank you.” Harry responded, trying to sound casual, as if he often found himself in the Headmaster’s office, making small-talk. He couldn’t help darting a look over to Snape, who hadn’t yet made any move to acknowledge their entrance. Something strange came over the Professor’s face as he did, as if the man was shocked by something he saw in Harry’s face. Snape’s eyes bored unnervingly into Harry’s for a long, intense second. “Uh, how are you, sir?” Harry replied, tearing his eyes away and trying desperately to pretend he couldn’t still feel Snape’s burning gaze.

“Oh, splendid, Harry, thank you!” Dumbledore smiled, paying no mind to the staring Professor or the little owl, which now seemed to be glaring at him – could owls scowl? Before today Harry would have been sure they couldn’t.

“Headmaster,” Snape said eventually, barely a murmur. His face was now blank enough to put Theo to shame. Without waiting for a response, the Professor strode from the room, robes snapping impressively behind him, and disappeared down the spiral stairs. Blinking, Harry turned to Lupin, to see if he seemed at all troubled by this strange behaviour, but the Defence Professor seemed to have found something very interesting out the window, expression pinched and unreadable. Dumbledore appeared to have either not noticed Snape’s oddness, or he was doing an admirable job of ignoring it entirely. Honestly, Harry thought, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

Dumbledore broke the silence after a moment. “Please give my best to Aneta, Remus.” Lupin seemed to snap out of whatever thought he was lost in, and assured him he would. He looked at Harry for a moment with a frown until something seemed to occur to him.

“Oh, before we go, Harry - if you’d like, I can cast a charm on your hair to change the colour, make it a bit harder for you to be recognised. Of course, it’s fine if you’d rather go as you are, I just wondered if you might like a bit of anonymity while we’re in Diagon.”

Harry thought for a moment, rather surprised by the offer. Not having anyone gape or stare might make a nice change. “That would be great, sir. But, er… what colour?”

For some reason this made both men laugh. Harry maturely resisted glaring at the Headmaster, whom he would think ought to be more focused on the unfinished letter in front of him, and fought down a flush. What was so funny?

Lupin’s chuckle quickly fell into a warm smile. “Oh, nothing garish, don’t worry. A nondescript brown, like myself.”

Harry quickly nodded. “Thanks, sir. That would be great. I, er, appreciate it.”

Lupin wasted no time, aiming his wand at Harry’s hair and saying, “Crinus Muto,” with a little flick of his wrist.

After a moment, Harry reached up to bring a lock of his hair forward, but it wasn’t quite long enough to get a good look. Dumbledore chuckled again, and this time Harry did flush. “I’m sure there’s a mirror in the far corner table, if you’d like.”

Harry debated for a moment, before curiosity won out. He found the mirror easily, and spent a moment peering at the strange boy in the glass. Lupin had turned his hair brown as promised, and it really did rather match his own shade. It was funny his how much hair could change how you looked. Standing next to him, Harry was sure he’d blend in. They’d probably just look like… well. Turning back swiftly before his mind could go down that route, Harry forced a smile.

“Thanks, sir. It’ll be nice to blend in for once.”

Lupin nodded his acceptance of the thanks and gestured ahead to the fireplace. Harry came up beside him, accepting the pinch of powder the man offered.

Dumbledore cleared his throat behind them. “Have a pleasant afternoon, boys. And no need to rush; I’m sure Minerva will forgive you if you miss a bit of your afternoon classes, Harry.” He smiled mischievously, and Harry swallowed a laugh.

“Thank you, sir. Good luck with, er, your letters.”

Dumbledore only hummed in response, letting out a long sigh as he picked up his quill.

Gringotts hadn’t changed in the few months since Harry’s last visit. It was quieter than he was used to, though since Harry had only visited during the bustle of summer, he supposed that made sense. Besides themselves, there were only a few other customers waiting.

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Harry. “Er, sir?” he said quietly, conscious that there were people within hearing distance.

“Mm?” Lupin said, watching the wizard in front of them in the queue arguing – unsuccessfully – with the goblin behind the counter.

“I don’t – I think my vault key is in my dorm. I didn’t think, I’m really sorry, sir.”

With the surprise of Lupin’s appearance and the day’s plan, Harry hadn’t even thought about something as simple as money. Panic fought with embarrassment in his belly. Lupin would think he was such an idiot. Would they have to go all the way back to Hogwarts and then return? Or would it be too much of a hassle, and Harry would just have to go without his glasses? Would Lupin be angry? Would he think Harry was trying to get him to pay for his glasses?

Lupin turned to him at last and his calm smile quieted some of the panic. “Don’t worry, Harry. You weren’t expected to bring it, or I’d have reminded you. Dumbledore has a copy of your key, and he lent it to us for today.”

That was a relief. “Oh, right,” Harry said, now a little embarrassed about his panic.

They waited in silence for a few more moments – the wizard at the counter seemed almost ready to admit defeat – before Harry went back over what Lupin had just said, and frowned. He asked, tentatively, “Why does Dumbledore have a copy, anyway? Did my parents give it to him?”

Lupin pulled a face. “In a sense. Magical inheritance laws can be rather confusing – not to mention very dull – but essentially, you’re in one of the grey areas. With no magical relatives, and you being only a baby, you needed someone to act as a sort of Trustee until you came of age, looking after your inheritance. Dumbledore was on the list of people proposed– selected by your parents – and so it fell to him. It helps since he acts In loco parentis for you anyway as Headmaster.”

Harry digested this for a moment, before Lupin continued. “I expect it’s an entirely nominal position – there isn’t much to be done with your parents’ money and estates, except hold them for you until you grow up.”

“Estates?” Harry asked, but it looked like the wizard in front had finally slinked off to lick his wounds, and it was their turn.

“Next!” the goblin behind the counter called, already sounding impatient. Harry hoped for a moment it would be Griphook – the Goblin who had shown him to his vault before first year – who was still unpleasant, but at least had the benefit of familiarity, but Harry didn’t recognise the goblin waiting for them.

Lupin didn’t seem put off by the goblin’s brusque tone, and approached with a polite smile. “Good morning, we’re here to access Harry Potter’s vault.”

If the goblin cared at all about his celebrity, she didn’t show it. Instead, her gaze was strangely stuck on Lupin for a long moment, and it didn’t look friendly. Harry was distinctly reminded of the way Aunt Petunia might look at him if he came home covered in mud. “Key?” she asked at length, barely sparing Harry a glance. Lupin proffered the key as instructed, seemingly oblivious to the goblin’s bizarre enmity. She did something with it below the counter that they couldn’t see. After a moment, it came back in sight, and the goblin called, “Bagnok!” in a high, sharp voice.

A smaller goblin came scurrying round the corner, stopping a few feet from the counter. “Vault 687,” the goblin behind the counter said, handing the other goblin the key. Their new host nodded hurriedly, and squeaked, “With me, please!” at them before hurrying off. Lupin and Harry hastened to follow.

Lupin seemed to fare better with the cart ride than Hagrid had, and they reached their destination disappointingly quickly. “This way!” Bagnok called weakly as she exited the cart. It was rather hard to judge with his limited experience of Goblins, but Harry thought she might be younger than the other Goblins he’d met. She certainly seemed nervous; Harry caught her eyeing the engraved 687 next to the vault doors several times, as if double-checking she had the right place.

She brandished the key in a very tight grip, before approaching the vault, doing something with the key and her claws that Harry couldn’t quite make out. A moment later, with a noise like something very heavy being shifted, the vault door slowly swung open.

Seeing the mounds of gold and silver coins piled high in front of him, Harry felt a twinge of embarrassment remembering Lupin’s shabby robes. Harry wanted to just grab a handful of galleons and run, before Lupin saw the exorbitant wealth within, but it was probably too late for that, and besides, Harry wasn’t sure exactly how many Galleons he'd need for new glasses.

Harry tried to cast a furtive look at Lupin to judge how he was feeling, but the man was as placid as ever. He gestured for Harry to enter the vault ahead of him, and after a pause Harry acquiesced.

 “Right,” said Lupin. “You'll need enough to cover the cost of your glasses today, and – did you take out plenty before the term began?”

 “Er,” said Harry, who normally just grabbed a handful of coins and stuffed them in his bag, hoping the Weasleys didn’t get a good look, “probably?” Saying he hadn’t given money much thought would sound rather spoiled, so instead he just shrugged. “I don’t really buy anything at Hogwarts, anyway. What would I spend it on?”

“Well,” said Lupin thoughtfully, “you might need new clothes, or want to send away for something, or ask your friends to get you something from Hogsmeade. Would you like to take a few extra Galleons, just in case?”

Harry didn’t see himself doing any of that, but he figured he might as well, if Lupin thought it was a good idea. “Sure,” he said, awkwardly.

Lupin nodded, then started counting out Galleons and Sickles and Knuts. “Let’s say ten Galleons for the glasses, just in case, and five more for some leeway and for the rest of the year. Do you have an expanded pouch at school?” Harry shook his head.

“That’s alright. Bagnok?” Lupin called. The Goblin poked her head through the door and looked at him with an air that was distinctly nervous.

“Do you happen to have an expanded pouch we could purchase? Medium-sized, preferably.”

The Goblin looked relieved, before rather obviously attempting a haughty expression. “Of course. That’ll be seventeen sickles.”

Lupin reached into his own robe pocket and began counting the coins out. Harry felt another fluttering of panic. “Er, I can get it, sir. Honest! I mean – I’ve got plenty.” He made to gesture to the mountains of coins around him but aborted the gesture quickly. Oh Merlin, now he did sound spoiled.

But Lupin only smiled, before handing the coins over in exchange for a little black pouch. “It’s alright, Harry. You shouldn’t be spending your money on things like this. Here,” he said, popping Harry’s coins in the pouch and handing it over. “Gringotts pouches are good quality. This one should last you until you leave school, at least. There’s a hundred Galleon holding limit, but you really won’t need that much for anything while you’re at school.”

Harry nodded dumbly, a little overwhelmed. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled, but Lupin just smiled. They made their way out of the vault and headed back up to the building above. The cart ride was quiet and over quickly. When they arrived, Harry noticed Bagnok cast an unmistakable look of dread over at the Goblin behind the counter, and felt a momentary pang of empathy. “Thanks, Bagnok,” he said, and the little Goblin jumped.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter,” she said, and Harry could have sworn her lips twitched into the tiniest smile before her face morphed back into a scowl. He smiled brightly at her, before following Lupin back out into the Alley.

“Hello?” Lupin called, Harry quick on his heels as they entered a little shop one street off the main Alley. They seemed to be alone. The shop itself looked disappointingly similar to the only other Opticians Harry had visited. Racks of glasses lined three of the walls, and a door in the back presumably lead deeper into the shop. Silence meeting Lupin’s call, Harry glanced around until he found a small bell on the nearby counter, surrounded by parchment and quills. He pointed over to it, and Lupin smiled, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder as he went to ring it. “Well spotted, Harry.”

Harry cleared his throat.

The bell seemed to do the trick. Within a few moments, they heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A stern-looking older woman appeared in the doorway, grey hair drawn severely back from her face in a bun.

“Yes?” she said, eying them both in a way which wasn’t quite unfriendly, but definitely made Harry want to straighten his collar.

“Good morning, Ms. Opalinski, I’m Remus Lupin here with Mr. Potter for an eye test. I believe you spoke to Headmaster Dumbledore earlier?”

The woman’s face cleared in recognition. “Ah, yes. Mr. Potter, is it?” She had a slight accent which Harry couldn’t place. She looked him up and down, her eyes fixing briefly on his hair, but mercifully she didn’t comment. “I can take you just now. If you’ll step forward?”

Obediently, Harry approached.

“Now, Albus tells me you’ve only had a muggle eye test?” At his nod she continued. “This will be rather straightforward, then. Only the test itself will be different. I will examine your eyes, then you will select your frames and come back later to collect them. Now, if you’ll look here.”

Harry spent the next ten or so minutes looking this way and that, having strange spells cast on his eyes, and at one unpleasant point had to keep his left eye open wide while the witch shone a Lumos an inch from his face. A quill and piece of parchment which had been lying across the little counter shot up as soon as the examination started, and began taking notes unaided, floating distractingly near his head. Ms. Opalinksi had to reprimand him for looking away twice, to his embarrassment.

When they were at last done, Ms. Opalinski snatched the parchment out of the air and scanned it. “Hm, yes. Okay, Mr. Potter. Now you must select your frames. There is a list of charms and enchantments that can be added to the final product, for a price, on the wall.” With that, she disappeared back behind the counter, gesturing loosely at the walls of frames without looking up from the parchment.

Harry gave one quick look at the dozens of pairs of glasses on offer, before turning to his Professor in mild panic. Lupin must have sensed his uncertainty, for he was already at his shoulder. “Alright, now for picking your new glasses. Have you thought about a style you’d like?”

A style? Merlin, no. Harry’d not given it a thought. He shook his head, and Lupin nodded, seeming to have expected this. His eyes scanned over the frames in front of them quickly. “Well, do you think you’d like circular glasses, like your old ones, or rectangular frames? Or something different?”

Seeing the look on his face, he added, “There’s no wrong answer, Harry. You can just pick a pair you like. You won’t have them forever. I’m sure you’ll need a new prescription in a few years, anyway.”

Well, thinking about it that way was a little easier. Still, Harry didn’t really have any experience picking out things for himself like this. His glasses and clothes had always been Dudley’s hand-me-downs or the cheapest option in the shop. Even his robes were just the standard Hogwarts variety. Did he want any particular type of glasses? He honestly didn’t think so. Although, if he could get a strong pair, maybe they’d break less, during Quidditch or altercations with Dudley, who got particular joy from watching him Sellotape them back together after stomping on them. That would make things easier. He wouldn’t miss being the boy with taped up glasses.

He shrugged at Lupin uncomfortably. “I don’t really care about the style so much, so long as they’re strong, maybe? For, uh, Quidditch.”

Lupin nodded thoughtfully, moving to a list up on the wall. He scanned it for a moment. “Ah, yes, Ms. Opalinski offers reinforcement as an additional charm.” Harry walked over, taking in the list of optional enchantments. Some of them seemed a little silly – the binocular function would certainly come in handy searching for the Snitch, but was no doubt against the rules – but some struck his interest. The reinforcement worked on the frames and the glass, which would remove the worry of glass shattering in his eyes both during Quidditch and the next time Dudley managed to hit him in the face. There were also water-repellent and sticking enchantments so his glasses wouldn’t leave his face unless he took them off himself. Each enchantment was another Galleon, which made Harry squirm. He supposed they weren’t exactly necessary. He – or, well, Hermione – knew the sticking and water-repellent charms. This would just mean he wouldn’t have to renew them every time he wanted them. It was laziness, really.

“Anything you’d like?” Lupin asked.

Harry shrugged. “Well, a few, but I don’t really need them…” he trailed off.

Pressure on his shoulder made his head whip round, but it was just Lupin’s hand, again. The man really was very touchy. He squeezed gently. “Get what you want, Harry. That’s why I added the extra money. You ought to treat yourself sometimes. That’s what the money’s there for.”

Harry’s throat felt a little thick, but he managed a nod. Lupin’s hand squeezed once more before it fell back to his side.

Ten minutes later, Harry thought he had his selection. There was far too much choice, but Harry had come across a pair of simple-looking frames that reminded him a bit of his old pair, only better-made. The frames were round, but the legs were a little thicker, and were a very dark red. He’d fiddled with them for a few minutes before starting to get worried he was taking too long. He remembered what Lupin had said and pursed his lips. Oh, what the hell. He turned to his Professor. “Um, I think I’ll go with these ones.”

The man smiled. “Alright. And have you decided about enchantments you might like?”

Hesitantly, Harry shrugged. “I suppose the reinforcement and a few others could be useful…”

“Excellent,” he said, as if it was settled, and Harry followed him to where Ms. Opalinski waited. When he heard the total price, Harry was glad Lupin had insisted on him taking out extra.

“Your spectacles will be ready within two hours. Please return at twelve-thirty to retrieve them.” With that, Ms. Opalinski wandered back the way she had come, peering down at the parchment in her hands and disappearing through the back without once looking where she was going.

Exiting the shop, Harry tried to push down the squirm of guilt he always felt at spending money on himself. Lupin seemed impervious to Harry’s mood, smiling cheerfully in the early winter sun.

“So, if we return at 12, that gives us two hours to kill. I was thinking perhaps a trip to Flourish and Blotts, then lunch at the Leaky Cauldron? Is there anything you need to do or pick up while we’re here? New stationary, potions supplies, some early Christmas shopping, a haircut…?”

Harry fought a flush. Lupin smiled good naturedly. “Or we can simply do some window shopping. If you’d rather, we can return to the castle until noon. I just thought you might appreciate a change of scenery.”

Harry shook his head hurriedly. “No, window shopping sounds fine, I mean, that sounds good, thanks. I like Diagon Alley. I stayed at the Cauldron for the last three weeks of summer.”

Lupin hummed. “Yes, I heard what happened to your Aunt. You must have had a fright, before the Minister found you.”

Harry frowned, more than a little offended. A fright? He wasn’t five. He’d had a fright when the Basilisk’s tooth had pierced through his arm and he thought he’d die; catching the Knight bus after blowing up his Aunt hardly compared. Lupin must have sensed his annoyance, for he looked far too amused. Harry reminded himself sternly that he would lose about a million House points if he attacked his Defence Professor. This time, anyway.

“I was fine. I took the Knight bus and was perfectly safe when the Minister bumped into me outside of the Cauldron.” Harry nobly ignored how surly he sounded. He aimed a well-placed kick at a passing stone on the ground, imagining that it was his Aunt Marge’s face. You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s turned out, Vernon… If there’s something rotten on the inside, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Lupin’s voice was gentle now, and all traces of mirth were gone. “I’m sure you were, Harry. I only meant that it was an unpleasant situation, and I’m sorry you were in it.”

Harry blinked, a funny feeling in his stomach. He was certainly an improvement over Quirrell and Lockhart, but Lupin could be downright bizarre sometimes. Maturely deciding to change the subject, Harry spotted the Owl Emporium a few shops down. “Could we nip into Eeylop’s for a minute, if you don’t mind, sir? Hedwig is out of treats.”

“Certainly, Harry. Lead the way.” Lupin’s face became rather fixed, but he made no complaint as they entered the shop, trailing a few steps behind him. He loitered near the entrance as Harry ventured further in. The cacophony of owls screeching and cats hissing and little krups yip-yip-yipping brought back pleasant memories of the summer. He made quick work of finding Hedwig’s favourite brand of owl treats – spoiled thing that she was – and was in the queue to pay in no time, sending (hopefully) discreet concerned looks over to his Defence Professor, who was still standing awkwardly near the door, radiating discomfort. Did he not like animals? If the man was afraid of owls it was rotten luck that he was a wizard. While Harry watched, a Kneazle almost as fluffy as Crookshanks which had been dozing on a counter near the entrance opened its eyes and looked, bizarrely, straight at his Professor. Lupin clearly saw this, but immediately looked away, peering back into the Alley and shuffling his feet as if trying to seem casual. If it wasn’t for the sudden tension in his shoulders, Harry might have bought it. The man, Harry couldn’t help but note, looked like he was bracing himself.

Harry didn’t have to wait long to find out why. A low hiss became audible over the din of the shop, and Harry watched, baffled, as the fluffy little cat began to stand, fur bristling and ears flat on its head as the hiss turned into a yowl and its body arched – it was evidently scared to death of his mild-mannered Defence Professor. Lupin’s face had become very fixed, head turned directly away from the commotion. What on earth-

“Son? Oi, son? What the hell’s your dad doing to my Caligula?” It took Harry several seconds to realise he was being addressed, and when he did he felt his face flush a burning red. The witch behind the counter – the affable woman who had sold them Crookshanks during the summer, he realised – was alternating alarmed glares between Harry and whatever was happening behind him. Her eyes were narrowed and her hands were braced on the counter. She looked about ready to leap over it to her cat’s defence.

“Uh! Nothing, he’s just – standing there - it doesn’t seem to like him. I’m sorry.” He prayed to Merlin that Lupin couldn’t hear them over the din.

The shopkeeper’s face was pinched with suspicion as she looked from Lupin to the still yowling Caligula. Some of the other customers surrounding them had turned at the noise, and were looking from the Kneazle to Lupin with growing suspicion and annoyance. Harry felt a low thrum of unease in his belly. He turned back to the witch, ready to say – something – but as he watched, her face suddenly cleared, and a flash of horrible fear replaced her earlier anger so quickly Harry had to blink. She swallowed visibly, before looking Harry up and down. Lips pursing, she motioned him forward to the till with a sharp gesture. Harry turned to the elderly wizard in front of him, who looked almost as baffled as Harry felt, but the witch simply motioned again and snapped, “Come here, boy!” Harry darted forward and paid hurriedly for the treats, handing over too much money and not waiting for his change; he was seized with the sudden need to get out of the shop as quickly as possible. He didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know the Shopkeeper felt the same. He almost jogged to the exit once he was done, hoping to Merlin that he didn’t look as panicked as he felt as he bustled Professor Lupin as casually as possible out of the shop, customers staring and mad cat still howling after them.

“Found anything interesting?”

Harry looked up to see Lupin had returned at last, carrying several dusty looking books in his arms. They had arrived at the bookshop not long after the Emporium fiasco. Harry kept sneaking glances at the man to see if he seemed at all put-out about being publicly targeted by a deranged cat, but Lupin was cheerfully acting like nothing had happened. Harry had assumed they’d head to Flourish and Blotts after that, but instead Lupin had taken him to an out-of-the-way second-hand bookshop Harry hadn’t noticed before, even with all his exploration this summer. It was claustrophobic with books; they were on every surface, seemingly in no order, reminding Harry distinctly of Lupin’s office, or Hermione’s nightstand. They were piled up at either side of its narrow aisles, blocking them in further, and Harry had to double-take as he saw a large tabby cat apparently comfortably asleep on one pile. Harry eyed it nervously in light of Lupin’s recent incident, but thankfully this cat seemed content to stay sleeping. Lupin had mumbled something about the time before wandering happily to a dusty corner of the shop, so Harry took it upon himself to browse. Glancing at the first interesting-looking book he came across, he quickly realised Lupin hadn’t quite thought through the wisdom of taking a boy who needed glasses to a bookshop. Holding the title barely an inch from his face, he managed just about to work it out. Gardening with Gnomes; a Guide to Graceful Co-habitation, by Marcella Proudfoot. Stifling the urge to slip it into Ron’s trunk to take home to the Weasleys, Harry gently deposited the book back on the nearest pile. He hoped maybe to find some Quidditch books somewhere, but was soon disillusioned when he realised there wasn’t any sort of discernible order to the books. He even found a surprising number of muggle novels mixed in with the more expected titles like Everyday Cooking for busy Wizards and Transfiguration for Twits, vol. 5. He couldn’t even scan the titles to make things easier, as he had to bring the books very close to read them clearly. Most of the books were old, but a few looked relatively new. His eye was caught by an aged tome near the bottom of a very precariously-balanced pile. Its edges were gilded with gold, and Harry’s curiosity was piqued despite himself. It took nearly a minute of shuffling to get the book out from under the others without starting an avalanche, but soon Harry could see the cover. Challenging Charms for the Competent Caster vol. 3 was heftier than he’d expected. A brief flick through revealed hundreds of pages of charms, a few of which he recognised, but many he didn’t. Some were downright strange. Quasi-Fervidus would heat water to exactly one degree below boiling and no more. Contra Colosum would invert the colours of any pattern, including, apparently, on living things. Harry wondered if he might ever be brave enough to try that one on Professor McGonagall in cat form. He suspected not.  

He was still holding the book when Lupin appeared. “Found one?” the man prompted again, eying it curiously.

“Oh, er, maybe. It’s an old charms book. Some of the spells are – bizarre, but it looks interesting.”

Lupin smiled. “Far be it for me to discourage healthy curiosity. Did you want to look around more, or shall we head to the Cauldron for lunch?”

The pub was quiet when they arrived. Tom, who Harry had gotten on rather well with during his stay that summer, made short work of bringing them their meals. There was no way he didn’t recognise Harry, even with his new hair, but he did nothing more than wink cheerfully at the boy and made no mention of it. They ate in companionable silence for several minutes, enjoying the heat of the soup on a chilly day, before Harry remembered something he’d wanted to ask earlier.

“Sir? Earlier, at Gringotts, you said something about my parents having ‘money and estates’. I know my dad was rich, but what did you mean by estates? Doesn’t that mean things like houses?”

Lupin chewed thoughtfully for a moment before replying. “’Estates’ refers to the owned property and money of a person. But yes, they had a few homes, I believe. The Potters were a very old family, Harry. And very wealthy. Your parents owned their house – the one they lived in when you were a baby – and James’ parents, of course, raised him in the same house that had been in the family since his great-great-grandfather, I believe.”

Harry digested this blankly for a moment. “What happened to it, sir? Is it still there?”

“Oh, yes. Your grandparents died about a year after we left Hogwarts, and naturally James inherited everything. He didn’t stay there after their deaths; it was too large for just him and – and, well I suppose it would’ve been painful. I expect it’s been empty since. Except for the elves, of course.”

“Elves? You mean House Elves?” The only other family Harry knew who had House Elves were the Malfoys. This wasn’t a nice thought.

“I believe they had a few. They don’t generally leave the property unless it’s being sold on to a new family. Most likely, they’ll still be there, keeping the place going.”

“Just… waiting? D’you think they’d remember my dad?”

“Of course. If I remember correctly, they were all older elves. Probably close in age to your grandfather.”

This idea was too strange for Harry. Elves who had known his grandparents. “Do I – you said the estates were being held for me by Dumbledore?”

Lupin frowned. “In a sense. I believe it’s mostly just a name on a piece of paper, legally, until you turn seventeen. Like I said, your parents put him on the list to hold it for you, in case anything happened.”

It was Harry’s turn to frown. “But why did they have a list, anyway? They weren’t old. Did they think something was going to happen?”

Lupin sighed, and looked like he was picking his words carefully. Harry narrowed his eyes. “I suppose… they knew the dangers. We were at war, Harry. By the time you were born we’d already lost people we knew – powerful, capable people - and it was only getting worse. It would have been silly not to make arrangements.”

Harry didn’t quite buy this explanation, but he decided to let it go. For now. Having a source close to his parents willing to answer questions was almost heady. He leaned forward. “Hagrid said no one knows why Voldemort went after them that night. That maybe he wanted to get them on his side, or just get rid of them. You were their friend. What do you think?”

Harry watched with keen eyes as Lupin blinked. He resolutely pushed down the guilt in his stomach at how sad the man suddenly looked. “I really don’t know, Harry.” He paused for a moment. “Your parents went into hiding when your mum found out she was pregnant with you. They were terrified something might happen. I saw them on occasion, but not as much as I’d have liked. We came the night you were born…” His voice trailed off, lost in the memory. His eyes darted to Harry’s face, then back to the table. “I’d never seen them like that before. That whole night, we didn’t think about the war once.”

Lupin lapsed into silence for a long moment. Harry studiously thought about nothing but his breathing for several moments. Think about it later, he told himself.

Lupin continued. “For the next year or so, I saw them half a dozen times. And then not at all for the last five months, after they went into complete hiding. Not even Dumbledore knew where they were. There were a few letters... mainly from Lily – your dad was never one for writing – but... well, I was off the grid, too, towards the end of the war. We were all stretched thin, and all the fighting...”

This was something new to think about. “Did my parents do any actual fighting in the war? No one’s really said what it all involved. I know Voldemort had his followers, and that there was fighting and attacks – Ron's uncles were killed, he said - but not, y’know, what kind of fighting, and who exactly was doing it. Was it just the Death Eaters versus everyone else? There weren’t like... battles, were there? Like muggles have?”

Lupin looked like the conversation was rapidly spinning out of control.

“No, nothing quite so organised. Unfortunately, the country wasn’t split into Death Eaters and people willing to fight them. Most witches and wizards weren’t involved in any direct fighting at all, and the vast majority of Death Eaters kept their identities secret. For most people, the war meant being careful and being afraid, avoiding crowded places and not trusting anyone, and sometimes, if you were very unlucky, well... Vodemort created an atmosphere of terror by occasionally attacking people at random. You could avoid politics as much as possible, and still you weren’t safe. There were some people on our side involved in the fighting; the Aurors at the Ministry, and...” Lupin seemed to be conflicted. After a moment he sighed, and met Harry’s eyes very seriously. “Harry... Some of this... This information needs to be kept quiet. For the safety of those involved. I won’t give you names, but... There was a group of us, in the War-”

Harry cursed himself for interrupting, but - “Should we talk about this in public? If it’s-” he lowered his voice to a whisper - “dangerous.”

Lupin smiled. “No need to worry. I cast Muffliato when it became obvious I would be getting the third-degree.”

Harry grimaced sheepishly. “Um, sorry. What’s Muffliato?” Harry didn’t want to give Lupin the opportunity to change the subject, but if the spell did what it sounded like, it would be far too useful to ignore.

Lupin’s smile made his strange amber eyes crinkle up. “A very handy charm which became popular when I was at Hogwarts. It fills the ears of anyone who gets too close with an incessant buzzing sound, making it good for having private conversations.” Perhaps seeing the look on Harry’s face, the Professor snorted. “I’ll teach you it at some point, I promise. Now, where were we?”

Harry sat up straighter, feeling a silly sense of gratitude that Lupin hadn’t taken the excuse to get out of answering his questions.

“You said you were part of a secret group in the war.”

Some of the mirth left Lupin’s face. He sighed. “Yes. Not long after we left school, your parents and I, as well as some of our classmates, were invited to join – an organisation, shall we say, dedicated to taking a more active approach towards the war.” Lupin seemed to mill something over for a moment before his mouth set. “We called ourselves the Order of the Phoenix. Harry… I don’t think I have to tell you that Voldemort is not finished with us. If… When he comes back, we will need every advantage we can get. If the Order needs to reconvene – which, well. I won’t lie to you. I expect it will – then the less anyone knows about us, the better chance we’ll have. I need you to keep this information to yourself as much as you can. I won’t ask you to hide it from your friends – but I need you to really think about the ramifications if anything about the Order gets into the wrong hands. Trust is…” Lupin’s face twisted. “Trust is important. But you need to exercise judgement. I know you’ve been making new friends, and I won’t tell you who to trust. But I need you to be careful.” His gaze was as serious as Harry had ever seen it. He nodded, trying to put as much sincerity as he could into the gesture.

A moment of silence passed before Lupin continued. “The Ministry was dragging its feet… They buried their heads in the sand for as long as they could, and by the time they started to take action, they were so rife with informants and double-agents it became almost pointless. The ministry was just too big. Of course the Aurors understood secrecy, but even they were beholden to bureaucracy and there were just so many leaks. I can’t explain to you the lack of trust in those days. People you’d never expect turned out to be Death Eaters. Families were destroyed. And – perhaps worse – you didn’t have to be a Death Eater to help them. Voldemort and his supporters targeted people – normal, good people. They were tortured, their families threatened - anything until they talked or agreed to their demands. It seemed like Voldemort could get to anyone… Those last few years…Fear and death and hatred everywhere you turned. I hope you never have to know what that’s like, but, well…” Lupin was lost for a second. He pulled himself back together with an apologetic smile. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“Having a small group consisting only of people already trusted and vetted… that allowed us to make plans without the risk of having them discovered. It meant we knew who we were fighting alongside. People we loved, who we’d die for without question and who’d do the same. Total trust. Or…” The light behind Lupin’s eyes seemed to go out suddenly. He looked away. “Well, that was the idea, anyway. We ran missions, passed along information and disrupted as much as we could. I think we made a difference. We saved some people, stopped some attacks… launched a few…”

Harry tried not to breathe.

“We did what we could.”

Lupin fell into a heavy silence, face unreadable. Thoughts spun through Harry’s head, faster than he could keep track of. His parents, Lupin… attacks. He felt a little sick.

They were interrupted a moment later by Tom ambling past their alcove, dirty dishes and cutlery floating steadily a few feet behind him. He paused suddenly, frowning, and cocked his head to the side, giving it a shake as if to dislodge something. Lupin caught his eye and winked, mischievous. Harry tried to hide his laugh in his shoulder, and the atmosphere was broken.

Lupin sat up straight, and Harry copied him. “Anything else you’d like to know before we head back?” The strange mood that had overtaken him seemed to have dissipated, and Lupin looked as steady as ever.

Harry bit his lip, but when Lupin only watched him, patient, he finally ventured, “I was just wondering, Professor. The Order of the Phoenix… well, it’s just that I only know one person who has a Phoenix…” Harry eyed him carefully, hoping he wouldn’t have to ask, and Lupin made a face like he’d been expecting Harry’s question. He nodded, looking resigned.

“Dumbledore was our founder. Which is partially why this information is so delicate, Harry. Without Dumbledore, we wouldn’t stand a chance against Voldemort, and this is exactly the kind of information that his enemies could use against him. I know that you will treat it with the secrecy it deserves.”

Harry’s back straightened without conscious thought at the confidence in Lupin’s words. He licked his lips, not wanting to push his luck, but when would he get another chance like this?

“Sir, you said that Dumbledore was on the list of people to look after my - estates. That must mean there were others. Who? Was Dumbledore at the top?”

Lupin blinked, and something shuttered in his gaze while a small smile played at his lips. “Very astute, Harry.” His pause now was long and felt more weighted than the others. Harry had the sudden sense that Lupin really didn’t want to answer this question. “Harry… I don’t want to lie to you. Dumbledore was the only person nominated by your parents who was… capable of fulfilling that role. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say on the subject. At least… at the moment.”

There was guilt in Lupin’s gaze, and the familiar frustration within Harry at another adult refusing to tell him information about himself, but looking at Lupin over the remains of the lunch the man had insisted on buying them, Harry felt the frustration drain away. There wasn’t just guilt in the man’s expression. Harry could recognise pain easily enough. Whatever reason he had for wanting the subject dropped, it seemed sincere.

Harry nodded, and the tension in Lupin seemed to fall away.

Lupin tried valiantly for a smile. “Now, shall we go and check on your glasses? I expect it’s been long enough now.”

Harry nodded, and they gathered their things, leaving the strange tension behind them with the dishes for Tom to clean up.

Later that afternoon, Harry watched through his new glasses as Percy went as red as his hair. “Check!” Ron crowed as the twins whooped from across the room. Harry still wasn’t sure what possessed Percy to finally give in to Ron’s demands for a game; the Head Boy was almost as bad as Harry at chess, and he’d had years more practice at deflecting Ron. It was almost painful to watch. Ron was lazily chasing Percy’s king across the board, and Harry was almost positive he was dragging it out longer than he needed to. The twins were clustered with Lee aways away, but they seemed to have a sixth sense for whenever Percy made a particularly poor move, and never failed to jeer at him from across the Common Room, much to Percy’s clear annoyance, if the twitch in his jaw was anything to go by.

Harry was curled up in his favourite armchair near the fire, homework long abandoned on the table in front of him. Hermione was opposite, engrossed in a book. Harry could make out that it was a muggle novel, but not much else. Ginny was also ostensibly doing homework, but hadn’t taken her eyes off the game in twenty minutes. The only other person around was Oliver Wood, who had come back sweaty from flying – Harry had panicked for a moment, seeing him, thinking he’d lost several hours and had missed practice, before common sense returned and he realised Oliver must have been flying for fun, despite them having practice later that evening, the nutter – who had presumably noticed Percy’s imminent demise and had stuck around to provide emotional support. Harry wouldn’t have thought they’d get along, but perhaps sharing a dorm for seven years created a bond that even clashing personalities couldn’t shake. Although, thinking about it, Harry supposed they had some things in common. Percy was as crazy for following the rules as Oliver was about Quidditch. Harry shuddered with the fear that they’d one day turn their passions to the same subject. No one would stand a chance.

Harry hadn’t had a chance to talk to his friends yet about the things he’d learned. His whole morning in the Alley seemed almost unreal in hindsight. He was still getting used to his new glasses. Hermione had told him they made him look very handsome, and Ron had almost died laughing at how Harry had squawked and turned red. The twins had overheard him telling Ron and Hermione about the reinforcement charm Ms. Opalinski had added, and Harry had spent almost half an hour with them badgering him to let them test the charm out in increasingly violent ways, the least of which involved throwing them from the Astronomy Tower.

Harry would talk to them about it. Lupin’s warnings rang in his ears, but Harry didn’t even have to consider whether he could trust his friends; if he couldn’t trust Ron and Hermione, he couldn’t trust anyone. Yet something held him back. He would tell them, but he needed a little more time to process what he’d learned. He hadn’t discovered a great deal, all things considered, but so much of it was about himself – his own history, the history of his family – that it felt significant: the Potters had a home that he would inherit when he turned seventeen; Dumbledore was acting as his magical guardian, appointed by his parents, because he had no magical relatives; His parents had been part of some top-secret Death Eater-fighting organisation run by the Headmaster; Lupin expected that Voldemort would come back and the group would have to reconvene; And there was something about his magical guardianship… something Lupin didn’t want to talk about. What could that mean? Was there someone else his parents had wanted in Dumbledore’s place? Lupin had said that the Headmaster was the only person ‘capable’ of fulfilling their wishes. He had seemed to find the topic painful. The obvious answer was that there was someone else they had wanted instead, but Lupin didn’t want to tell him who they were or why they weren’t ‘capable’, even though he clearly knew. Harry didn’t think Lupin would hide things from him without good reason… he had been honest with Harry – more honest than he could recall any other adult being. But it wasn’t like Harry knew the man, really. He was his teacher – strangely kind, a friend of his parents, willing to teach him advanced magic in his free time just because he had asked him to – but just his teacher, at the end of the day. And, unbidden, the look of fear on that shopkeeper’s face when she looked at the man kept popping into his head. Harry didn’t know what to think, and he hated the feeling.

A thought had been nagging at him since their conversation. Lupin had been close with his parents. From what it sounded like, he’d practically been best friends with his dad, and had been friends with his mum too. He seemed genuinely upset when Harry had asked – upset, and guilty. Undeniably guilty. Could it have been Lupin his parents had wanted as his magical guardian? Harry couldn’t think about the idea without feeling like his head was spinning. It seemed the obvious solution. But then it begged the question; why was Lupin not ‘capable’? No matter how much he turned the question over in his mind, he couldn’t think of an answer that made sense. And if it wasn’t Lupin, who could it be that would cause his professor so much distress? And why couldn’t he tell him? None of it made sense, but it was clear Lupin wasn’t going to tell him. That left, perhaps, Dumbledore, but Harry dismissed that idea immediately. He’d never seek out the Headmaster to ask him something so silly, and even if he did, what if he refused to tell him either? Harry remembered when he’d woken up after everything had happened with the Philosopher’s stone. Harry had asked why Voldemort had targeted him, and Dumbledore had given him the same answer – he couldn’t tell him yet; he wasn’t ready. What if he did the same thing? There was a sense of awkwardness in thinking about the Headmaster now. He knew that Dumbledore had known his parents, but he hadn’t realised how close they must have been for them to appoint him as his guardian. They must have trusted him implicitly. And to know that Dumbledore had been the leader of an underground resistance group during the war… Harry felt suddenly a little intimidated. No, he’d keep his questions to himself for the moment. But it was a long time before he dragged his thoughts away from what he’d learned, and the game was long over.

Chapter Text

“Cheer up, Harry!” George called from twenty feet above him, “That’s important work you’re doing!”

“Yeah, couldn’t do it without you, mate!” Fred zipped by overhead, his laugh lost in the wind.

Harry scowled at the rag in his hand, refusing to look up out of principle to where the rest of the team were winding down the practice.

He’d shown up earlier that evening without a second thought about being fit to fly, and had been very quickly disabused of this notion by an irate Oliver and Angelina. Somehow they’d heard about his stint in the Hospital Wing – the team was full of gossips, and Harry would bet every Galleon in his vault that the twins were to blame – and apparently there was no chance in hell they were risking his ability to play upcoming matches (Oliver) or his health (Angelina) by practicing so soon after a head injury. Instead of getting the night free to do as he wished (“And do what, sulk in the common room?” Alicia had asked) Oliver had decided Harry would be best put to use doing the inventory and polishing the equipment. Because Oliver was a superstitious maniac when it came to Quidditch, no one was allowed to use magic on any piece of equipment, meaning Harry had to polish everything by hand. The activity reminded him far too much of afternoons spent helping his Aunt Petunia polish the good China and as result he was in a foul mood.

He was most of the way done when he heard the rustling. Sometimes students would come out to the stands to watch the practices, but with no big games forthcoming and in the mid-November chill, the pitch was predictably deserted. Harry was sitting near the bottom of the stands, close to the edge of the pitch. The sun had disappeared hours ago, and this close to the Forbidden Forest, his teammates now halfway down the pitch, Harry felt the stirrings of unease.

The noise had come from the Forest. Harry slowly put down the rag he was cleaning, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Dementors? He hadn’t seen any coming close since the incident at the last game, but who was to say they’d obey the rules? He felt his stomach flip with fear as he imagined them pouring out of the Forest en masse. His paltry Patronus wouldn’t do a thing – he wasn’t nearly ready, and there were no teachers around to help him this time. They’d overwhelm him within seconds. What happened when Dementors had you in their grasp and no one came? Could you die from the misery? Harry had to swallow at the sudden surge of fear.

Calm down, he told himself. This doesn’t feel like Dementors. Take stock, like Lupin says during lessons. If there were Dementors approaching, he’d feel the sudden cold. They wouldn’t hide in the Forest – Dementors weren’t intelligent enough for hiding. And he’d hear his mother. All he could hear was the distant whoop of Katie getting a goal past Oliver.

But – there. Rustling, again. Like something was hiding just at the edge of the Forest, keeping in the shadows, observing him. Stalking him. Suddenly Harry knew he was being watched. He could feel their gaze like a weight on his skin. His eyes raked over the Forest edge, but nothing seemed to be moving except the faint wind. Harry dropped the rag gently on the Quaffle he’d been polishing, his hand creeping towards the pocket which kept his wand. Halfway there, he froze. Two eyes were staring back at him. Bright green, but instead of skin there was fur. Black fur.

It wasn’t a person; it was the dog from Magnolia Crescent.

They watched each other for a long moment, until a sudden low growl carried over on the wind, and Harry felt a shot of pure fear pass through his chest. He stood, hand sinking into his pocket –

“Harry!”

He startled, twisting round so fast he caught his foot on the edge of the equipment chest and stumbled, managing to stop his fall by throwing a hand out onto the bench just in time. His head whipped back round to the Forest. The dog was gone.

“Harry!”

He swallowed, willing himself to calm down. Three figures were jogging across the pitch to him. It took him a few seconds for his brain to catch up, but when it did he felt his breath leave him in a sigh.

“Astoria,” he said weakly, sitting back onto the bench with a thud. The trio caught up to him a few seconds later. Astoria was panting slightly, cheeks rosy in the cold.

“There you are,” she said. Ruth and Corwin appeared behind her, looking similarly underdressed and unhappy. Harry’s heart was still pounding, the loss of adrenaline leaving him feeling weak. The way all three immediately looked him over in a way he was becoming far too familiar with let him know exactly why they’d sought him out.

“Are you okay?” Astoria asked once she’d confirmed with her own eyes that all his limbs seemed to be in the right place. “We heard you were thrown down a flight of stairs after someone tried to attack the owlery, and that you might have,” – she paused for a second with a frown of concentration – “residual memory impairments.” By the light in their eyes, this would be equally devastating and exciting news.

Harry pushed down on his frustration, finding his voice. “I wasn’t thrown down the stairs, and no one attacked the owlery. And my brain is fine, Astoria.” They eyed him as if determining if this was the brain damage talking.

“I’m fine. Someone tripped me on the stairs and I fell down them. Nothing exciting. And there’s no damage to my brain, or anything else. I’ve a clean bill of health.”

“Then why are you cleaning stuff instead of flying?” Ruth asked shrewdly.

Harry sighed. “Just – they’re just being careful. And lazy, probably. They’ll let me fly next time.”

This seemed to be enough for Corwin, who relaxed visibly and tucked his hands inside his robes, looking around miserably. It had started to snow, and flakes were landing in his hair. “D’you know the warming charm, Harry? I’ve forgot it.”

Harry pushed down on his frustration. The first-years haven’t done anything wrong, he reminded himself. It’s not their fault they have terrible, nightmare-inducing timing. Eyeing the Forest once again, he mentally pushed the incident to the back of his head for later, turning to face Corwin. He pulled out his wand.

He had just lifted it and began the incantation when he heard a commotion off to the side.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Harry, violence isn’t the answer!”

The twins, plus Angelina, were rushing towards them, looks of mild panic on their faces.

When they caught up, Angelina eyed Harry’s wand nervously. “What’s going on, Harry?” she asked, coming to stand, casually, halfway between him and Corwin.

“What? Nothing, I-” Harry met Corwin’s equally confused face and felt his brain catch up with him.

He didn’t try to hide his annoyance. “I’m not cursing him, Jesus! Do you – do you seriously think I'd hex a first-year?”

The twins looked pointedly at his raised wand. Harry rolled his eyes, lowering his arm. “It’s a warming charm. Because it’s cold. I’m being nice.”

Fred snorted. “Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist. We just thought we’d check you hadn’t finally snapped.”

George and Angelina looked a little more sheepish. “Sorry, Harry,” Angelina said, and George echoed her.

Harry continued to scowl. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, turning back to Corwin, who was looking between the four older students like he was a little out of his depth. He cast the warming charm without much grace, watching as the boy’s shivers subsided his face eased into a grateful smile.

Fred and George’s eyes met briefly, before they both affected a look of shock and pretended to do a double-take at Corwin, staring pointedly at his hair.

“Merlin, Fred, which brother is this?! Did we forget one?”

Fred shook his head, peering at Corwin studiously as if trying to rack his brain. Poor Corwin looked at them with bewilderment.

“Er,” he said.

“Could it be Charlie, and he’s just much shorter than we remember? And a Slytherin?” George proposed. Angelina rolled her eyes impressively behind them.

“My- my name’s Corwin,” the boy eventually ventured, eyes darting to Harry in a clear cry for help.

“No, no, George. Charlie would be far more singed. It must be Bill, surely – he's fed up with the Goblins and he’s come back to rekindle his glory days at Hogwarts.”

Corwin was looking a little desperate now. Harry sighed. “Come on, leave Corwin alone. You’re not funny. He doesn’t even know who you’re talking about.”

“He doesn’t even know his own brothers?” Fred affected a wounded look.

“It’s the parenting, I always say. Dragged up, those Weasleys.” George shook his head.

Harry shared a commiserating look with Angelica. “This is Corwin Clearwater, Penelope’s cousin. And his friends Ruth McNess and Astoria Greengrass.” Harry waved a hand at the girls half-heartedly.

Fred and George lit up as one. “Oh, Penelope’s cousin! Why didn’t you say? That practically makes us cousins-in-law!”

George took pity on Corwin. “Because she and Percy are an item.” He winked.

Corwin frowned. “Penelope isn’t going out with Percy. They’re just friends.”

Fred laughed and reached out to ruffle Corwin’s hair, much to his chagrin. He flushed bright red. Harry stepped between them quickly.

“Listen, we were sort of having a private conversation, so…” He glared at them pointedly.

The twins and Angelina all raised their eyebrows.

“A private conversation with three first-year Slytherins? During quidditch practice? Gryffindor quidditch practice?” Angelina squinted at the first years with newfound suspicion.

Astoria seemed to find this personally offensive. “We’re not spying on your team. We don’t even like quidditch.”

“Spying, eh? Can’t trust anyone.” said Fred.

George shook his head. “Et tu, cousin?”

“We are not!” Ruth butted in, frown dangerous.

This was all getting a little out of hand, Harry thought desperately.

“Listen. Can you just give us a minute, please? Guys?” Harry tried to convey seriousness with his face, which, judging by the light in the twins’ eyes, was not going to work.

A sharp whistle caught their attention. Oliver was waving from his broom, near the far goalpost. They didn’t need an interpreter to understand the wave meant, “What the hell are you doing? Get back to practice!”

The twins shared a look of mischief, and Harry felt a surge of pity for Oliver. They each reached out a hand in-sync and ruffled his hair. As he was ineffectively batting them off, they swung their legs over their brooms. With a, “Bye, kids!” they shot back off to where the captain was waiting.

Angelina watched them go with a look of reluctant fondness. She turned back to Harry and cast a calculating look back over the first-years. “Nice to meet you,” she said at last to the Slytherins. Corwin smiled at her weakly. “I better go help Oliver,” she said with a sigh, before mounting her broom and shooting off.

“Jesus,” Harry said, once they were alone. “Er, sorry about them. They, uh, mean well.”

The trio shared an undecipherable look, before turning back to him with a newfound intensity.

“You were telling us what happened,” Ruth prompted, as if the last five minutes hadn’t occurred.

Harry sighed. He really wanted this day to end. “Like I said,” he began, making an effort to soften his voice, “someone tripped me on the stairs, and I fell and hit my head. I’m okay now. I don’t know who it was.”

“How’d they trip you without you seeing them? A Jinx?” Ruth asked.

“No, they summoned my glasses. I… there might’ve been a tripping jinx too, but I didn’t notice. Having my glasses yanked off was enough for me to lose my balance.”

Three sets of eyes trained themselves on the glasses he was wearing. He tried not to shift uncomfortably.

“They’re new,” Astoria said suspiciously. “Is that where you were all day? We couldn’t find you at lunch or dinner, and when we went by the Hospital Wing Madame Pomfrey said you’d left this morning.”

Harry pushed down a funny feeling, imagining the three of them running about the castle all day trying to find him just to check if he was alright. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, Professor Lupin took me to get new glasses this morning. It took a while.”

“So, what happened to your original pair?” Corwin asked. Thankfully his flush had mostly resided by now.

Harry shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “Whoever did it must still have them, if they didn’t destroy them – that would be the smart thing to do.”

Even as he said it, Harry had a sinking feeling in his gut that his glasses were still safe and whole, in the possession of whoever had attacked him.

“And you didn’t see who it was at all?” Astoria pressed.

Harry shook his head, then paused. “Well, I think I saw a flash of blonde hair. I, uh. It’s a little fuzzy. But blonde hair, definitely. That’s… not much to go on.”

The trio shared another look, slow and pointed, and this time Harry felt he was missing something.

“Er-” he began, but he was cut off by a shrill whistle. Looking up, Oliver gave him a quick wave from the other side of the pitch. Practice was over.

“Right,” he said, eyeing the trio with a newfound appreciation, “who wants to help me put this equipment away?”

Harry perhaps shouldn’t have been surprised to find, late that night, that his feet had taken him down the corridor towards Theo’s classroom. He’d tossed and turned for the last few hours; the sleep he’d drifted into, nice and disarming, had quickly become something unpleasant, his mind turning incessantly back to everything that had happened that day: waking in the Hospital Wing again, the dog from Little Whinging which was inexplicably in the Forest, the strange look on Snape’s face in the Office, the terrified shop-keeper and the way she had looked at them, his conversation with Lupin...  We saved some people, stopped some attacks… launched a few…Lupin’s faraway gaze, the sense he was picking his words very carefully. Those last few years…Fear and death and hatred everywhere you turned. I hope you never have to know what that’s like, but, well…There was a feeling almost like panic – almost like anticipation - burning in Harry’s chest. It was automatic to slip out of bed and grab around in his trunk for his cloak. The need to be somewhere else was overwhelming. He could hear Ron’s snores as he crept out of the dormitory – the reliable soundtrack to his sleep for the last three years – and it did something to ease the sharpness in his chest, loosen his shoulders ever so slightly. He didn’t take a full breath until he was in the halls, stone under his feet freezing through him. It took him another few moments to realise he had forgotten to put on socks, but going back up was almost unthinkable. He’d certainly dealt with worse than cold feet.

He half-heartedly considered the warming charm, but gave up quickly – he couldn't bring himself to bother. The cold wasn’t too unpleasant – something about the discomfort almost kept him feeling grounded; a reminder of where he was, and where he wasn’t. The cloak would be fine to keep him warm enough. He tried to focus on the passing portraits as he walked, knew he ought to be paying more attention to staying quiet and keeping an eye out for teachers, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. We came the night you were born…I’d never seen them like that before. That whole night, we didn’t think about the war once.

It took him a few moments to realise where he had ended up. The door to the classroom looked the same as always. It was too thick to show any light from behind it; Harry would only know if it was empty – or not – by going in. He paused for a long moment on the threshold, not entirely sure why, before he pulled himself together. Your parents fought and died in a war, and you can’t open a door? The handle was cold to the touch as he pushed it open. He hadn’t realised he’d expected Theo to be there, startled probably at his sudden appearance, until he saw that the room was empty. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not. He seemed to be mostly feeling the same tumultuous nothingness as he had since waking. He wondered if he could care about much anything right now. He tapped his wand to the lamp on the wall and a flame appeared, casting the room in a dim light. Without quite processing that he’d moved, he found himself leaning back in the ornate chair behind the largest desk in the room – the teacher’s desk for whatever Professor had used this classroom, years ago?

The room was never as dusty as he’d expected. He supposed the House Elves must get in here too, although he wasn’t sure he saw the point if no one used it. He wondered, absently, what had been taught in this classroom back when it was in use. The castle was full of unused rooms. Were there more subjects taught when Hogwarts was built? Or just more students? Each option was strange to consider. The room itself held no clues. There were chairs and desks stacked along one side, and they didn’t look that old, comparatively. Harry wasn’t too sure he’d be able to tell, but he remembered the last time he’d been here he’d read a rather bawdy poem about Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black etched onto the desk he was using, so they must’ve been in use this century, probably. Most of the classrooms looked the same, barring the personal touches of the Professors. Could a classroom sit empty for fifty years? Did Hogwarts ever really change?

Harry had been in the wizarding world long enough to know how valued tradition was here; there was a reason one of the first conversations he had even had with Ron was about where his family had Sorted. Harry remembered how nervous Ron was, in hindsight, that he wouldn’t be Sorted like every other Weasley. Would Harry have felt those nerves, if his parents had been alive? He had chosen Gryffindor, hadn’t he, back in first year.

Harry didn’t let himself think about the Sorting often - about his near miss. Remembering that the Hat wanted him to go to Slytherin, not Gryffindor, made him feel like a fraud, like no matter what he’d done since, he wasn’t really the Gryffindor he’d made himself out to be, and never would be. But tonight seemed like the night for painful thoughts. He wondered, for the first time, what it would have been like if the Sorting Hat hadn’t been swayed. At the time all he could think about was staying away from Malfoy, staying near Ron, and going to the House that his parents had been in. Would he have been miserable in Slytherin? Would he have made friends, survived Malfoy, been better or worse in different classes? He balked automatically at the idea of being separated from Ron and Hermione, but forced himself to think it through, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. Who would he be, if things had been different? Although it sent a roll of nausea through his stomach, he had to consider the fact that his budding friendship with Ron might not have survived his Sorting to Slytherin. And Hermione? They hadn’t become friends until they’d faced the troll. If he hadn’t been in Gryffindor, he wouldn’t have noticed that Hermione was missing from the feast… which meant he wouldn’t have convinced Ron to go with him to retrieve her… which meant Hermione would have faced the troll by herself. The thought was completely sobering. As intriguing as it was to imagine a different life – one where he’d won over Bullstrode years ago, where he might have stretched out in the dark dungeon common room to do homework with Tracey and Blaise, where he slept only a few feet over from Theo every night – as intriguing as the thought was, he would never give up any of his memories of Ron and Hermione, or the twins, or even Oliver Wood’s tyrannical training regimes; perhaps it was best not to think about how things might have been different. What was it Dumbledore had said, when he’d found him in front of the Mirror of Erised in first year? Something about not dwelling on dreams? He-

“Harry?”

Harry got such a fright he thought for a second his heart might give way. Standing in the doorway, a look of thinly controlled alarm on his face, was Theo.

“Harry,” Theo said again, sounding on the verge of panic, “where is your body?”

Harry blinked in complete bafflement for a long moment, before he shot up.

“Oh!”

His cloak had slipped, so that only his head was showing. He fought down the urge to laugh at the look on Theo’s face, and hastily pulled off his robe to show the boy. “Sorry! It’s, uh, the Invisibility cloak. Remember?”

Theo was silent for a long moment, his face still stuck in a mask of muted horror. “Right,” he mumbled, “of course.”

“Er, sorry,” Harry said again. Theo just shook his head slightly. He was in his pyjamas, too, hair mussed from sleep, dark shadows prominent under his eyes.

He seemed to have recovered some of his colour, so Harry proffered the cloak out to him. “Want a shot?”

Theo eyed it like it was a rare but slightly disgusting potions ingredient, before shaking his head politely. “Maybe another time, thank you.”

Harry shrugged, bundling the cloak up under his arm. A silence fell which quickly threatened to become awkward.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he ventured at last.

Theo seemed to recall where they were. He ignored the pointless question, eyes narrowing. “You’re in my room,” the boy accused, mouth flat.

Harry felt a burn of embarrassment trickle up his neck. Theo must have noticed, for his frown disappeared immediately and was replaced by a contrite expression. “I mean… Sorry. I was just a little taken aback. The classroom doesn’t belong to me. Obviously.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Sure, but, er, you’re right. It was your space first, I shouldn’t have-”

“Harry,” Theo interrupted, voice firm, “It’s fine. You can come here, too. I don’t mind.”

He looked as serious as ever. He met Harry’s eyes for a long second and Harry nodded, swallowing.

That decided, Theo seemed to remember he was standing in the open doorway, visible to anyone who happened to pass. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned back against the wood, and the dim light made his eyes seem darker.

“By the time we heard that you’d been in the Hospital Wing, you had already been discharged.” There was a little reproach in his voice.

“Oh,” said Harry, “I’m alright. It was barely anything. Pomfrey just kept me in overnight for ‘observation’.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, and Harry resisted the urge to fidget. “Granger seemed to think it was more serious than that.”

Harry blinked. “You spoke to Hermione?” The thought was disorienting. He was going to kill her.

Theo watched him for a few seconds, before smirking. “She marched right up to us in Care to tell us what had happened, and to ask us if we had any idea who might have tripped you. I always did wonder about her, but I suppose there’s no doubt she’s Gryffindor through and through. Even ignored some pointed comments from Malfoy.”

Harry’s face felt warm with a mix of embarrassment and pride.

“Oh,” he said, hating for a moment how unintelligent he always felt around the other boy, “right. Well, I’m fine, honestly. I don’t need coddled. I can look after myself.”

Theo gave him an unimpressed look, and glanced pointedly at his feet. “You’re wandering the castle in the middle of the night and you’re not even wearing socks. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the sudden urge to somehow hide his bare feet from Theo’s sight. “Ha-ha,” he said drily. Theo smirked, before pulling out his wand and casting the warming charm directly onto his feet, as casually as if he’d been flicking hair out of his eyes. Harry blinked, and felt oddly like he might be going a bit red. Maybe Theo had put a bit too much strength into that warming charm. The room was suddenly a little stuffy. He cleared his throat.

“Hermione’s just worried about who might’ve tried to hurt me. I only saw that whoever it was had blonde hair, but, well, I don’t think it was Malfoy.”

Theo nodded. “Yes, not really his style, is it?”

Harry smiled. “Exactly! He’d want me to know. But I’m not sure who else it could be. If it was just someone who hated me for being, er, the Boy Who Lived, then why now, and why just trip me? Surely there would be better ways to get rid of me… And this felt more… I don’t know.”

He was going to say that it felt more playful, in the sense that a cat batting a dying mouse around was playful, but something held him back.

Theo was frowning. “We couldn’t think of anyone either. Of course, we could make a list of every blonde in the castle and start from there, but that might be a little time-consuming.”

Harry smiled.

“You haven’t pissed anyone off recently, have you? That you’ve noticed? Anyone been acting strange towards you?”

Theo kept talking but Harry could no longer hear him. Oh, Merlin. He was an idiot. He had pissed off a blonde recently, hadn’t he? Two of them, in fact.

“Theo,” he said, only realising he’d interrupted when the other boy gave him a dirty look, “you don’t know the Rowle twins by chance, do you?”

Theo’s face went blank within a second. In the sudden silence of the room, the look he gave Harry could have curdled milk. “What did you do to piss off the Rowle twins?” The friendliness was gone entirely from his voice, and Harry felt almost like he’d been slapped.

After a shocked beat, he said, “I didn’t do anything. They were picking on first years and – I had barely pulled my wand when Diggory showed up.”

The silence between them was suddenly icy. Theo was glaring, and Harry knew his face was mirroring the expression. He felt his shoulders rise at the look on Theo’s face.

“Defending first years,” Theo said, a sneer to his lips. He was radiating barely concealed anger. He rolled his eyes. “Of course you were.”

Harry’s stomach lurched like he'd missed a step in a long staircase, and he stared at Theo for a moment, unbelieving. The feeling immediately morphed into anger, hot and burning. He shot up from his seat without meaning to. “Are you serious? What, I should have let them get hurt?” He tried to will away the slight shake in his voice, but he couldn’t seem to control it.

“You should have minded your own business, instead of trying to play the hero,” Theo snapped, disdain dripping from every word.

Harry gaped for a moment. “Seriously? I should’ve walked away? Is that what you’d have done?”

“Yes!” said Theo without missing a beat, eyes colder than Harry had ever seen them. At least the flush in his cheeks showed he was just as angry as Harry. “And in turn I wouldn’t have pissed off two psychopaths who have the power and inclination to make my life hell!”

“Well!” said Harry, only noticing now that he and Theo were only a few meters apart. He hadn’t noticed moving. He could hear his heart in his ears. “I’m not like you, then, am I? I wouldn’t let innocent kids suffer just to have an easy life.” There was a pause where something ugly felt like it was trying to claw it's way up his throat. Theo seemed to sense the hesitation and his sneer turned cruel. Harry saw white. “I’m not a coward.”

Theo blinked, and the brief flash of hurt in his eyes, instantly hidden by a mocking scoff, was enough to extinguish the flames of Harry’s anger like a bucket of water over a candle. In the sudden silence his breathing sounded impossibly loud. It had been less than a minute. How had things soured so quickly?

They stared at each other for a long moment. Theo’s eyes were blank while Harry was sure his every emotion was splashed across his face for the other boy to see. Theo opened his mouth and Harry was barely aware of leaning forward, stomach lurching with guilt and anticipation, but before he could form words they simultaneously became aware of the sound of footsteps approaching - fast.

Theo was rooted to the spot as Harry spun in pure panic. There was nowhere to hide!

“The cloak!” Theo hissed, and Harry leapt for it, snatching it one handed and throwing it over them both as quickly as possible. Their feet were just covered when Theo’s eyes widened. His arm shot out, and Harry had opened his mouth to hiss something when Theo tapped his wand smoothly against the lamp, bathing the room in darkness, and got his arm back under the cloak just a second before the door swung open to reveal a very pissed off Professor Snape.

Neither boy dared breathe. Snape was scowling, dark eyes darting around the room with clear suspicion, Lumos on his wand. He took several steps forward, bringing him horribly close to where they were standing. Snape’s eyes landed on the space where they were huddled and Harry felt such a thrill of fear run through him that without thinking his hand stretched across the inches between them and latched onto Theo’s right wrist.

Snape took one step forward, pausing for a long moment – and then turned. He strode out the room, a glower of disappointment clear on his face, taking the light with him.

Harry didn’t move for a long minute after his footsteps disappeared from hearing. When he was sure they were alone, he let out a sigh of pure relief. All at once he realised he was still holding onto Theo and he let him go, wiping his hand awkwardly on his pyjama bottoms. Theo’s wrist had been warm, and his hand felt strangely chilled without it. He swallowed.

Theo looked at him, face inscrutable. Harry looked back. He could feel the other boy’s warm breath on his face, so close under the cloak.

“Well…” His throat felt dry. “That was close.”

A long beat of silence fell, until Theo’s lips twitched, striking Harry like the crack of a whip, and suddenly they were both laughing, and the tension was gone.

Harry pulled the cloak off them and they made their way back to the desk, Theo practically falling into one of the old school chairs.

The silence didn’t last long. Harry was surprised how easily the words came. His voice felt quiet in the wake of their laughter. “I’m sorry I called you a coward. You’re not. I know you wouldn’t have let those first years get hurt.”

Theo met his eyes for a second, dark and doubtful, before turning them on the desk between them.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he mumbled. Perhaps seeing Harry’s frown, he continued quickly. “I’m sorry I got angry. Of course you should have intervened. It’s not your fault the Rowles are after you. It’s just… Harry, the Rowles are serious business. They’re... dangerous. You don’t know them like I do.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “How do you know them? They must be sixth or seventh years.”

Theo watched him for a long moment, and as the silence stretched, Harry felt a stirring of anticipation in his gut. Theo’s face was searching, expectant. He knew that whatever Theo was about to say, it was important.

“Our parents run in the same circles, Harry.” Theo’s voice was quiet, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “Most of the Old Blood Slytherin children have known each other forever. I mean, most Purebloods, regardless of House, know each other, but it’s… different for us.”

Harry thought he’d finally look away, but Theo was staring at him with an intensity, as serious as he’d ever seen him, like he needed to know Harry understood.

Harry’s mouth felt dry. “Right...” he said. Because he did know what Theo was saying, didn’t he? Ron’s words from weeks ago came back to him. His dad was a Death Eater! What do you actually know about him?

If they ran in the same circle...The tension felt almost physical. Looking at Theo’s face, Harry could tell the other boy knew that he understood what he wasn’t saying.

But could he break their unspoken agreement and say it out loud? They hadn’t discussed Theo’s father, either what he must have done to Theo, that first day they’d met properly in Potions and Harry had seen his wrist, nor what Harry had discovered – and Theo must know that Harry knew about that, he realised suddenly, with a horrible sinking in his gut. He was the Boy Who Lived. There was no way people would let him befriend a Death Eater’s son without warning him. Theo must have been waiting for this moment since the Hospital Wing – since they’d met, even.

He was waiting now, Harry realised, for him to say it, to finally confront him: Your family are Death Eaters. Your family wants me dead. You’re supposed to be my enemy, not my friend.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Theo leaned in, and the little flash of fear Harry saw in his eyes turned him upside down.

“So… what are we going to do about them?”

Chapter Text

A few weeks later, Harry found himself trying to navigate another study session between his two groups of friends. They’d had one more attempt since their first try, and it had gone largely the same. Bullstrode had slogged very unenthusiastically through a review of their recent Herbology theory, and the distraction seemed to work in his favour, as she seemed conflicted as to whether she was more pissed at the apparently substandard Herbology textbook or at having to study in the company of Ron. Harry was valiantly hoping that sheer exposure would wear them both down, and it seemed like it might actually be working. There was noticeably less tension this evening than the first time Harry’d made Ron and the Slytherins study together, for which Harry was almost embarrassingly grateful. Ron still looked like he’d rather be in detention with Filch, and Bullstrode still didn’t look impressed to be sharing air with the Gryffindor boy, but Harry was willing to take it as a good sign for the future, and was in a surprisingly optimistic mood as they settled in.

Today, Blaise was going over the Transfiguration theory they’d been studying lately in class, to no one’s enjoyment apart from himself and Hermione. Even Theo’s attention seemed to be wandering a little, if the number of times Harry felt eyes on him was anything to go by – every time he tried to catch him in the act, Theo was gazing with dutiful attention at Blaise, but Harry could’ve sworn that the boy’s lips twitched at one point as Harry glowered suspiciously at the side of his head. He was on to him.

Ron and Bullstrode seemed to be united, at least, in one area: trying not to fall asleep. Blaise clearly knew the material, but he was almost as bad as Hermione for going on tangents and assuming they knew exactly what he was talking about. Harry was okay at Transfiguration – he’d normally get Acceptables on his essays, and a few times even an Exceeds Expectations – but he was beginning to suspect that he and Blaise were somehow in completely different classes. Some of it seemed to be sticking, though, and at least one thing he hadn’t understood in class had been cleared up, so it wasn’t a complete waste. There might be something to this studying malarky, he thought wryly. Hermione, naturally, was acting like Christmas had come early. She was nodding along attentively, making copious notes, and at one point even let out a strange little laugh Harry was sure he’d never heard her make before when Blaise made some sort of joke about Gamp’s Law that went completely over his head. Harry exchanged a bewildered look with Ron, who just shrugged bemusedly and went back to doodling a knight beheading a Hydra across his notes. Blaise, for his part, cleared his throat in a slightly strangled way, but continued on as if he hadn’t even noticed, eyes straight ahead.

Bizarre, Harry thought, before being distracted by the feeling of eyes on him, which he knew must belong to – bloody Theo, who’s eyes were now firmly on Ron’s doodle. Shit, he’d almost caught him that time.

By the time Blaise wrapped up, they were all a little relieved.

They packed up languidly. Harry felt almost as if he’d just woken up from a nap.

Tracey turned to Ron, a friendly and determined smile on her face. “The Cannons did well on Saturday against the Appleby Arrows.”

Ron squinted at her suspiciously, but before he could say anything Bullstrode snorted. “They lost the game, Tracey.”

The other girl winced, but before she could respond Ron interjected, sitting up straight. “But they put up a good fight! They only lost because their Seeker – er – wasn’t well that day.”

Bullstrode’s voice was droll. “The Snitch was hovering three feet behind his head for half the match.”

Ron scowled, his ears tinging red, but Tracey jumped in before the Gryffindor could reply, switching tracks in a way that was completely unsubtle. “Harry mentioned that you have a Kneazle, Granger? So does Millicent! And I have two cats at home, but they’re just regular cats.”

Hermione looked a little like a deer in headlights at being addressed so suddenly, halfway through the process of putting her Transfiguration textbook back in her bag, but she lit up a little at the mention of Crookshanks, and turned an appraising eye on Bullstrode.

“Oh? Crookshanks is only a half-kneazle. Is yours purebred?” There was something slightly strange in her voice, but if anyone else noticed it they said nothing. Harry blinked for a second, before remembering exactly how Hermione knew Bullstrode’s Kneazle. Merlin, he thought with dawning horror, the Slytherins could never find out about the Polyjuice mishap.

Bullstrode glowered a little at Tracey, before turning reluctantly to Hermione. “Yes,” she said stiffly. “Her name’s Morgana.”

Hermione’s eyes were dangerously bright and Harry shared a look of resignation with Ron. Fifteen minutes later, they had made their way halfway down one corridor, and the girls were clustered together, discussing the ins-and-outs of magical versus muggle animal breeding. Harry, Theo, and Ron were at the front of the group, and Blaise was straggling the line between the two parties, interjecting rarely to the conversation but seeming very attentive whenever Hermione explained something about Muggles. Wow, Harry thought bemusedly, he must be really interested in Muggle culture. Theo and Ron were quiet, the latter shooting betrayed looks back at Hermione every so often. The awkwardness was genuinely going to kill him, and Harry floundered for something to say. “Do you have any pets, Theo?” he settled on, at last, cringing internally but putting on a brave face.

Ron gave him a funny look, and Harry realised his friend hadn’t really seen Harry and Theo have an actual conversation before. Great, another layer of awkwardness, he thought morosely.

Theo’s gaze had been far away, but he turned back to Harry at the question and frowned slightly. “We had a cat when I was younger, but it died... a long time ago.”

His voice was a little sad, and Harry had the sudden image of a younger Theo, in some big house somewhere, no siblings or pets for company, only his father. It sounded lonely, and, well. More than a little relatable.

“What about you?” Theo asked, “Does your family have any pets?”

Harry tried to imagine a dog or cat or even a bunny rabbit in the stifling, pristine Number 4., Privet Drive, and felt his face morph into a wry smile. Vernon and Dudley would’ve probably accidentally killed it by stepping on it or something else equally stupid, and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have been able to cope with the mess and stress of keeping an animal in the house.

“No. I wanted a dog when I was little. I thought – well. But there was no chance. Dudley – my cousin – had a hamster for a while, but he ignored it and I think my aunt got rid of it, and I think there was a goldfish for about a week before that disappeared too, but no. They aren’t really – the type.”

Theo’s look was knowing as he nodded. There was silence for a long moment. Harry looked at Ron pointedly. His friend frowned at him in confusion, before his face cleared in understanding and he rolled his eyes.

“I have… a rat,” he said at last, with the air of someone making a very noble sacrifice.

Harry frowned harder as Ron said nothing more.

Ron’s mouth pinched. “Named Scabbers.”

“Scabbers,” Theo repeated, turning the name round in his mouth thoughtfully.

Ron glared at him suspiciously, and Harry quickly butted in.

“Yeah, he was Percy’s originally, wasn’t he? When he was little? And he gave him to Ron when he started school.”

“Oh,” Theo said, “I didn’t know rats lived that long.”

“How long do what live?” Tracey asked, appearing behind them. The girls – and Blaise - had caught up, and Harry noted with a little bewilderment that Bullstrode and Hermione seemed to be walking in tandem, with no glaring or shoving whatsoever. If Harry’d known all it would take to get on Bullstrode’s good side was a fondness for cats, he’d have smuggled Crookshanks in to a study session ages ago.

“My pet rat, Scabbers,” Ron said, looking a little uncomfortable with all the attention on him suddenly.

“Well, how old is he?” Tracey asked.

“Uh, Percy found him when he was five, so… twelve?”

Tracey blinked at him. “Twelve? Are you sure he’d just a normal rat? I’m pretty sure they only live a few years.”

Ron’s frown was pronounced now. “Yeah, he’s a normal rat. He’s just – well looked after.”

“Do you get magical rats?” Harry whispered to Theo, who shrugged.

“Are you sure your parents haven’t just swapped him out for a new rat a few times without you noticing?” Bullstrode asked, eyebrow raised. Tracey turned a sharp look on her friend, who blinked and shrugged moodily.

“What? Of course not!” Ron blustered, flushing a dark red. “Anyway, they couldn’t, because Scabbers is missing a toe, and he’s always been missing a toe – what, they got a new rat every few years and cut off its toe just to trick me?”  Ron scowled at her. “Scabbers is fine. He’s just been not well recently, and who can blame him with that horrible cat after him all the time.”

Harry winced. Badmouthing Crookshanks wouldn’t win him any favours with the girls, it seemed. Harry butted in just as Hermione was opening her mouth. “Scabbers is fine. He’s, er, a great rat. I only have my owl, Hedwig. I’m sure another pet would be – really cool.” Harry wasn’t sure of this at all, but it seemed to do the trick. With only a mildly reproachful look from Hermione to Ron, conversation turned easily to ideal pets as the group wandered aimlessly through the corridors.

Blaise, it transpired, had once had a pet tarantula. Ron’s wince was pronounced, as was the newly suspicious glare being sent to the Slytherin boy. Harry held in a sigh. They had almost reached the entrance hall when Tracey directed a question at Harry, tone curious. “Do you think you would you like a pet snake? Since you’re a Parselmouth and you’d be able to speak to it. How cool would that be?”

Harry blinked and felt his stomach twist with uncertainty. He and his friends rarely discussed his Parselmouth abilities. It’d caused such grief last year, and after everything that happened with the Basilisk, Harry was rather happy pretending he didn’t have it at all. He was so used to Parseltongue being a taboo topic, like saying Voldemort’s name, that having it be addressed so openly was startling, and on instinct he found himself looking round to see if the corridor was clear.

“Er, I hadn’t ever thought about it,” he said at last, honestly. Theo was watching him with a knowing expression. He focused pointedly on Tracey. “I haven’t known any snakes to be that interesting, really. Well, the first one I met was alright. I, er, accidentally set him free and he seemed pretty nice. The others were a bit more… disappointing.”

“You accidentally set someone’s pet snake free?” Bullstrode scoffed.

“Er.... not quite,” Harry said, wincing. They stared at him expectantly, and he sighed. “It was sort of... from the zoo?”

Blaise looked absolutely delighted, the git. “You set a snake loose at a zoo?”

Ron was looking strangely proud. “Yeah, he set it on his horrible muggle cousin!”

“I didn’t - Ron!” Harry snapped, feeling his face warm.

The Slytherins were looking amused. “I didn’t mean to set it on him. He was being – a pillock and shoved me out of the way to bang on the glass, and, well, I guess I disappeared the glass. Accidentally. And he sort of... fell in the enclosure. It was an accident!”

Hermione, his only true and loyal friend, was looking concerned, as she did whenever he mentioned the Dursleys, but nobody else felt the need to contain their mirth. Even Theo was smirking at him openly, something fond lurking around his eyes that made Harry hastily look away.

He rolled his eyes, fighting off a stupid smile on principle, and set a probably not very convincing glare on them. “Alright, are we going somewhere or are we just wandering aimlessly?”

“Careful does it,” Blaise warned the others in a stage whisper, amusement thick in his voice, “we don’t want to annoy Harry too much or he might ‘accidentally’ set a snake on us too.”

Harry rolled his eyes and set off down the corridor, his back to the others to hide his grin.

“Excellent work, Harry!”

Harry grinned up at Lupin, running the back of his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. That was the longest he’d managed to hold onto a Patronus yet. It was still only mist for both boys, but during the last few sessions Harry’s mist had began to expand a little. Lupin reckoned it was beginning to take shape, which sent a thrill of excitement through him. He hadn’t given much thought to what shape his Patronus might eventually take, but ever since the last session he'd found himself thinking on it with growing frequency. What animal reflected his soul? That was a big question. Harry loved Hedwig, and he wasn’t immune to, say, kittens and puppies, but he didn’t have the fervour for animals that, for example, Tracey seemed to have. Did he feel connected to any particular animal? He didn’t think so. Hedwig was certainly his favourite animal, but he couldn’t help but think, with a twinge of guilt for his pet, that if his Patronus was an owl he'd be a little disappointed. What did owls symbolise? Communication, maybe? Harry didn’t consider himself an especially good communicator, at any rate. The whole idea of animal symbolism was a little subjective for his tastes. It reminded him of his brief stint in Divination. Lupin had laughed when he brought it up, telling him it wasn’t quite as exact as that, and not to worry overmuch.

Today, Harry couldn’t help but feel a twinge of impatience that he still didn’t have any clues. “I’d just like a hint of what it might be,” he grumbled, and Lupin’s smile was so patently fond he had to look away.

“You’ll find out soon enough, I daresay. Both of you,” he added, nodding over at Theo, who smiled politely back. Theo had only grown slightly more comfortable during the sessions, to Harry’s dismay. He wondered if Theo was nervous – if that was what it was - around all teachers, or if there was something in particular about Professor Lupin that made him wary. Harry supposed he might be being unfair – he hadn’t seen Theo with many other teachers, and he certainly seemed more relaxed here than in the presence of, say, Snape (although Harry didn’t think anyone would be entirely comfortable in Snape’s company).

Harry’s thoughts swivelled back to their Patronuses, and he wondered for the first time what Theo’s might end up being. What animal reflected Theo? This was even harder than finding one for himself, he thought with dismay. Theo was skittish, thoughtful, prone to fits of temper, loyal, intelligent, strangely compassionate… Harry metaphorically shook his head, and focused back on the classroom.

A thought occurred to him. “Professor, what’s your Patronus?” Surely it was a little strange that they’d been practising for a while now and Lupin hadn’t once demonstrated the spell properly? He could cast a corporeal Patronus, surely?

Lupin eyed Harry with a strange trepidation, and Harry belatedly realised that Lupin, at least, might consider his Patronus to be a private matter. He opened his mouth to backtrack, but Lupin beat him to it.

“It’s a wolf,” he answered primly, then busied himself setting up the chest for Theo’s turn. Theo let out a strange cough, but when Harry turned to look at him his face was clear and he looked back innocently.

“Right,” Lupin said quickly, “are you ready, Mr. Nott?”

Theo nodded and got into position. Keeping the Boggart’s attention on him while Theo practised had proved a little more difficult than he’d been anticipating. Lupin had warned him that the Boggart might get confused with others in the room, and that he had to focus on it completely so that it would maintain its shape as a Dementor. They’d managed so far, but Lupin had had to remind him a few times to keep his eyes on the Boggart when they’d inevitably strayed to Theo and his casting. It was just hard not to so much as glance over when his friend was attempting such complex magic.

Today, Theo seemed unusually determined. The circles under his eyes were particularly dark, and there was a gleam in his brown eyes that set Harry on edge. He had the sudden urge to stop Lupin, grab Theo and run, but he shook his head and got into position – two feet closer to the chest – without comment.

“Ready, Harry?” At his grim nod, Lupin unlatched the trunk and backed away. A sliver of black mist trailed innocuously out of the chest, slowly thickening into a tendril of smoke that spilled out like water from a glass. The Dementor rose like a puppet, eerily silent – until the screaming began.

He had yet to get used to the boggart-dementor, and was beginning to accept that he never would. The fear wasn’t as all-consuming as it had been – whether that was because he knew this wasn’t a true Dementor, or because he had Lupin here as backup in case something went wrong (and wasn’t that a strange thought) he couldn’t say. Now, the plunge of fear in his belly – the part of his brain that was yelling “Run! Get away!” – quickly settled into a creepy, shivering dread. What supplanted the fear was anticipation. Any second now, and –

“Not Harry! Not Harry, please not Harry!”

There she was. Hi, mum, he thought, swallowing down an inappropriate laugh that would’ve made Lupin and Theo think he’d lost it. If this was to be his only memory of her, why couldn’t it be something happy? Or boring? Of course if he wanted to learn his mother’s voice it had to be from her begging for his life.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Theo’s voice came from behind him, and Harry had to remind himself not to turn. So long as he kept his eyes on the swirling black cloud in front of him, it would maintain its shape. Both boys were now consistently producing strong silver mist when they cast; Harry was both embarrassed and secretly a little pleased that he seemed to be mastering the charm a little easier than Theo, who seemed to always have trouble maintaining the spell for longer than a few seconds at a time.  He was so used to feeling like an idiot around Theo; it was nice to be good at something for a change.

But Theo seemed to be struggling more than normal today. Usually Lupin let them face the Dementor two or three times a lesson, although Harry always argued for more. Theo was casting for the last time when, with barely a cursory knock, the door to the History classroom swung open and a sour-faced Snape appeared in the doorway, clutching a slightly steaming goblet.

It all happened very quickly.

Harry’s head snapped round at the sudden intrusion, and he watched as Snape’s eyes darted to Lupin, to Theo, a long second on himself, and lastly, the Dementor. The Potion Master’s free hand snapped towards his robe pocket as he stared in shock at the Boggart. From behind him he heard Lupin say, “Severus-!” and the man’s eyes flicked away. Theo’s eyes darted from the doorway back toward the Boggart, and Harry felt himself freeze as his friend’s brown eyes glazed over in sudden terror. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the Dementor-Boggart had – changed.

A man was standing in the classroom. Tall and dark, he was older than the two Professors, with rich grey shot through his cropped black hair. He was thin, with a long, hard face and brown eyes – familiar brown eyes. There was no mistaking it, not seeing them side-by-side: this was Cassius Nott – Theo’s father.

Theo’s face went slack. Time seemed to freeze for a moment. The man – the Boggart, only a Boggart, he reminded himself, but it didn’t help – stood still, horrible eyes fixed on Theo and an awful ghost of a smile twitching around his mouth. The hand that was holding his wand began to lift, slowly, and the two Professors seemed to spring back to life. Both stepped forward at the same time, Lupin looking horrified and Snape, if anything, bored, when the Boggart, confused, began to change. A white orb peeked out behind some mist, bathing the room in an eerie light, and Harry had time to notice Lupin’s face drain of colour before the Boggart changed again, skipping from scene to scene within a matter of seconds as it became more and more confused. Crack. Dumbledore, looking slightly younger, with an expression of disgust Harry’d never seen before etched on his face, staring out at them, cold and terrifying. Crack. Tom Riddle laughed, cold and high and whole, as a young girl lay on the wet ground, corpse-pale. Crack. A teenage Sirius Black was laughing, head tipped back and something cruel around his mouth. Crack. They were looking through slats, the sound of a lock sliding into place, until the shutters were slammed closed, drenching the cupboard – his cupboard - into darkness.  Crack. Theo had taken the man’s place, but he was older now, his face twisted and cold, and on his bare wrist there was a tattoo stretching up, something dark and - writhing.

Theo – the real Theo – let out a gasp at this, and before Harry could even think of what to say, the boy had turned and ran. Snape followed him with his eyes, but didn’t pursue. Instead he turned back to the room, a look of rage overtaking his features. He stepped towards the Boggart, drawing his wand, but before he could open his mouth it had changed again, and Harry watched as his face drained of colour.

Crack. A woman was lying on the floor. Harry stared as the room seemed to still around him. Her arm was outstretched, as if reaching out for something – or to keep something back. Her hair, red and flowing, covered half her face, which was pale – too pale. Her eyes were open, but she was clearly dead.

Harry wasn’t breathing. Something in his head seemed to close off. Lupin stepped forward, wand arm shaking, but as his arm rose - Crack. A bloodied wolf stood on its hind legs over a body so devoured Harry’s eyes automatically averted themselves, but it was taller than any wolf he’d ever seen, and there was something horribly human about its face -

“Riddikulus!” Lupin cried at last, voice hoarse. The wolf turned into a tiny pale Chihuahua which yipped at them angrily, and Lupin ushered the Boggart back into its trunk, hands unsteady. He rested for a moment with his hands on the trunk, his chest heaving. The silence afterwards was immense.

Harry could hear ringing, but he knew it was coming from inside his head. He had to swallow several times, forcing down the nausea in his stomach, locking it away. He felt like he’d just stepped off a roundabout. His mouth was horribly dry.

Lupin stood upright and turned to them, his eyes darting between the two of them, and Harry forced himself to turn around, his mind so full it was almost blank. Snape’s mouth was hanging open slightly, and his eyes were still on the spot where – where the Boggart had been. The man blinked several times in rapid succession, before his eyes fell on Harry and his face cleared almost instantly. His eyes tracked Snape as the goblet materialised on the teacher’s desk and the man strode out the room in a whirl of black robes, only a little slower than Theo had been.

There was only breathing in the silence that followed. Harry’s mind felt like it was somewhere apart from his body, floating away. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. When he blinked, he saw images of the Boggart shapes like macabre photographs pasted onto his eyelids. Blink. Sirius Black laughing. Blink. Dumbledore, eyes full of disgust. Blink. Red hair across the floor.

Someone was speaking.

“Harry? Harry?”

With what felt like great effort, his brain returned to his body, and he managed to twitch his eyes towards the voice.

Lupin was pale, which made the scars across his face stand out like they were fresh. How had he gotten those scars, anyway? He’d never asked. Was it something horrible? It must be. Which of those Boggarts were his?

He realised after a second that Lupin had started speaking, his voice fast and strange.

“Why don’t you sit down, Harry. That was a bit of a shock. I’ll put the kettle on. Will you have some tea?”

Harry didn’t answer, his eyes straying back to the door.

“Don’t worry about – give them some time to – I really think you ought to sit down, Harry, you’re very pale.”

There was a faint echoing laugh from far down the corridor outside, some student with their friends, and for some reason this snapped Harry back into the moment. He blinked.

Lupin’s face was shining with worry.

“Was that my mother?” Harry barely recognised his own voice.

Lupin opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again.

“Yes,” he said at last, and Harry breathed out.

“Right,” he said, his voice strangely low and calm.

There was a pause that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

“Was is your Boggart? Only I don’t think... it was mine.”

Lupin looked at him for a very long moment with panicked eyes, deciding whether or not to lie so obviously that Harry just stared. “No,” he said, finally, face full of apprehension and a horrible sadness, “it wasn’t mine.”

“It... I don’t... I don’t understand,” he mumbled, and his voice was no longer low and calm. He looked up into Lupin’s strange amber eyes and saw such conflict there that he simply waited for the man to speak.

“It’s not... really my place to...” the man’s eyes couldn’t stay still.

Something clicked for Harry at those familiar words, the same ones as in another conversation with his Defence Professor earlier this year.

“You said her best friend was a Slytherin.” He had to swallow again, suddenly, a rush of nausea in his throat.

The man sighed, his hand rubbing across his face as he decided what to do.

After a few seconds of silence, he nodded in defeat.

“Yes, they were - friends in school.” His breath left him in a gust. “I think they knew each other before that, but I’m really not sure. They fell out – at some point in our fifth year and your mother didn’t like to talk about it. I don’t know any details and I can’t - explain the Boggart. You can ask Professor Snape, but I don’t think he’ll talk about it. I’m sorry, Harry.”

His words were stilted, but Harry felt like they were being scratched directly onto his brain with a quill. Lupin was watching him warily, radiating such a desire for the subject to change that Harry simply took a moment to digest his words.

Somewhere a clock was ticking. He almost felt like he was dreaming.

“Alright,” he said after a long moment, and felt something funny at the look of pure relief on the Professor’s face. He opened his mouth, and honestly had no idea which of the many questions fighting in his mind would win and come out first.

“Dumbledore? Was that yours? Or...”

Lupin frowned, and shrugged stiffly. The gesture looked wrong on him. “I’m not entirely sure. It – might have been. I would be very surprised if it was Mr. Nott’s fear; it equally may have been Severus’s.”

Harry digested this with a slow nod. Sure. Why wouldn’t both their Boggarts be the Headmaster.

Hermione’s voice from earlier in term came back to him. “The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout...”

“Was that – was that a werewolf?”

The stillness that came over Lupin was impossible to ignore.

Lupin’s smile was wry but his eyes were hard. “It looks like you learned something from Professor Snape’s lesson after all.”

Harry ignored him. He was looking at the scars across his Defence Professor’s face with new eyes. “Did – did a werewolf do those?”

Lupin blinked, and his face closed off. He turned, and began shuffling some papers on Binns’ desk.

“Harry, you’ve had a bit of a shock. Why don’t you head down to the Hospital Wing and have Madame Pomfrey look you over? She might recommend a Calming Draught.”

His voice was dismissive. The slight tremor had returned to his hands – had it left? – and he didn’t look up.

Harry felt hot anger burn through him, shocking in its suddenness.

“You’re avoiding the question,” he accused.

Lupin finally looked at him, and his face was unusually devoid of warmth.

“That’s a very personal question, Mr. Potter, and I’m not going to answer it.”

Mr. Potter.

Harry wasn’t deterred. If anything, Lupin’s evasiveness only increased his ire. “Whose Boggart was Sirius Black? He looked like a student there. Whose Boggart would be Sirius Black as a teenager? Was he at school with you and Snape? Did you know him?”

Lupin was finally angry, his lips thin and drawn, which made his scars stand out more prominently. For the first time since Harry had met him, the man looked intimidating. “That’s enough, Mr. Potter. I appreciate that you’ve had a shock, but these questions are inappropriate. Now, I’ve already told you to head to the Hospital Wing. Will you comply, or do I have to take points?”

Harry blinked, and his anger vanished as quickly as it came. He felt a little like a balloon whose air had been let out. His chest was strangely heavy. He didn’t look Lupin in the eye.

“Right. Thanks, anyway, sir,” he mumbled, grabbing his bag and fleeing from the classroom.

He heard Lupin mutter something under his breath before he called out, “Harry, wait!” but he was already halfway down the corridor. He felt the man’s eyes on him until he disappeared.

Harry came back to himself standing in Theo’s classroom. Alone.

He stood for another few moments before he got ahold of himself. He was at a loss for where else Theo might have gone. If he had simply returned to the Slytherin common room, Harry would be at a dead end. He didn’t know the password – what was he supposed to do, sit outside the entrance and hope he happened to come out?

Well.

“Potter?”

Oh, shit, he thought, standing up from where he was slumped against the cold dungeon wall. Pucey, the Slytherin Chaser, was approaching, the common room entrance closing seamlessly behind him and fading into the wall.

“What’re you doing sitting outside this very random corridor in the dungeons?”

Harry eyed him warily, but the boy was impossible to read. He stared down at Harry with a wry smile, for all the world like he was unsurprised and even pleased to find him there. His eyes swept the boy quickly and something tightened around the Slytherin’s eyes.

“Er,” he said, wondering if this was wise, but there was really nothing for it. He didn’t feel capable of coming up with any complicated lies. “I’m looking for Theo Nott?”

Pucey’s smile widened, and Harry got the strange feeling that he’d just done exactly as the boy expected.

“I think I saw one of his friends in the common room just now – I’ll go get her.” Before Harry could even thank him, the boy had turned, whispered something to the wall, and had disappeared back the way he’d came.

He had time to think, please be Tracey, please be Tracey, before Pucey had returned with a confused-looking Bullstrode in tow.

“Potter?” the girl asked, looking him up and down and seeming not to like what she saw, if her narrowed eyes were any clue.

Pucey clapped them both on the shoulders jovially, ignoring Bullstrode’s glare and his flinch with ease. “Right, I’ll leave you two to it – unless you think you’ll need my help finding him?”

“Finding who?” Bullstrode demanded, eyeing Pucey with outright suspicion.

Harry interjected quickly. “No, I think we’ll be okay. Er, thanks for, you know,” he gestured at the now sealed common room entrance.

Pucey’s smile was still strangely amused. “Any time, Potter. Good luck finding your friend.” He nodded at Bullstrode before turning and leisurely setting off down the corridor. The two third years watched him go with matching bemused looks, before Bullstrode visibly put it out of her mind and turned to Harry with narrowed eyes.

“What’s going on, Potter? Who’re you looking for?”

Harry grimaced. “Theo. Have you seen him?”

Bullstrode’s eyes somehow narrowed further. “Wasn’t he with you, at your lesson with Lupin? How did you manage to lose him from there?”

The stone floor of the dungeons was suddenly very interesting to Harry. He scuffed the ground with his shoe. “Something happened during the lesson, and Theo – ran off. I’ve checked the abandoned classroom he likes to hide in, but he’s not there. I didn’t think he’d go back to the common room, but I wasn’t sure where else to look.”

Bullstrode was silent. Harry lasted several seconds before the tension became too much for him and he looked up. Bullstrode was more contemplative than angry, and was that – yes, there was definitely worry around her eyes.

“What do you mean, ‘something happened’ during the lesson?”

Oh, Merlin. There was no way on earth he was going to confide in Bullstrode – he had no idea if Theo would even want him to reveal something so personal. But he didn’t want to lie to her... (Sirius Black, young and carefree, head tipped back in laughter – no, he was looking for Theo. He wasn’t thinking about that right now. Theo needed him to focus.)

“Just... something...” Bullstrode looked unimpressed by his prevarication. “Something that makes me want to find him.” His voice was as serious as he could make it, hoping desperately that she wouldn’t push.

Bullstrode glared. “I’ve known Theo basically my whole life, Potter. You’ve known him all of five minutes. Whatever it was, it’s not going to surprise me. Tell me what happened.”

She was downright intimidating in the dim Slytherin corridor. Harry saw that at some point she had removed her wand from her robes. She saw him looking and smirked menacingly. Jesus Christ. The threat was palpable – what to do? He didn’t think Theo would be forgiving of him hexing his friend, but he was his friend too, he’d said so – but Bullstrode had implied she was his oldest friend – surely he would side with her in any conflict, he would have to – but would he rather Harry revealed his private business? Harry didn’t have long to decide – Bullstrode’s patience was rapidly disappearing – but... there was really no choice. He couldn’t do it.

“Sorry,” he said to Bullstrode, grateful that his voice sounded surer than he did, “he can tell you if he wants, when we find him. But that’s his business, and I won’t betray it no matter what. You don’t have to help me, but I’m going to look for him.”

There was silence for a very long moment. Bullstrode’s expression was unreadable, but Harry forced himself to look her in the eye, holding himself tense in case a sudden hex came his way.

The silence stretched, and as Bullstrode made no sign of breaking it, Harry felt the tension slowly getting to him. After several long moments where Bullstrode stared at him like she was analysing a bug in a jar, he broke.

“But, er, I’d really appreciate if you could point me in the right direction. Or,” he noticed her looking at him like he was a brain-damaged puppy and soldiered on, “any direction, really. That classroom and here were my only ideas.”

The silence lasted another long moment, during which Harry wondered if he ought to just start slowly backing away, before Bullstrode sighed, and rolled her eyes with such force Harry was surprised she didn’t sprain anything.

“I have a few ideas. We can try the courtyard he likes, and the Astronomy tower. If he’s not at either we might have to ask Pucey to Summon him.”

Harry blinked, then snorted, then eyed Bullstrode warily. “You’re not mad?” he asked, ignoring the little voice in his head that told him to leave well enough alone.

She gave him a death glare which he felt was completely unwarranted. “Mad you didn’t cave and spill Theo’s business at the slightest pressure? No. Now, are you coming?”

With that, she turned and began striding down the corridor. Harry blinked after her for a second, then scrambled to follow. “Wait!” he called, “Bullstrode! Was that a test?”

He didn’t have to see her to sense her rolling her eyes.

“Alright, that just leaves the Astronomy tower,” Bullstrode said, only looking marginally disappointed not to find Theo skulking about in the rose bushes of the castle’s western courtyard.

Harry trotted after Bullstrode obediently, trying not to let the awkward tension sit like the first leg of their search. Bullstrode may have been ignoring him, or she might just normally be this quiet. Harry was honestly completely unsure which it might be. Regardless, he would make an effort, now he seemed to have impressed her – however mildly – by passing her strange little loyalty test earlier.

“So,” he ventured at last, as they began their long trek to the opposite side of the castle. “You said you’ve known Theo your whole life? Did you go to the same Pureblood nursery, or...?”

Bullstrode completely ignored his attempt at a joke, which he decided was probably fair. After a moment’s pause where Harry seriously considered just quietly slipping away, Bullstrode responded, not looking at him.

“Our parents were friends.”

Oh.

(Red hair, a pale hand outstretched – no, Harry thought, not now)

Oh. Harry must have done a terrible job of keeping his thoughts to himself, for Bullstrode snorted.

“You have nothing to fear, Potter,” she said, drily. “It was our mothers who were friends, from their Hogwarts days. My parents are as neutral as they come.”

Harry digested this quietly. Without meaning to, he blurted, “What was he like, before...”

He felt his cheeks flush as Bullstrode turned a strangely searching look onto him. It was without her usual annoyed suspicion, and Harry found he couldn’t meet her eyes.

She seemed to be weighing her words carefully, but surprised him by answering. “He was... lighter, I suppose. He was always quiet, and a little broody, but he smiled more, and he didn’t have... I guess, the tension he has now. You know that expression? The weight of the world on your shoulders? You could tell, before, that someone was looking after him. Now...”

She trailed off, and they walked in silence for several moments with only the sound of their footsteps breaking the quiet. The sun had set by now, and the halls were lit by torches, casting flickering flames to drive out the shadows.

Harry’d never had anyone to look after him. The thought came unbidden, but he couldn’t deny that it was true. Was it worse for Theo, to have had that and then have lost it?

(A grille, looking out from his cupboard, the view of the Dursleys on those thrilling occasions when they’d forget to close the living room door and he had a view of three quarters of the telly, almost like he was watching it with them)

He couldn’t help but think he’d have given anything for even a few years of love.

Bullstrode’s voice cut through his thoughts like a bludger. “You care about him, don’t you?” Bullstrode’s voice was steady, and her eyes, when Harry looked at her in alarm, were as serious as he’d ever seen them.

Harry stifled several automatic reactions – clearing his throat, sprinting away, even outright denial – and instead said, “Yeah.”

They walked a little further, Harry’s mind almost foggy, waiting for her to speak.

“I’m protective of Theo,” Bullstrode began, and it was Harry’s turn to snort.

“I noticed,” he said, ignoring the girl’s death glare with surprising ease.

“I’m protective over him,” she continued, “because he’s been through a lot and – we’ve been through a lot, together.”

There was silence for several long moments. A second year Hufflepuff walked by, books under her arm, giving them a curious look until she caught sight of Bullstrode’s glare and hurried along post-haste. Harry said nothing, sensing that she wasn’t finished. She waited until the Hufflepuff had turned the corner.

“My older brother died, around the same time as his mother,” she said eventually, looking straight ahead, and Harry almost tripped on thin air. “We were – close, and suddenly I was the oldest... Theo understood. It was like we were grieving together, almost.”

Harry couldn’t have thought of something to say if he’d wanted to.

“He wants you to be his friend. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time. So I’m happy that he’s got you. But –” and here she stopped suddenly, right before the stairway to the Tower, and looked him right in the eye, “if you’re not serious, you have to walk away now, and not when things get hard, or – difficult. People won’t like it, and if there’s another war –”

“I’m serious,” Harry said, and found his mouth was almost dry. “I’m not just – I wouldn’t abandon someone just because things got hard, or – or everyone else didn’t want me to associate with them. That happened to me last year, remember? Listen,” he debated with himself silently for a long moment before he thought, oh, what the hell, “I – I know his dad was a Death Eater, alright?”

Something eased a little in her expression, but the look she gave him was purely sardonic. “I would be a little concerned about your observation skills if you hadn’t picked up on that by now, Potter,” she said, and Harry surprised himself – and her – by laughing.

Harry could have sworn her lips twitched, but her face was serious again before he could be sure.

“And if there’s another war?”

This conversation felt surreal, talking about a potential war with Millicent Bullstrode in a dark corridor with the castle warm and comforting around him, but with everything else that had happened today, he supposed it wasn’t that strange. War. Unbidden, an image of the mangled body popped into his mind, a werewolf standing over it, jaws dripping with blood, the coldness in Lupin’s eyes as he turned him away – no, Harry, he told himself, Bullstrode is waiting.

He swallowed. What to say? This felt like far more than a test than earlier – and the stakes here were high. What did she want to hear? Her eyes had began to narrow when he thought, fuck it, and decided to just answer honestly. His brain felt too fried for anything else. “I don’t know what’ll happen. Dumbledore reckons Voldemort isn’t dead, and I know that – something of him is still alive. If he comes back and there’s a war – I – I can’t say, if Theo were to fight for the Death Eaters – and I don’t think he would, but if – If he was made to or something, I couldn’t support that, but I would never – abandon him, and I’d do whatever I could to help him. I wouldn’t – write him off. I wouldn’t just – give up on him,” he finished lamely. “He’s my friend.”

Bullstrode was watching him carefully, and Harry had Déjà Vu as the moment stretched.

Suddenly everything that had happened that evening – everything he wasn’t thinking about – burned up in him and he felt his temper alight.

“Believe me or don’t. I’ll prove it to you by being his friend. And – and yours, if you’d like that, but I won’t beg, and I won’t jump through hoops to prove myself to you. I’m sick of the constant suspicion. No more tests. You just have to believe I’m not some devious mastermind trying to trick you all or that I’m just messing with you - or you don’t.”

Bullstrode’s eyebrows were almost to her hairline, but Harry felt strangely better than he had since – the Dementor lesson, and he felt suddenly like he’d made the right choice.

“Shall we?” he said, nodding at the entrance to the stairway, projecting as much confidence into his voice as possible.

Bullstrode gave him one last long look, and then a small, wry smile appeared on her face. “Alright, Potter, no need for hysterics. You first.”

“Right,” said Harry, more bravely than he felt, and started on up the stairs, Bullstrode close behind.

They must have been at least halfway up when Harry tentatively broke the silence.

“So, does that, er, mean that we’re friends now?”

“Shut up and climb, Potter,” Bullstrode replied, but Harry was reasonably confident there might be a smidge of amusement in her voice, and smiled.

They climbed to the top in silence. Even Harry was huffing and puffing a little by the time they reached the landing. Merlin, had they added more stairs in the last week? Bullstrode’s face was flushed from the exertion, and without having to discuss it they both took a few moments before the door to catch their breaths.

When they could both be reasonably expected to speak, Harry swallowed firmly, and reached for the door.

He just had time to wonder what they would do if Theo wasn’t there when they saw him.

He startled at their sudden appearance, and Harry felt his stomach plummet with sheer adrenaline as he noted how near the edge Theo was sitting.

As Harry took a step into the tower proper, he saw that he’d been sitting with his legs dangling over. Harry’d never seen Theo so dishevelled. His hair was mussed, like he’d ran his hands through it thoroughly; his tie was askew, and his face was flushed and puffy and – wet.

Harry stared and stared as he realised Theo had been crying.

Bullstrode came around him, and took the boy in with one assessing glance.

Theo looked between them a little like a wild animal, and the way his eyes darted to the doorway behind them expectantly made Harry’s chest hurt a little.

“It’s just us,” Harry said, and Theo flinched at his voice.

Completely out of his depth, Harry looked to Bullstrode for guidance.

Her face was blank, but Harry knew she must be feeling – all sorts of things, seeing Theo like this. Did she feel as out-of-depth as he did? She didn’t even know what had caused it.

The three of them stared at one another in silence for a long, long moment, before Bullstrode broke it by walking forward, and tentatively easing herself down to sit on Theo’s left, her legs dangling over the side. Theo sniffed, and turned back to look out over the grounds, his shoulders still tight. Harry stood for a moment in pure indecision, before Bullstrode turned back and gave him a glare that he found he could read surprisingly well.

Harry was more than used to heights, playing Quidditch, but it was a whole other thing having nothing under his feet but air, with no broom to hold him up. His shoulder, where he pressed against Theo’s, was hot like a fever.

They sat silently for some time, the sound of their breathing just audible over the distant cry of the wind.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Bullstrode asked eventually, voice casual and low, like she wouldn’t mind either way.

Theo swallowed visibly, and shook his head. “Maybe later,” he mumbled, and Harry was absurdly relieved to hear that his voice sounded okay.

A pause, and then the girl asked, in that same tone, “Do you want us to go?”

Harry knew a long moment of indecision – what would he do if Theo said yes? – before the boy finally mumbled, so quiet that Harry almost didn’t hear him, “No.”

They sat, legs dangling over the edge of the Astronomy tower, watching the last of the sun disappear over the horizon. Soon enough the stars would be out, and they knew from experience how clearly they could be seen from up here. Their breathing slowly evened out as they sat, not talking, just keeping eachother company, and Harry had the sense, sitting next to his friends, shoulder warm and electric, that he could sit here all night and just wait for the sun to come back up.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up three times that night before giving up on sleep entirely. He didn’t know what he’d expected. They had eventually left the Astronomy tower in the early hours, and Harry felt dead on his feet by the time he’d collapsed on his four-poster. He’d drifted off fairly quickly, but the feelings he’d been suppressing while awake were more than happy to make themselves known in his dreams. Each time he woke up from some horrible, twisted vision of the Boggart he’d tried to calm himself by focusing on mundane things, to little effect. Pretending nothing had happened might not have been the healthiest thing to do, but it had worked for him so far in life. But no matter how much he thought about upcoming Quidditch matches or planned out his homework, his mind kept wandering to what he was trying not to think about.

He attempted to brainstorm Quidditch tactics, but when imagining the Gryffindor team flying through the air he couldn’t help but think there was something familiar about the shade of red...

Or when planning his homework, he tried to set out his Potions essay, but Potions made him think of Snape, and now he knew that Snape...

Even thinking about Ron and Hermione, which usually served to make him feel better; he tried to think about shopping at the end of summer, traipsing around Diagon with his friends, but then his mind would zoom in on a poster of Sirius Black on the wall, and...

It was useless.

He got out of bed and checked his watch. Quarter to five. Curfew was still in effect until 6. He sat on the edge of his bed and took stock. He felt worse than he had in a long time. He had a headache that made it sore to move his head too quickly, and his eyes felt like someone had poured gravel on them while he was sleeping. He didn’t fancy sitting in the Common Room for the next hour.

On impulse he grabbed his cloak and stood. He hesitated for a second, before Theo’s smirking face came to him and he rolled his eyes and grabbed a pair of socks from his drawer for his bare feet.

The Common Room was empty. He lingered by the embers of the fire for a long moment, but the idea of sitting still right now was impossible. He crept out of the portrait hole without a clear plan in mind, and almost ran right into Professor Lupin.

The man had been pacing, but his head whipped round at the sound of the portrait swinging open, and his eyes scanned the area for several seconds before Harry remembered he was invisible.

He was making his mind up to either make a run for it or turn right around and hide out in the Common Room after all, when Lupin said, in a slightly strangled tone of voice, “Harry?”

Harry delayed a long moment, but there was really no point in it now. He shrugged off the Cloak without much grace and stuffed it in his robe pocket. Harry had just enough time to see plain uncertainty in the man’s expression before he began pointedly inspecting the wall behind him.

Lupin looked worse than Harry felt. In his brief glimpse, Harry saw that he had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was almost grey. With his shabby robes (he hadn’t changed for bed. Harry doubted he’d even tried to sleep) and his pained expression, the overall effect was horribly pitiful. Harry held on to the embers of his anger as he refused to meet the man’s eyes, and tried to stoke them by reminding himself of the dismissive and cold tones the man had taken with him yesterday when he told him to leave his classroom.

“Harry, can we talk?”

Lupin was undeniably nervous, as if he expected Harry to say no. Harry toyed with the idea, but at the end of the day, he was a Professor, and for some reason (possibly a bit of spite that he’d rather not think of) he wanted to prolong this encounter. Let Lupin beg if he wanted to.

He settled on shrugging, knowing he was coming across as surly and feeling a small spark of enjoyment from it.

“Why don’t we – would you like to speak in my office?” Harry shrugged again. He didn’t really want to go anywhere with Lupin right now, and the man must have read it on his face. “Here’s fine, of course, if you’d rather.”

There was a fraught pause.

“Harry, I wanted to apologise. My behaviour yesterday – I shouldn’t have snapped at you like I did, or said those things. I – was upset, but you had just experienced something awful, and I am your teacher, and an adult, and should have been able to put you first. You needed someone, and I sent you away. I – I’m sorry, Harry.”

The man’s voice was horribly earnest, like it mattered a great deal to him whether Harry accepted his apology or not.

Harry took this in with a mix of feelings. Merlin, his head hurt far too much for this. It was beyond strange to have an adult apologise to him like this, let alone a teacher. Had that ever happened before? Certainly not like this, all earnest and genuine.

Harry felt an awful squirm of guilt in his stomach, which just made him madder. He shouldn’t feel guilty at making Lupin upset. He had every right to be mad. What did he care if Lupin felt bad? And yet the squirm of guilt was still there, along with a horrible urge to just make things better, tell Lupin of course he forgave him, he was sorry, please don’t stop the lessons and send me away. He tamped down those feelings as best he could, but his turmoil must have shown on his face somewhat.

“You don’t have to say anything, Harry. And you don’t have to make any decisions right now, about our Dementor lessons. It’ll be end of term in a few weeks, so we can resume lessons in January if you like. Just – I simply wanted to apologise. And see how you were doing.”

This was edging too close to dangerous territory. Something switched on in his brain and he found himself rambling quickly, his mouth dry from not having spoken in hours. “It’s fine, I’m okay, I was just going to bed, actually. Don’t worry about it, I’ll uh, see you in class –”

“Harry,” Lupin cut him off as he began edging closer to the Fat Lady. His voice was horribly gentle now, and to his genuine horror, he felt a sudden prickling in his eyes. “Don’t. It’s not okay. You don’t have to talk to me, but I think you should talk to someone. An adult. Is there anyone you can –”

Harry’s snort was embarrassingly wet, and he spoke quickly to cover it up. “No. And it’s fine, I don’t need to talk about it, it wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t even real.”

“Harry,” Lupin said again, and why did the man keep saying his name, “just because it wasn’t real doesn’t mean it wasn’t upsetting. You saw a vision of your mother’s death. That’s not something you can just shrug off.”

His gentle voice was too much suddenly, and Harry felt the tears he’d been furiously holding back beginning to escape. He batted at his eyes with his sleeve furiously, panic and mortification rising up in him like a wave as he tried to turn his head away. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

Lupin was there suddenly, right in front of him, and Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and all at once lost what little decorum he had left. The man made soothing sounds as the tears poured out of him, and suddenly Harry couldn’t even care about the utter embarrassment of what was happening. He was powerless to stop himself. Lupin was rubbing soothing circles on his back as he hunched over, hiding his face, the man’s hand large and warm. He was close, and the urge to bury his face in the man’s tatty robes to hide the state he must be in was immense. He was holding out admirably, but when his arms came up to wrap tightly around himself, something he hadn’t done since he was little and lonely in his cupboard, Lupin said, with a horrible sad sigh, “Oh, Harry,” and suddenly he was powerless to give in to the urge.

Lupin stiffened slightly as Harry’s forehead made contact with his shoulder, and Harry felt mortification creep up his spine, but before he could start to retract himself and apologise and possibly flee the country, Lupin’s arm tightened around him, and his other arm came up to rest gently against the back of his neck, and Harry stopped thinking, letting himself give in to the warmth and the safety of the arms around him and the already-familiar smell of the man from his robes.

Harry wasn’t sure how long they stood like that. The wool was rough against his face but he barely noticed. Lupin’s hand was firm against his neck as he murmured quiet words that Harry couldn’t quite make out. Harry had no memory of ever being held like this. The thought made him cling tighter.

At some point he remembered he was standing in the middle of the corridor, and this was his teacher, and began quietly to panic. Lupin must have felt him stiffen, for he stepped back smoothly, arms falling to his sides, and conjured a handkerchief, which he handed to Harry wordlessly.

Harry took it, half in a daze, and wiped his face. He felt disgusting, and now his head really hurt, but he did actually feel a little better.

Harry managed to bring himself to look in Lupin’s direction and immediately saw the damp spot he’d left on the man’s robe and felt his face flush. Before the mortification of what he’d just done could strike him dead, Lupin spoke, face unreadable and voice steady, for all the world like he’d just bumped into him in the corridor, and hadn’t just had a third year sobbing on his shoulder and clinging to him like a deranged koala bear.

“Would you like to come down to my office for a cup of tea, Harry? Breakfast will begin in an hour or so.”

Harry couldn’t bring himself to speak, and just shrugged again, shoulders stiff and eyes cast to the floor, but Lupin must have been able to tell that this was a different kind of shrug, and set off for his office, Harry following meekly behind.

By the time they reached the office, Harry was beginning to feel particularly gross, and the awkwardness had fully set in. Oh Merlin, maybe Lupin wanted some privacy to have a talk with him about boundaries and inappropriate behaviour towards teachers. Harry didn’t know what would be worse: Lupin tearing him a new one, or the Professor being all gentle and uncomfortable as he told him they’d have to stop lessons, that Harry had made things weird. Lupin didn’t seem to notice his gloom, leading the way with a casualness that belied his earlier nerves. The office was chilly, but Lupin quickly lit the torches with a flick of his wand, and headed for a large portrait of a centaur at the end of the room. He mumbled something to it, and Harry blinked as with a click the portrait swung open, revealing a dim hallway that lead into what were clearly living quarters. Lupin stepped away to his tea set, and set the kettle to boil. Without turning, he nodded to the open doorway. “If you’d like to wash up, you’re welcome to use the bathroom. It’s the second door on the left.”

Harry looked between the open door and the Lupin, who still had his back to him. Did he really mean for him to enter his private rooms? Harry warred with himself briefly, but, well, his face did feel disgusting, and he was undeniably curious to see a Professor’s living quarters. He hesitantly approached the entrance, waiting for Lupin to change his mind, but when he didn’t, he stepped through the doorway, and found himself in a hallway leading to Lupin’s living room.

It was... almost exactly as he might’ve expected Lupin’s rooms to look, if he’d ever thought about it. The room was cosy and cluttered with books. It looked almost like an extension of his office, except for the touches that betrayed that the space was lived in. A plate with crumbs was balanced on a pile of books, and a stack of laundry was sitting on the arm of the couch, waiting to be put away. Harry felt himself blushing a little as he spied, through an open doorway, a large bed, neatly made. It seemed far too intimate to see where his teacher slept. He wasn’t young enough to believe teachers slept in cupboards in their classrooms and didn’t exist outside of school, but it was another thing entirely to come face-to-face with a pair of his teacher’s socks, lying folded on a pile of clean washing. He didn’t need to be told that students weren’t really allowed in Professor’s quarters; but, Harry reasoned, students probably weren’t meant to throw themselves into the arms of their Professors to have a good cry after seeing a Boggart turn into the corpse of their mother, either, so they might be in uncharted territory now.

He found the bathroom with ease, and was relieved to find that it was broadly similar to the bathrooms everywhere else in the castle. He blew his nose about forty times and washed his face in the sink. He kept finding his gaze drawn to the lone red toothbrush sitting in a glass next to the tap, and shook his head. Very weird.

When he made it back to the office, Lupin was sitting at his desk, nursing a cup of tea and staring into the distance.

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, and Lupin started with an absent smile.

“Better?” the man said, and Harry nodded mutely, a sudden feeling of shyness overcoming him.

Lupin nodded at the seat across the desk. “Sit down, Harry, I’ll fetch your tea.”

As Lupin pottered about with the tea, Harry took stock of the current situation. Had he forgiven Lupin? Nothing of major importance had been resolved, but after falling into the man’s arms so embarrassingly he didn’t think he had it in him to be angry at him any more. Already the memory of his face pressed against Lupin’s threadbare robes sent a warm flush of mortification through him. Merlin, what the man must think of him.

When Lupin finally slid the mug of tea over to him, Harry couldn’t meet his eyes.

Lupin, apparently in no rush, let the silence sit, and quietly sipped his drink. Within a few minutes the mortification began to give way to awkwardness, and then to unbearable boredom. Harry lasted another thirty seconds before he couldn’t take it any more.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. His brain took a moment to catch up to him and he winced in anticipation.

Lupin looked at him in surprise. “What on earth do you have to be sorry for, Harry?” The man sounded genuinely confused.

Merlin, he was going to make him say it. “For... you know...” he gestured at Lupin’s shoulder, where the fabric was still stained dark and damp with his tears. Harry found he couldn’t look at it. Lupin blinked down at his robes as if he hadn’t even noticed the mess Harry had made. When he did his mouth pinched and a flash of something unhappy danced around the man’s eyes. Harry felt a rush of worry and began babbling, “I – I could probably clean it, if you like, or just - buy you a new one? I’m really sorry, I didn’t –”

“Harry,” Lupin cut in, and now his face was blank. “I’m not angry at you. You have nothing to apologise for. I was only upset that you – felt the need to apologise for something like that. I’ll try to control my reactions in the future.”

Harry blinked. He felt suddenly very wrong-footed. “Er,” he said, and had to close his mouth before he apologised again. “Right,” he settled on at last, rather lamely. He cleared his throat, and cast around wildly for something to change the topic to. Coming up blank, he hastily took a gulp of his tea and winced as he burned his mouth. Lupin was watching him now, and Harry felt the horrible desire to flee from those strange amber eyes and the strange man they belonged to, who told Harry to stop apologising and let him cry all over him and made him tea at five in the morning. For some reason his eyes began to sting again, and Harry held back the tears with pure frustration. Oh for God’s sake, when had he become so weepy? He’d never been a crier, and now he’d nearly cried twice in one night.

Lupin either sensed his turmoil or he simply had excellent timing (Harry hoped fervently for the latter) for he cleared his throat before Harry could start properly spiralling.

“I wanted to take this opportunity to answer any questions you might have... from yesterday.”

Harry thought about this for a moment, and felt confusion warring with wariness. Lupin only watched him with his usual steady patience.

“Well,” Harry began hesitantly, “when I asked you questions yesterday... I know they were, er, rather personal, in hindsight, but...”

Lupin sighed. “They were personal, but it’s only natural that you would ask, seeing what you did, and I’m sorry that I rebuffed you so harshly, Harry. I was – overwhelmed, and panicked. I really am sorry.”

There he went again, apologising. Harry tried to ignore the waves of earnestness coming off the man and cleared his throat. “It’s fine, really.” He spoke again quickly when he saw Lupin opening his mouth. “Er – I don’t know. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Despite his protestations, Harry still wasn’t convinced Lupin would just be willing to turn around and tell him anything he asked. It seemed, from his reaction yesterday evening, that these were topics he really didn’t want to talk about. He tried to think of something safe to ask the man, to test the waters, but everything he could think of was almost equally dramatic and serious.

He had a sudden flash of the Theo-boggart and realised he might have something after all. “Erm... Theo’s second boggart... the one that wasn’t his father, I mean. It was obviously him, older, but I didn’t quite understand why... I mean, the only thing of note was that tattoo on his wrist, but...”

Lupin seemed to understand what he meant, and the man looked at him with a great deal of consideration. He was obviously deciding whether or not to tell Harry something, and he felt himself bristle. Wasn’t the whole point of this silly conversation for Lupin to answer him honestly? And he didn’t want to answer his first question? What could be so secretive about a stupid snake tattoo?

Lupin possibly sensed Harry’s growing ire, for he let out a gusty sigh, and began to speak. “You remember we discussed the Death Eaters earlier this term, Harry?” At Harry’s hesitant nod, he continued, “When Voldemort first formed the Death Eaters, he needed a way to gather his followers to his side quickly. And symbols have long been a useful tool for a variety of groups...

The tattoo you saw on Mr. Nott’s wrist was what’s known as the Dark Mark. Voldemort issued them to his most loyal followers, his Death Eaters. I believe taking the Mark was a sort of initiation ritual. They were marked for life, and, if the Aurors caught them, there was proof right there on their wrist. Only his most fervent supporters were eager to be Marked. It would burn when Voldemort called them, and they could Apparate directly to his side.”

Lupin looked at him expectantly, and Harry felt a little dazed. “But why would Theo...” It dawned on him suddenly, and he swallowed. “He’s worried he’s going to become a Death Eater?”

Lupin grimaced. “A Boggart isn’t an exact thing, Harry. We don’t necessarily fear exactly what it turns into, but more what it represents to us. Mr. Nott might not be worried that he will become a Death Eater, but might fear that it’s a possible future for him, for a variety of reasons. You know that his father was in their ranks in the war; I wouldn’t – want to make any assumptions, but it’s likely that his father expects certain things from him. It might simply be the fear that he could have turned out that way, in another life. For precise answers, you’d have to ask him yourself.”

Harry mulled this over in silence for a few moments. “I don’t know – I don’t think he wants to talk about it. We don’t really – talk about that stuff.”

Lupin nodded like he expected this. “Well, it’s always worth trying – even letting him know that he could talk to you, if he ever wanted to. It’s not an easy situation for him to be in, Harry.” His voice was gentle. “You’re the Boy-Who-Lived. Through nothing you’ve done, he might not feel like he should talk to you about it.”

Harry’s voice was thick with frustration. “If everyone knows his Father was a Death Eater, and that he’s probably evil and a horrible father and probably wants Theo to become like him, why can’t anyone do anything?”

Lupin’s expression was sombre. “I wish that they could, Harry. The Wizarding world is traditional and old-fashioned in certain areas, and child-rearing is one of the worst. The Notts are an old Pureblood family. Trying to interfere – be it an individual or the Ministry – in their personal family business would be like a declaration of war to most of these families.”

“So they can just do whatever they want to their kids and no one can do anything?” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, but didn’t care to stifle it.

Lupin grimaced. “Not exactly. There are processes – children have been removed before. But it’s rare. It’s a complicated process, and requires a lot of evidence and support from high-ups and takes a long time. The Ministry doesn’t even have its own branch for Child Welfare, like the Muggles do. Everything is processed through the criminal courts, and we don’t exactly have an equivalent of the Fostering system. It’s all done on a case-by-case basis, and the richer and more powerful the family is, the more difficult to make anything stick. Issues tend to be dealt with quietly, and privately.”

“Is that why I was-” Harry cut himself off with a swallow, and felt his cheeks warm as Lupin turned a searching look on him. He tried to think of a change of subject, but Lupin beat him to it, a knowing look in his eye.

“Is that why you were left with your mother’s family?”

Not feeling up to meeting the man’s eyes, Harry nodded silently.

There was a long stretch of silence. When it became unbearable, Harry caved and glanced up, and was bewildered to find that Lupin was grimacing, his eyes closed tightly. He seemed to be struggling with something. Harry sat forward in his seat, anticipation and dread building within him. Whatever Lupin was considering telling him, it was going to be bad.

The man’s eyes opened with a snap, and the determination in them sent alarm bells ringing through Harry’s mind.

“Harry, I’m going to tell you something, and it’s going to be hard to hear. I want you to hear me out fully, okay?”

Harry nodded, pushing down the plunging feeling that was now taking over his stomach.

“You might not know this, but Sirius Black was of ages with your parents and me at school.” Lupin looked at him expectantly, and at Harry’s bemused shrug, carried on. “He was friends with your father – friends with all of us.”

Harry felt like he’d just stepped off a roundabout. Friends? With Sirius Black?

Lupin was holding his eyes intently, like he wanted to make sure this was going in. “Harry, he was our best friend. Your father’s best friend, all through school and beyond. They were like brothers.”

Harry felt like a goldfish that had fallen out of the bowl. “I don’t...” he trailed off, looking at Lupin imploringly. The man’s fingers were white around his mug. He took a deep breath.

“They met on the train in first year, and were inseparable from then on. There was some trouble with Sirius’ parents. They were Dark – the Blacks historically always had been – and Sirius was a Gryffindor and... well, he’d always professed a hatred for the Dark Arts.” Lupin’s face had become almost blank, but the pain shining from his eyes made Harry want to look away. “The Potters took him in when it came to a head before Sixth year. He was one of the family. When you were born, Harry... There isn’t an easy way to say it, so I’ll just have to be blunt. They named him your Godfather. He remains your Godfather.”

Lupin was watching him carefully, like he was waiting for a bomb to go off, but Harry only felt numb. The words rattled around his brain with an almost comical air. Siruis Black, mass murderer and number one Voldemort fan, is my Godfather? Sure, why not. While we’re at it, might as well discover that Draco Malfoy is my nephew. And Snape is secretly Mrs. Figg in disguise. Harry knew he was verging towards hysteria, and tried valiantly to stay in the moment, but it wasn’t going well.

“Right,” he said at last, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears, “sure, Sirius Black is my Godfather.”

Lupin was still watching him carefully. “Breathe, Harry. I know this is a lot to digest. It’s not a great time, but they’re no closer to catching him, and you can’t be prepared unless you have all the information. I told you I would tell you the truth, and I will, but if you don’t think you can hear any more, we can stop for today and save it for another time. Accio Calming Draught.”

A small potion bottle flew to the man’s hand, and he set it on the desk between them. “In normal circumstances I would advocate for experiencing your emotions as they come, to better deal with them, but this has been an extraordinarily difficult day for you, and I think you should consider taking a portion of Calming Draught if you think it would help.”

Harry stared at the bottle, and for some reason this snapped him back to the present. He took a deep breath, and shook his head.

Lupin nodded. “Alright. I’ll keep it here if you need it. There’s no shame in needing help, Harry.”

Harry dragged his gaze up from the bottle to the Professor. “What... what happened?”

Lupin didn’t need him to elaborate. The man looked away, and Harry didn’t need to be a genius to read the pain in his expression. “I wish that I knew, Harry. We never... there was no inkling that Sirius would turn Dark. He hated his family, and hated anything they stood for. He had... a cruel streak. That was undeniable, though I did my best not to think about it. He was prone to a bit of bullying, a bit of arrogance. He had some wounds from his family that came out in unpleasant ways. But even then, the children he targeted... there was no indication he’d ever turn Dark. He fought with us in the war. He was a member of the Order. Everyone suspected each other, those days. But I never once considered...”

Lupin trailed off, but Harry felt too impatient to let him go at his own pace. “He bullied people, and you didn’t think he was a – you didn’t realise he might be bad?”

Lupin looked sad enough, suddenly, that Harry felt his ire drain away. “I’m not proud of all my time at school, Harry. I was so grateful to have friends that I turned a blind eye to their unsavoury traits. I regret it. Very much. But being a bully in school doesn’t equal turning into a Death Eater. Children make mistakes, deal with things poorly, hurt each other...”

“But my dad was friends with a bully?” Harry couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Lupin sighed, and looked at Harry almost with pity. “James had his bad traits too, Harry. Everyone does. It doesn’t make them bad people. James... matured, towards the end of school. He wasn’t the same boy as he was then. Had he lived... I would have loved to see the man he might have become.”

There was silence for a long moment. Harry focused on his breathing. In and out, in and out.

“I wish,” Lupin mumbled, almost to himself, “that he was here to tell you these things. To explain himself. I would give anything for that, Harry. I’m sorry that he can’t be.”

Harry nodded, eyes on the dregs of his tea in front of him. Lupin waited long enough for the stinging in his eyes to dissipate.

“But how... what happened? When did he turn?”

Lupin took a deep breath, and seemed to be steeling himself. “Harry, there’s one more thing you need to know. This might be the most difficult. I – have you ever heard of the Fidelius Charm?” At Harry’s head shake, he continued. “When we were at school, there were four of us – your father, myself, Sirius, and a boy named Peter Pettigrew. We called ourselves the Marauders. We –” he swallowed, and if Harry had thought he was in pain before it was nothing to how he looked now, “it was silly – we played pranks, made mischief, embarked on advanced magical projects together... Your father and Sirius were, I suppose, the ringleaders, in a sense, which I suppose left Peter and I to trail after them...”

He saw Harry’s face, and smiled, a proper smile this time, “It wasn’t as bleak as that seemed, Harry. They didn’t make me feel any lesser in our friendship. I was just so grateful to finally have friends...” he cleared his throat, and Harry felt a horrible beat of empathy. He knew all too well how that felt. “Perhaps Peter felt differently. He was the odd one out, I suppose. He wasn’t marvellously talented at school, or magic, or immensely popular. He struggled, truth be told. Sometimes he ended up the butt of our jokes. Harmless, I thought at the time, but in hindsight... I wish I could go back and change things... He turned out to be the bravest of us all, in the end...”

Lupin seemed far away for a moment, but came back to himself quickly, sending an apologetic smile Harry’s way. “Sorry, Harry. The Fidelius Charm. This was a charm which allowed the caster to protect the location of a particular place or item. It was used in the war, for those who were able to cast it – the magic is very advanced – and those who fit the... particular requirements. The charm worked by installing the secret of a location within one person, known as the secret keeper. Whoever was going into hiding would pick someone they could trust implicitly, and they would be told the location, and after the charm was cast, someone could be standing directly outside the building and wouldn’t be able to see it. It’s incredibly powerful magic, based entirely on trust and the ability of one person to keep a secret. Furthermore, the secret had to be revealed willingly – meaning something like Veritiserum or torture couldn’t force the Secret Keeper to speak. As you can imagine, it was popular in the war for those who could use it.”

Lupin had switched seamlessly to Professor mode, but now he fixed Harry with a serious look. “Harry, do you understand where I might be going with this?”

Harry went to speak but his voice only croaked. He cleared his throat. “Did... did my parents use the Charm, sir?”

Lupin nodded, eyes not leaving Harry’s, as if willing him to understand something. Harry felt like his stomach was doubling as a beehive.

“Dumbledore was the caster. From what I’ve told you... you know who they would have picked to be their Secret Keeper.”

Harry breathed and breathed and breathed. “Sirius Black,” he said, at last.

There was a very long silence. Lupin seemed to be waiting for him to do something, if the worried tint to his eyes was any guide.

Harry felt very faraway. “He betrayed them, then.”

The words were underwhelming. Harry wanted to scream them, carve them into the wall, paint them on the roof of the Entrance Hall. But all he could do was sit here, breathing the same air as his Professor, a man who had known his parents, had known their murderer. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Murder? Voldemort may have cast the curse that ended their lives, but without Sirius Black’s betrayal none of it would have happened. He imagined Black then, being made Secret Keeper, all solemn oaths and declarations of love and trust, skipping gleefully to Voldemort the second he could, ready to serve Harry’s parents up on a silver platter. A rage he’d never known before in his life seized him suddenly.

He realised he was shaking at the same time as he heard a rattling from around him. The tea set – kettle, cups and all – was vibrating several inches off the table. He felt worse than he had over the summer, when he’d made Aunt Marge blow up. Wouldn’t that be something now? If Sirius Black were here, blowing him up like a balloon would be child’s play. That would be far too lenient. He’d want him to suffer. He’d want to mean it. He-

“Harry?”

Lupin’s voice came to him through the fog, distant like he was far away. “Harry, I want you to drink this. It’ll help your mind clear.”

Something was being put in his hands. It was his mug, but instead of tea it was half-full of a strange grey gloopy liquid. The Calming Draught. But Harry didn’t want to be calm. He wanted to rage and break things and not think about Sirius Black or his parents or Professor Lupin looking at him with worry and pain in his strange amber eyes –

When had the man got so close? Harry’s hand was warm, he suddenly realised. But the mug was cold. He looked down, and saw Lupin’s hand was wrapped around his, holding tight. He looked up and the man was watching him, speaking quietly. Was Lupin trembling? It took him a long moment to realise that it was him who was shaking. His whole body was shaking. It was like somebody had turned the volume on the telly up suddenly. He blinked, and the room was full of the sound of rattling, the tea set and cups and random office detritus still vibrating in the air. Lupin’s voice was low. Harry could only make out the odd word – but he heard his name clearly, and then suddenly the worry in Lupin’s eyes was the only thing he could see. His hand lifted and he drank.

It took a few moments for the Potion to have any effect. The vibrato around him went from a buzzing to a trickle, and he watched, mind still rather blank, as the floating objects slowly lowered to the ground.

“Good boy, Harry, that’s very good. Will you take a seat for me?”

Harry blinked, and looked down to realise he’d stood up at some point without realising. He sat slowly, feeling a little like he was in a snow globe which had just been turned upside down.

The potion had a curious affect. Harry would’ve expected to feel numb or catatonic, or that it wouldn’t let him think about everything he’d learned, but instead the rage and confusion and pain simply felt... muted. He could still feel those emotions, and his brain hadn’t stopped running in a loop of he betrayed them... no shame... the man he might have become... murderer; but the all-consuming rage had disappeared. He felt as calm as he’d ever been, and it allowed him to view the situation with an almost detached logic. Merlin, no wonder they monitor this stuff, he thought. Maybe he could slip Hermione some Calming Draught before the exams; she’d probably do so well they’d have to oust Dumbledore and make her Headmistress.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Lupin asked, and Harry came back to the present with a jolt. His eyes darted to where the man’s hand still clenched around his, and Lupin followed his gaze, blinking as if he too had forgotten he was holding onto him. The man took his hand back, and Harry stifled the bizarre desire to grab it back. He’d never needed physical comfort before, and he wasn’t going to start now. He felt his shoulders square as he met the Professor’s eyes, and he nodded.

“I’m okay,” he said, looking around the room to avoid the gentleness in Lupin’s strange eyes. “Did I break anything?”

Lupin straightened. “No, don’t worry. No permanent damage. And don’t,” his eyes narrowed as Harry opened his mouth, “apologise. You handled yourself far better than I expected.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut, and he couldn’t help fidgeting. How could Lupin read him so well?

The man’s face melted into a smile, lopsided and fond. “I’ve learned at least a little about how your mind works by now.”

He didn’t want to think about it anymore, but he had to know, and with the aid of the Potion, now might be the best time for it. “Sir,” he said, and his tone of voice must have alerted Lupin that they weren’t out of the woods yet, as his face became serious once again, “... what happened?”

Lupin watched him carefully for a moment, before presumably judging that the potion was doing its job, and he wouldn’t freak out again. He sighed. “I wish I knew exactly, Harry. On that Hallowe’en night, the Fidellius charm broke; Sirius must have given the Secret up. You... know the rest. After, Peter... went after Sirius. I don’t know how he found him, or what he was thinking – vengeance, I suppose. He knew Sirius was the Secret Keeper, knew what must’ve happened... Anyway, Peter found him, and confronted him. It... Peter was never a duelist. The witnesses reported that Peter was yelling at him, calling him a traitor, and that Sirius just... laughed.”

It was a good job he’d had the potion, for Harry knew that without it, something in the room would have exploded at hearing that Black had laughed after killing his parents. Hatred, pure and freezing cold, settled in his stomach like he’d never known.

“Sirius... well, he was captured, but not before he had blown up the street, killing a dozen muggles, as well as Peter. They... all they found of him was a single finger. I’m sorry to be so blunt, Harry, but I need you to know how dangerous Sirius Black is. I need to know you understand that no matter how angry you may be, you cannot try to confront him. Do you understand?”

Unbidden, Mr. Weasley’s words from the summer came to him, suddenly making a great deal more sense. Harry, swear to me you won’t go looking for Black. Did everyone know except him? Why did it take his Defence Professor, a man he’d known for mere months, to tell him about his own history?

“Harry?” Lupin’s face and voice were equally serious, and Harry found himself nodding automatically.

“I understand, sir. I won’t go looking for him; I’m not suicidal.”

Lupin didn’t look like he entirely believed him, but it must have been good enough for now, as the man nodded briskly, and straightened. He was watching Harry carefully, his face in a thoughtful frown. The expression made his scars whiten, and that made Harry remember something else.

“Sir,” he said, “how did you get those scars?”

Lupin’s face froze. Harry knew, intellectually, that this question was too personal, that he shouldn’t ask it, that the potion was probably smothering the awkwardness and anxiety that would’ve stopped him asking something so inappropriate in the first place, but the Draught also made it so he couldn’t really care.

Lupin seemed to take a deep breath, his eyes darting down before coming back up to meet Harry’s with intensity.

The moment stretched, and belatedly, underneath the cool detachment from the Potion, Harry began to sense that he’d asked something even more significant than he’d thought.

“I was attacked, as a child,” Lupin said, voice quiet and somehow devoid of emotion.

Harry stared at him, questions tumbling through his mind, but there was only one that made it past his lips.

“Was it a werewolf?

The silence was terrible. Even through the calming fog Harry began to feel a thrill of anxiety building up in his stomach. His brain began cataloguing reasons why he shouldn’t have asked that, ranging from his imminent expulsion to Lupin never speaking to him again. Harry almost couldn’t handle the tension as Lupin closed his eyes.

They sat like that for a long moment, before Lupin swallowed visibly and opened his eyes. Harry couldn’t read him at all.

“Yes,” Lupin said, barely above a whisper.

There was one obvious question Harry needed to ask now. One crucial question that he would have to be stupid not to ask. Lupin’s eyes held his as he waited for Harry to ask it.

Harry licked his lips, and his breath left him in a sigh. “Do you think Breakfast has started yet?

 The tension stretched – and then Lupin laughed. It was light, tinged with an element of hysteria, and only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to release the tension in Harry’s shoulders far more than the Draught had.

Lupin stared at him with an unreadable expression for a few moments longer, before he smiled, slow and meaningful, and nodded. “I’m sure we can rustle something up. Shall we?”

Harry’s lips stretched into a smile, tired and relieved, and he nodded.

Lupin had instructed Harry – firmly – to go back to bed and stay there, but that plan only lasted until midmorning and Ron and Hermione had left for Hogsmeade. Another Hogsmeade stuck in the castle. As the only third year left behind. He was lucky it was a Saturday; it would’ve been a disaster if he’d had to go to class today, although he expected that Lupin might’ve written him a note to excuse him, if that were the case. On the other hand, at least classes would’ve been a distraction. As it was, he was left wandering the corridors, trying and failing not to think about what he’d learned. His friends weren’t stupid. They could tell something had happened – they had been worried, last night, when he hadn’t returned from his lesson with Professor Lupin before bed. Harry had felt a swoop of guilt when he realised it hadn’t even occurred to him to try and get a message to them, but Hermione had stayed his guilt in its tracks by rolling her eyes and telling him that Adrian Pucey of all people had let them know Harry was with Theo – and wasn’t that a conversation Harry would’ve paid to see. Harry had no idea why Pucey was suddenly popping up everywhere, but he had a bad feeling about it. When his friends demanded to know what was going on, he suddenly found himself without words. Mercifully, Ron and Hermione were the best friends he could ask for, and they let him off the hook. He told them he’d tell them later, once he’d processed everything. They didn’t look happy, but they left it, and soon they had to leave for Hogsmeade.

Which left Harry standing like an idiot in a little-used corridor on the third floor, clutching a piece of parchment to his chest and watching as the Twins slunk away, off to do Merlin-knew what. He’d listened to their spiel about the Marauder’s Map with growing incredulity. He wasn’t the fastest on the uptake, normally, but he’d have to be thicker than Crabbe and Goyle not to be able to put two-and-two together. We called ourselves the Marauders... It seemed a blind bit of luck to be gifted this Map the very day he discovered the identity of this little gang, but he accepted it with a smidge of hysteria and the thought: well, this might as well happen. He stared down at the names on the Map. Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

Lupin, his dad, Peter Pettigrew, and Sirius Black. He stared at the names for a long time. It seemed a horrible cruelty to be gifted something that reminded him both of his dad and his dad’s murderer. He stared at the names – nicknames, obviously, and strange ones. Which was his dad’s? Which was Black’s? He stared at the familiarly scribbled Moony for several long seconds, mind blank, before deciding, politely and without thinking about why, that he could probably rule that one out. So Wormtail, Padfoot, or Prongs. One of them was his dad, one of them was Pettigrew, and the other was the man who killed them both. He wondered what the Twins would’ve said if he’d told them who the Marauders were. Which would elicit the best reaction? That one was Harry’s father? Or their mild-mannered, rule-following Defence Professor? Or notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black? He wondered if the twins would have kept using the Map if they’d known. Which posed the question: should he even use it? Sirius Black had helped make this. His very magical essence was in this parchment.

But so was his dad’s. So was Lupin’s. And Pettigrew, a man he’d never known but who had died avenging his parents. Perhaps he ought to give it to Lupin? It was his after all. He was the only one left. For some reason the idea grated. He didn’t know if he felt okay using it, but the idea of losing the Map now that he’d found it was intolerable.

And the possibilities it opened up were very interesting... The Twins hadn’t been subtle about how they thought he should use it. The idea was very tempting – he could just picture Ron and Hermione’s faces as he sprung up behind them. There was a feeling rising in him, a sort of wildness that he didn’t know what to do with. He wanted to do something reckless, something risky. Something that would get rid of this feeling that had been building in him since that first disastrous Boggart shift yesterday.

He sprung to action. He’d need his invisibility cloak if wanted to get out unseen, and-

“Harry! There you are.”

He jumped, clutching the Map to his chest protectively.

It was Ruth, flanked by Astoria and Corwin. Behind them trailed Ginny and Colin, deep in conversation. All five of them had what looked like ink spattered on their fingers. Ruth and Corwin had almost maniacal glints in their eyes.

They headed straight for him. “Hullo,” he said, belatedly, as they approached. “Erm. Were you looking for me?”

Ruth grinned, and Harry noticed she had a smudge of the inky substance across one cheek.

“Yeah! We need another player for Gobstones – Gryffindor vs. Slytherin! We’re winning,” she said with a smug grin.

Ginny looked up from her conversation to scoff. “That’s only because it’s three against two. Harry, we need you on our team. These firsties are getting way too confident.”

Ruth and Ginny glared at each other, but Harry could see the fondness underneath. Colin grinned, and Harry saw that the boy had a bit of ink on his teeth. The wild feeling that had been almost bursting out of him – melted, just like that. He projected as much confidence as he could, and returned the grin. “You’re on,” he said, and his friends smiled.