Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry found himself in a whirl of action, mind working solely on hex, protego, hex, swipe at the legs, protego, hex, run, hex, repeat. 

The almost cavernous room of the mysterious arch echoed with the sound of battle and his friends crying out. 

After feeling as if he’d been fighting for forever despite it likely being only a couple minutes at most, his back bumped into someone else. He whipped around on the spot, wand raised automatically to this new challenger, only to be met with familiar warm eyes and dark hair: Sirius. 

A cackle rose and overcame the cacophony of fighting for a single, spine-chilling moment. They both turned to see glittering eyes much like the ones he had just met, but these ones were far too cold, too manic, even without the light glinting off them.

Harry took stock of where he now stood and found he was right in front of the arch with the strange veil that fluttered even when no one had been in the room in an unfelt wind. It almost sounded as if whispers were coming from there, but surely Harry must be mistaken, it was too loud to be able to tell such a thing.

Bellatrix Lestrange approached, shooting off hexes and curses and unforgivables with her crooked wand, much like herself, a smile that showed too many teeth on her face. 

Despite it being 2v1, Bellatrix held well against both Sirius and Harry, likely due to her insanity. She had nothing holding her back, not common sense, not morals, not her own safety. Somehow, being insane always gave you a better edge. Harry didn’t quite understand, he’d have to ask Hermione about it later, surely she gets it.

Bellatrix’s eyes lit up even brighter than before when Harry placed his foot down in a slight dip where spellfire had torn a chunk out of the ground. Quicker than a snake, she whipped out a hex at Harry’s chest with strong force, causing that last push needed to send Harry careening towards the odd veil behind him.

Harry would remember that scene very well for the rest of his life, as if he had taken a picture and seared it into his mind. 

His eyes widened in surprise as he lost his equilibrium, taking in the triumphant look on Bellatrix’s sharply shadowed face, the utter joy there as she screeched in victory, and then the pure terror on his right when Sirius turned at the movement, his hand already reaching for Harry. Then he saw the darkness above that replaced the far ceiling, and finally the tattered veil that hung from the cracking, crumbling, stone archway, before his head passed through fabric that felt like a membrane, like liquid, and reminded him the feel of his invisibility cloak. 

His head was only in there for a second, if even that, for Sirius had immediately grabbed Harry and kept him from falling all the way through in hopes that the veil would not claim him, from being spirited away. But similar to the rest of the night so far, it felt longer. Perhaps it really was, where he was at.

Like the room before, it was dark, yet there was a bright, brilliant white light above him instead of the distant shadows of an intangible ceiling. It got whiter and whiter the farther it got from him, and now, Harry could properly tell that there really had been whispering from here earlier. They seemed to excite with Harry’s arrival, some in joy, some in outrage, some in shock.

He shouldn’t be here yet, many said, and he saw Them, the owners of the voices. They seemed whited out, like the ghosts at Hogwarts, yet with more colour. Not the same vividness of the living, no, still muted, but you could actually tell what hue their eyes were, what shade their clothes, like they were memories. Harry realised he actually recognised quite a few of them, from that time he stood before the Mirror of Erised in first year, and gazed upside down at a large family he never knew but always wished he had.

Pale emerald green so much like his own stared back at him in fear and worry, “You shouldn’t be here yet,” she whispered, trembling against the broad chest of a man with similar wild black curls and glasses who shared the sentiment if his own expression was to be referenced. 

Harry wasn’t sure if he actually heard anything at all. 

Something shrieked silently, an odd feeling tugged at his mind, and a wisp zipped from his forehead. It went straight up, speeding like the hounds of hell was chasing it. Perhaps the analogy wasn’t too far off, he thought, when soon after, souls he didn’t know flew after it, their mouths open in despairing fury and hands tightened into unforgiving claws. They dug into it and didn’t let go until the faded thing was shredded into nonexistence. A victorious cry arose as they screamed to the sky, another sound he wasn’t sure he heard more than felt, or perhaps imagined.

There was a sharp tug on his arm, practically wrenching his shoulder out of its socket, letting him know that he was still very much alive and telling him that he had still been in motion, still falling.

His parents and family, the avenged spirits, disappeared as he was snatched back through the veil slightly slower than he should have been, like emerging from something thick and warm, breaking the surface of water as it tried to hold onto him.

When he emerged, air rushed through his chest with such a sudeness that he realised he hadn’t been breathing that entire time. Sharp and cool, he gasped, eyes shut as he tried to get over the disorienting feeling of halfway being in what seemed to be the land of the dead. He felt heady like he’d been hanging upside down for too long, blood pounding back into the rest of his upper body. 

He had a feeling he’d be having a massive headache later.

When he had calmed enough for his breath to even and the thundering of blood to quiet, he could hear Sirius shouting at him, asking if he was alright, his friends and Remus, other members of the Order, and Dumbledore, the dying battle and snaps of apparition as Death Eaters fled, Bellatrix’s cut off screams of disappointment and anger, and the distant whispers of the veil.

It was silent all but for his friends and family when he finally gathered his bearings enough to tell that he was kneeling on the cold floor, hunched over as he clung two handedly to Sirius’ malnourishment-thin right arm wrapped around his chest, Sirius’ left around his back.

“Are you alright? Answer me, Harry, please. Tell me you’re alright,” his godfather pleaded.

Harry could hear Dumbledore’s sure steps as he asked in that familiar authoritative voice what happened, could hear the shuffling, limping, dragging footsteps of his injured friends as they repeated Sirius' questions, joined in chorus by Remus. 

Harry heaved one last breath and allowed his eyes to flutter open as he looked up to where his friends should be. The assurance, “I’m alright,” on his tongue and halfway out before it was broken off by an almost choked sound from his own throat as he took in absolutely nothing.

There was only darkness for a moment, more still and complete than he’d ever witnessed before, even in his cupboard. 

He blinked to clear whatever must have gotten in his eyes to cause this. Was it the goop of the soul wisp? Did spirits actually goop things like in Ghostbusters ? But all that came of his attempts was a slight difference. Not a complete clearance of the dark but an addition like holes poked into a box, the difference between the black of the empty night sky and the addition of stars. Celestial bodies graced his own eternal night in the form glowing orbs of different colours and sizes in front of him. Not as many as the stars but definitely more than what was there before. Aside from that? Nothing, a darkness he had never known before now filling his vision. His hands tightened almost painfully around Sirius' arm.

He couldn’t see.

There were several gasps from those around him, a whine from Remus and a muffled sob from Sirius as he tightened his grip, when he opened his eyes. He wondered what they saw.

After a moment, Dumbledore made a contemplative sound, “Harry,” he started tentatively, “Can you see?”

“N-no.” 

His tongue felt heavy and thick like his mouth was full of cotton and his voice had a disused quality to it, as if he hadn’t spoken in ages. He couldn’t tell if it was born from the shock or another side effect of having fallen only halfway through the veil.

“I see,” the headmaster responded, feet shuffling against the ground like he was turning away.

“What?”

Dumbledore turned back, “What are you asking, my boy?”

“What do you see?” he turned towards the large orb of pure white, hoping that was the right direction. 

The arm wrapped around his chest moved, he clung even slightly tighter to it, afraid to lose the anchor he had to the real world, but it only moved up a bit. Warm, thin, bony fingers brushed against the skin of his left cheek below his eye. Sirius answered instead of Dumbledore.

“Pale green, milky eyes with no visible iris,” the animagus muttered.

“Oh,” he whispered, unseeing gaze turning back to the floor, guided by gravity. His mind filled with his mother’s eyes, the ones he’d seen moments before, and thought he knew what everyone saw.

Harry looked back up to the big white orb that almost felt cold, “Is there a way to fix it?” Dumbledore contemplated for a moment. “I am not sure, my boy, nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Oh,” he repeated, and slumped in Sirius’ embrace, “Oh.”

“I will look into it,” there was a sweeping of robes, “For now, we must return to Hogwarts,” and that was that.

He gave an order to Kinglsey to take care of the many Death Eaters they did manage to catch and then lead on.

Harry stumbled to his feet, Sirius' arms still wrapped around him to offer aid. 

The entire time, Harry kept his head down and held tightly to Sirius as he and his friends were led from the Ministry and back to the familiar walls of Hogwarts.

<◉>

As they passed through the wards set between the school and Hogsmeade, Harry shivered a little. Losing his sight was already making his other senses work on overdrive in order to compensate and now, it seemed, he could feel magic. At least, could feel it better than he’d ever before as he’d never once noticed the wards previous to tonight. His own magic constantly reached out like tentative fingers, attempting to warn him if he approached something of its likeness.

Harry had, on a couple occasions as they returned, tried to look up and around and was assaulted, every time, by hundreds of orbs of light. He kept his head down after that, eyes shut, until they finally reached Hogwarts.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes again, and watched in vague surprise as lines formed across his vision and gauzy curtains fell in the ghostly shape of Hogwarts. What could only be the walls were like a thin transparent wall of water, allowing him to see every room, every staircase, as a skeleton of the home he’d seen not even twenty four hours before. It was not unlike looking at the Marauder’s Map, just without the ability to focus somewhere else, constantly zoomed out. 

Some places coalesced in colour to be more solid, like around the stairs when they moved beneath him, and in some places upon the walls, faded, itty bitty small orbs shifted and moved, reminding him of a watered down version of the wisp he’d seen earlier. Harry quickly realised that the faded orbs were the paintings when familiar voices spoke from the walls.

They eventually reached the infirmary and Harry was sat upon an, unfortunately, invisible bed. It wasn’t so fun when everything but him was invisible. Oh damn, how was he going to use the invisibility cloak now? While it seemed that he could still see the walls of Hogwarts, he could not see everything within it. 

Madame Pomfrey was called for and when he looked in the direction of her answering voice, he noticed another orb, but unlike the portraits, the orb was bright and colourful and bigger than the small things within the portraits but definitely smaller than the white orb from earlier that still hovered with him. This one was honey coloured, and definitely warm. Distinctly… feminine, matronly, yet sturdy and wisened, like it’s been aged. Still, there was a sprightly sort of youth attached to it as well. Its edges fluctuated, as if it couldn’t sit still, as if it was fretting as it dashed towards them, joining Madam Pomfrey’s worried, condescending tone, upset at them all for getting hurt and upset at Dumbledore for letting them get hurt. 

The golden orb stopped a ways away from him, likely floating before him and his friends’ beds. After a moment, in which he felt the gentle brush of magic, the gold orb darted about other orbs. A pale blue one, small but whimsy, like moonlight; a fiery red-orange one, slightly bigger than the blue one, still small, but would definitely pack a punch; a light yellow one, gentle but firm, a field of flowers; a red brown one, a volcano, that one. Sure and steady for you, like the earth beneath your feet, yet has the possibility to explode and spit fire and be just as finicky if the circumstances were right, yet it also shared a softness for the red-orange orb and turquoise orb, though the softness was very different in nature for the two orbs. The turquoise one was cool, assertive, a force of nature when pushed and with all the resources needed in such a case. It whispered what were possibly secrets that no one had paid attention to for hundreds of years.

When Harry and his friends were treated for wounds, Madam Pomfrey and the honey orb returned to him again and Harry was beginning to think that these orbs were, in fact, symbols of these people, though he didn’t know what they meant. 

He wanted to look down at himself, to see if he had one too, but his chin was already in Pomfrey’s hands, being lifted so his face could be looked at. More magic washed over him, especially his eyes, before Pomfrey finally announced, “There’s no way to fix it.”

“What?!”

It wasn’t Harry who burst out.

He- he kinda already had a feeling that there was no way to fix what had happened, when he realised what was on the other side of the veil, what that archway meant and what it took. That place was connected to death, surely, that was where dead things went, and Harry was lucky that had not fallen through.

It was a miracle, he thought, that it was just his eyes that he lost. Eyes that saw what happened on the other side.

They went there, and so they must stay.

Ron continued his spluttering demands, “What do you MEAN it can’t be fixed?! We’re wizards and witches, surely there must be some way!” Harry watched from the corner of his eye as the red-brown volcanic orb flamed and spat, vicious and angry, likely to burn anything, a little angry sun. 

He saw the way that some of the other orbs flickered, worried and upset in their own way. Though the one like moonlight seemed indifferent, unaffected, still drifting on some other current, though not uncaring. It just saw things differently and Harry’s loss was a gain, it believed, even if it hadn’t yet been told how. Harry was starting to figure out which ones were which, it wasn’t too hard among people he knew, and was surprised by just how much more information about their well being he was getting. There were no filters here.

“Ron-” Hermione began, but stopped when Pomfrey spoke clearly without prejudice, “It means what I’ve said, Mr. Weasly. I don’t know what happened here but his eyes were permanently changed. This is not your simple potions accident or spell, this is ancient magic, such as that it could very well be magic itself that did this.”

The Ron orb visibly deflated, calming to embers and no longer threatening to explode.

Harry looked around again, not just to his friends, but the two other orbs he had not been paying attention to; Sirius and Remus.

One was an indigo blue with black lines and symbols scrawled across its surface, much like the tattoos Harry has seen on Sirius before. It echoed of laughter and pranks, muted beneath it the sound of pain, hollowed by years of nothing but isolation and dementors. His time in Azkaban had truly affected him, but it would not change his definition, he alone would decide what did that. It was nice to know that you really could choose what would and wouldn’t change you in such an intimate level with yourself, because that’s what Harry was starting to think he was looking at.

The other was the colour of caramel, of toasted marshmallows, something sweet, something kind, much similar to a worn and loved quilt, a little frayed at the edges but nothing that couldn’t be patched up. 

The two also reached for each other, much like Ron’s and… he thinks Hermione’s, and now isn’t that a fun idea to play with. They really need to have a proper chat with each other about it. And so, it seems, do Remus and Sirius. His godfather and former teacher seem to be farther along though, if he took the thicker bond between them to mean anything. It was almost like they were… pouring into each other.

He briefly wondered what it would look like to see a married couples’ souls and continued to think about it while his friends talked amongst themselves and with Pomfrey on what this all meant for him. Harry thinks he already knows what it means, though he could do with a bit more thinking on it, look at the finer details.

He’s broken from his reverie when Sirius calls his name, “Harry?” His eyes focus back on Sirius after a couple of blinks.

“Yes?”

The talking around him halts.

“Harry, are you looking at me?”

He mulls the question over for a bit, his eyes drifting to the movement of portraits and other orbs outside the walls of the medical wing, a variety of colours and sizes. He thinks they each have their own feel to them too. Like fingerprints. He wonders again what exactly they symbolise before pulling himself back to the question being asked, his eyes brought to the indigo orb once more.

He can’t be sure that he is actually looking at the person the orb belongs to. He believes he is, but it could also be to their side or somewhere else, they are all at different heights. So instead he answers a question with another question, “Where are my eyes looking?”

The blue orb seems a bit baffled but answers nonetheless. “My chest.”

“Then yes, I suppose I am looking at you.”

He hasn’t spent much time with his godfather, really, but he can imagine Sirius’ face scrunching up in confusion. Harry’s answer wasn’t much of an answer honestly, since he asked where his eyes were already looking. 

“ Harry ,” Remus sighs, like Harry is just joking around to alleviate the stress of the situation, which is a good idea, said situation considered, because his friends are freaking out about this more than he is. Except Luna. She’s always an exception. He’s particularly glad for it today, er, tonight. Her orb is calming. His eyes automatically move to Remus' orb in response to his name and the werewolf notices the movement, orb flickering a little like it’s been startled. 

Funny that there’s no sign of his lycanthropy on the orb. He narrows his eyes a little as he looks more tentatively, feeling the restriction of metal and glass weighing on his nose bridge and suddenly remembers he still has his glasses on. There’s no reason for them.

He pulls them off and folds them, hooks them on the collar of his shirt with questing fingertips and more than a few misses. Hopefully he remembers them later and doesn’t stand up only to have them fall and crack. He’d still like to keep them. Sentimentality and all that. Then resumes his observation of Remus' orb. There is the feeling of warm fur, much, he realises, like Sirius, actually. He looks at them both more closely, comparing and contrasting and aligning with previous knowledge.

More to Sirius, his orb is… distinctly dog shaped, yet still an orb which is downright confusing but is there nonetheless. He can practically see the shifting of black fur, sharp canines, and long nails left uncut, but also the feeling of big wet dog kisses and the desire to play. It truly mixed well with the rest of his personality. Perhaps animagus forms have an effect on the orbs? Or do the orbs affect an animagus form?

Remus has a bristling feel beneath the worn blanket, anxious and frightened, constantly on edge and ready to fight anything and everything despite having a similar feeling to Sirius. The blanket almost seems to draw out the harsh reaction from the wolf with how it strangles and muffles and smothers the wolf within, rejecting its fierceness, and therefore in turn, the warmth that could be there as well.

Harry has the very sudden realisation that if Remus was not so afraid of himself, not so self hating, the wolf would not be so vicious on days of the full moon. It is exciting and worrying all at once and Harry almost wants to start working on that now, and now that he thinks of it, why hasn’t he, himself, tried being an animagus yet??? Oh right, life and death situations, yes.

His musings are cut off when Remus says his name again. “Harry, what can you see?”

He has already been asked a similar question and they know the answer for that one, his friends automatically assuming that his response before is the same for now. But they had asked if he could see. At the time of his answer, he really couldn’t, and he really can’t, not fully like everyone else, not the way they want. Till he got to Hogwarts, everything seemed like a black hole but for the orbs. He cannot see the world, but he can see . He thinks that Luna knew this, to a degree.

“You.” He finally responds, and Remus' orb quivers beneath the weight of the word. There was power in it, knowledge that yes, Harry can see everything about Remus like it’s on display, see what makes up the being known as Remus. There’s a hitch of breath to tell him that it is not just the orb that can feel what he means.

Harry isn’t even looking into Remus' eyes, just at his chest, but it feels as if the boy is. It feels like he is being picked apart under those eyes and he wonders how because Harry is now blind. There is no disputing that, not with how surprised he is when someone touches him, or how he stumbled when placed next to the bed he now sits on, or how he struggled to hang his glasses.

“What do you mean, my boy?” Dumbledore asks, and that piercing gaze is gone. Remus sighs and only then realises he’d held his breath at all.

Harry looks to the white, almost cool, orb. It had been fretting over what to do about Voldemort if Harry can’t see, can’t fulfil the prophecy, and Harry almost flinches away from how the orb regards him, knowing that that is how Dumbledore feels about him. 

It hurts and stings like betrayal, like lies.

He can see that Dumbledore’s goal is to be kind, to help, to do what it takes for the greater good, and that’s where the problem begins.

Harry can see so much pain there, from- from- Grindelwald it whispers, it cries, it aches, like he misses those letters, the way they curled around his tongue, and hates them all the same. He was hurt, and he had to kill the hurt, because there were other things in need of being done and he realised he was wrong. What Dumbledore was wrong about, Harry doesn’t know, but he was wrong, and so he has to fix this for everyone. 

That’s what echoes in Dumbledore’s orb, and Dumbledore, despite all he appears to be to the masses, is not wonderful, is not amazing, is not all powerful, is not okay. He tries though. Oh how he tries, for them, for himself.

And that is just another reason as to how he got here. How Harry got here, a sharpened sword for the great Dumbledore, ready for blood. Whose is unspecified. If it calls for Harry’s own blood or Voldemort’s or both and more.

He has been working for “everyone” and himself for so long, he can no longer see individuals, has been a general for so long, he can only see chess pieces. He has always been fighting, the orb whispers, and he can no longer remove the armour, cannot move on. He doesn’t know how to. He forgot when he killed his heart, locked it away high in a cold tower. For the Greater Good. Harry doesn’t think Dumbledore even realises there is a problem at all, because a war has come again, and Harry is one of the pieces.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He feels misused, abused.
It was not all Dumbledore’s fault.

He did not plan everything.

No, he was not personally responsible for all the pain Harry was dealt in his life, but he knew of it, knew many problems and how to fix them and he didn’t. He left Harry alone with them, even encouraged some, and negligence makes him just as guilty. Harry needed them, Albus thinks, needed to be forged through fire and that was his fire, to be broken and rebuilt for the Greater Good, just like him. All wars must have their sacrifices, and like himself, Harry will be so for this one. 

Harry is disillusioned.

He could blame himself for that, for putting hopes and dreams in this man’s hands and having such high expectations of a man larger than life. But that’s exactly what Dumbledore had wanted him to do, exactly what he wanted from Harry. And so he blames Dumbledore at the same time that he tries not to blame him at all for the crushing weight on his chest, a war of what is right and what is deserved raging inside him.

Harry has to struggle not to cry right there, not to grimace or act changed, not to show that he no longer trusts his Headmaster with his safety and well being.

After a deep breath, eyes closed and the orbs gone, remembering everyone is still waiting for his answer, he lies, “I- there are these lights I can see, like orbs, and they’re where people are standing, so they must be you guys.”

Harry refuses to look at Dumbledore again. 

He doesn’t want to see it.

He can feel it anyways.

Remus' orb quivers as the werewolf thinks on what it felt like to be beneath those eyes and that simple orbs are definitely not everything, that Harry has withheld much of what he can see. He questions why Harry would edit himself like that. Harry ignores him and his suspicion. If he must, he’ll tell Remus later—he’s definitely telling him later, he knows he cannot avoid it—because he knows Remus can be trusted with secrets.

He also ignores the same suspicion from Hermione. She has always been able to tell when he lies. Her orb is spinning rapidly, searching for answers within itself. 

“I see.” Dumbledore says, contemplatively, and there is an awkward silence in response because Harry’s condition is still fresh in mind. Harry will get a lot of jokes out of that phrase in the future, he is sure.

Finally Dumbledore speaks again, and it is still that kind, knowing voice that reminds Harry of twinkling eyes over half moon glasses. It stings. “I will speak to McGonagall about what we can do for you in regards to your schoolwork, and in the meantime, rest my boy, it has been an exhausting day.”

Harry nods and hears Dumbledore leave, his robes brushing across flagstones and the tap of shoes. He can see the door open, for it is one of the few things he can see, and watches, for a time, as his orb moves away.

Pomfrey passes out a few nutrient potions, blood replenishment potions, and Dreamless Sleep—“You’ll need them tonight.”—to each of them and commands they all rest. She’ll check on them all in the morning. 

Harry is in no mood to be stubborn or rebellious.

He’s so tired.

The adrenaline is finally leaving and not only does he have to process the attack at the ministry, how close he was once again to death, how close he dragged his friends to their own deaths, but also the truth of Dumbledore.

Harry wasn’t quite expecting the tears he felt streaming down his cheeks, how silent they were, until they aren’t. He practically bursts then, a sob tearing from his chest as he heaves and curls in on himself, wide eyed and sightless yet even when his body becomes a bubble, a shield against the world for his vulnerable, flayed open self, he can’t stop seeing. The truth spilled everywhere like his own blood, the honest souls of everyone in this sodding castle. Pain erupts in him at what he has lost this evening, and it’s not his sight no matter how blind he is. 

He grieves for the made-up man he trusted, grieves for what Albus Dumbledore must have gone through to become the man he is and how that had pulled Harry right into the thick of the worst things he’s ever had to experience. He grieves the ease in which he had existed in the man’s presence, their relationship as mentor and mentee. 

Tonight, he mourns the loss of innocence a child has for a trusted adult and the death of a grandfather figure. 

Everyone’s orbs jump in surprise and shock, not having expected him to just start wailing like someone has died. Yes, they thought he’d be upset over his blindness, but Harry has always been good at picking himself up and losing his sight, no matter how awful it must be, didn’t seem like the thing to break the camel’s back.

Sirius and Remus are quick to make their way over once they are finally out of the stupor that his sudden reaction had caused. Remus is slightly more delayed, but as soon as Sirius is moving, Remus is following, as if they’re on the same wavelength, thinking as one and not two.

Harry is once more in Sirius’ arms, made all the better when Remus comes to hold him too, seemingly forgetting his typical hesitance in touching others. Remus is not one to comfort via physical contact, sometimes he is still too scared for it, like he can infect others with the curse that is his wolf with simple contact.

Harry doesn’t even mind the way his glasses dig into his sternum and it’s obvious neither Sirius nor Remus care either, simply shifting a little to make sure they don’t break.

“Harry? Harry, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Should we get Madam Pomfrey again?”

He turns into their arms, grasping at their shirts like it’d be enough to anchor him after how hard he has been rocked, pushing into Sirius' chest and Remus' shoulder. He shakes his head and attempts to inhale, to get the ick in him out. It’s hard, the breath stuttering and not coming in or out right, but it’s enough, just barely, to speak after the fourth try.

“That l-liar,” he stutters, “That blo-ody l-lying git and his d-duh-mb twinkle-ing eyes-s and Greater Good .” 

Finally, the rest of the room’s occupants realise who Harry is talking about, if not why. Remus, who has had a hunch this entire time, can guess the ‘why,’ asks, “Harry, what did you see?”

Harry tries to put it all together, to think of a way to communicate what he learned, and can only sob for awhile before the words come. “A g-eneral, and- and I-I’m his unwill-willing s- sword.”

They are cryptic at best, but the pain, the betrayal in his voice, is enough to answer why he lied.

Sirius and Remus look to each other over Harry’s head, worrying over just exactly what that means and how much they, themselves, could entrust with the old Headmaster. 

“Y-you can’t t-tell, you c-c- can’t.” He begs of them, raising his voice to include his friends. He can see the way they shift nervously, the way they feel helpless. Then he falls to a murmur, clinging to the only things close to parental figures he’s ever had, repeating those same words over and over until it finally sinks in, Dumbledore cannot be trusted, and even then, he says it a few more times for good measure.

It takes another half hour and a bigger group hug—because Hermione cannot stand to sit by anymore and Ron doesn’t want to feel like a bad friend because he didn’t join and Sirius does not want to let go so Remus won’t either—before Harry’s tears eventually come to a stop and he is given a warm mug of tea by a house elf. They too have orbs, bigger than their small size, and reminiscent of their large eyes. It’s interesting, the way they zip about. He’ll probably be more entertained by it later, when he feels better.  

Ginny, Luna, and Neville have joined together on the bed beside Harry’s. Neville and Ginny didn’t know if they should, or could, join the hug as it was and Luna knew everything would be fine, that her presence and all its wonderments would be comfort enough.

Harry’s eyes are droopy and he’s ready to go to sleep, he is warm and comfortable, ignoring how childish it might seem to be so tightly held, and he can feel a headache on his way, but he wants some answers and he wants to talk, so he forces himself to stay awake a little longer. 

“I lied,” he starts after some time, drawing everyone’s full attention back to him. He leaves so much space between that statement and what he plans to say next, full with hesitance, that Hermione has to encourage him. “What did you lie about, Harry?” Her voice is soft, kind and open. She will listen, her orb says. 

“I said it was just lights,” he continues and can feel how Remus is now sitting at attention, he knew there was something more. “But it’s- it’s more like these orbs of different colours and sizes, and they tell me things, things about who the orb belongs to.”

Ron asks quietly, “Is that how you saw what you did from Dumbledore?” and Harry has to wonder if Hermione was right about the emotional depth of a teaspoon. Considering he can see these orbs and can have an actual look at who Ron is, he’d say, “not quite after all.”

Harry nods, hoping the rest can see the movement. Hermione is already wondering if it would be okay to ask more about the orbs, her own spinning furiously as more questions come to mind. 

He huffs a laugh and buries his nose in- Sirius’ shoulder judging by his orb’s reaction, a blooming of warmth, and answers some of her questions, keeping his eyes open despite having his face hidden in Sirius. “For example, Mione, yours is turquoise and currently spinning itself in circles in your search for answers. It whispers too, y’know, about secrets and the knowledge you’ve got from reading.” The spinning stops abruptly and her orb warms with the hint of a lilac shade as if in embarrassment. He laughs again and says, “It’s nothing to be flustered about. You’re smart, Ron and I have known that from the beginning,” he turns a little to regard Ron more properly, at least, as properly as he can while blind, “ Haven’t we, Ron?” His orb begins to heat and fidget like Hermione’s had, turning more red than brown and Harry knows he must be blushing while Hermione splutters for a second at being read so easily before clearing her throat and calming herself. 

Harry feels Sirius rumble beneath him with laughter, more of his prankster peeking out, “Oh watching this school drama is fun.” 

Harry laughs too and says somewhat smugly, “Don’t you worry, Sirius, I also have some stuff for you too,” he now looks to Lupin, “But I’ll save it for later.” That quickly shuts Sirius up as he swallows nervously, now very anxious to be anywhere alone with Harry and Remus at once. 

He returns to Hermione and, remembering a few more questions she wanted to ask, says, “I can also see the walls and floors of the castle, and the paintings have their own orbs, just faded and smaller than ours.”

Hermione’s orb begins to spin again, slower this time, in confusion, more questions formed than answered. A very good one would be why Harry can see the castle but not his own bed. She huffs to herself and Harry watches as the promise to research later forms right before him, an odd thing to see and intrinsically understand. 

She’s just thinking of asking a couple more questions when the honey orb of Madam Pomfrey returns, shooing Remus and Sirius out and fussing over her patients. She offers all of them dreamless sleep, “You need to get your rest, all of you,” and there’s no more time for conversation. 

It is with only a minor amount of reluctance that Harry takes the potion and swiftly falls asleep, eyes closing against this strange new world he is meant to live in. He wonders what will come of this, how it will affect the war effort and their chance of victory. He doesn’t have time to contemplate it for very long before he’s gone, again to the purity of the dark.

Chapter Text

It’s been hard since that evening Harry lost his sight, and not for the reasons you’d think.

Hermione’s been busy with her books and research, near frantic about it with how little time she has with the Hogwarts library available to her, the day of their departure fast approaching. It’s for this reason that Harry hasn’t noticed any difference in treatment from her, he thinks. She hasn’t noticed how Ron’s more tentative with Harry, hesitant the way one is when in a room of precious, fragile artefacts, and Harry wonders what would happen if she did notice. If she spent a bit more time with them, would she act the same? Everyone else seems to be of similar wariness around Harry, even those who know that Harry can still see.  

The number of people who know has not extended past that group that had been with Harry that night. 

It was decided the next morning when everyone had woken up, after Pomfrey had checked everyone over, that it would be prudent to keep the extent to which Harry’s blindness actually affected him a secret. And so now Harry has to deal with being treated as an invalid.

It’s annoying, but understandable with everyone else. Harry even gets his friends having to play along while before the eyes of the rest of the school, but when they’re alone??? 

Neville had Harry sit outside the greenhouse while he went in to grab the textbook Harry left inside.

Ginny doesn’t let him anywhere near the pitch. Or a broom. 

Ron wouldn’t let go of Harry when they snuck out to the kitchens even though no one was in the corridors. 

Luna is the only one who acts as if nothing has changed. He is extremely thankful for her, but as a Ravenclaw in the year below him, he doesn’t often get her as his guide.

Yes, that’s right, a guide.  

Harry can see the walls, knows exactly where to go to get to his classroom, but he still requires a walking aid and it is extremely frustrating because Harry knows that if there just weren’t any other people around, then he could walk on his own. Despite the fact that Harry can still kinda see people, he can only see their centres and therefore has no clue where their limbs or shoulders or torsos are. It’s very easy to be jostled around or straight up trip. 

Harry already has a slightly unhealthy dislike for people due to the way their ever changing opinion of him can wreck his year, but it has only gotten worse in the face of this trial.

He is tired of the bubble of pity that follows him from place to place, tired of the cautiousness like a slight breeze will snap him, tired of the constant hovering like Harry can’t do anything on his own anymore. He isn’t useless. While at Hogwarts, he can still see the walls, can still tell you who is next to him, can even do better than that. If he wants to, Harry can look into the desires of the heart, into the sorrows of the soul, can look into the very being of those around him and understand them better than anyone else. He doesn’t want to, of course, he has some sense of privacy, but he can. He has since learned from that first night that what he did with Dumbledore isn’t even the beginning of his ability. 

He has taken to surface watching when bored. Just the fluttering trivial thoughts of others, those silly ones that are had when wondering about what dinner will be, if so-and-so likes them, if that one homework assignment got done or did they forget it? Those things, nothing terribly personal, nothing soul building. Just surface thoughts. 

It’s the best thing Harry can get for entertainment these days, with everyone tip-toeing around him. “Wanna go flying, Harry-? Oh, right, sorry.” They go. 

“It’s such a beautiful day outside, don’t you think- nevermind.” Even though Harry can feel how nice the sun is and would have gladly accompanied them outside.

“She looks gorgeous… Why aren’t you saying anythi- oh.” Even though Harry knows how proud the girl feels, how confident, and can see the way her soul shimmers so beautifully with it.

“Do you think it’s going to rain today- …sorry, wrong person.” Even though Harry can smell the rain coming. 

“What was that diagram Flitwick made about again? Oh, right. Ron, what was that diagram about again? He had the name written on the board.” Even though Harry had been paying well enough attention to hear him say it, thank you very much. Ron couldn’t even answer because he wasn’t listening. 

“The puffapods have been a bit droopy but I can’t be certain, what do you think? Oh sorry, I forgot, I’ll ask someone else.” Even though Harry can see that someone forgot to give them some fertiliser. 

“That cake was as good as it looked. Oh, but you wouldn’t know that, sorry.” Even though Harry doesn’t need to know how good something looks when he can taste it. Why does that even matter??

“How can you not fidget with the way Snape’s been giving you the evil eye? Oh, right, that’s how.”  Even though Harry would still be fidgeting if it weren’t for the fact that Harry can tell Snape’s just worried. A novel thing, that. He has a lot to learn about his professor now that he sees differently.

“Have you seen her skirt? I think she trimmed it again. Do you think the way she’s looking at me means she’s interested? Oh, wait, I forgot you can’t see.” Even though Harry could tell Seamus right then that she’s actually looking at the bloke behind them. But no, he has to pretend he doesn’t know and act like it’s okay.  

It’s all just a series of ‘oh’s and ‘sorry’s and no actual conversation. No one wants to hang around the blind kid, no, he can’t do anything, let alone talk, right? He can’t taste or smell or hear, he can’t chat about anything, he can’t walk on his own, can’t write or read and therefore can’t do anything. And sure, some of those he actually needs help with, but there are ways for him to act as he has and Harry is tired of being dismissed, left in a corner to twiddle his thumbs as he waits to be led from one room to the next, all because he has a blindfold wrapped over his eyes so no one notices the way they still track specific movement.

Harry’s tired and he’s angry and he’s done putting up with people hovering without wanting to actually be there. It takes him two days to come to the conclusion and that night, he leaves the common room unassisted at eight o’clock and finds the room that once held the Mirror of Erised.

Three more days like that, sneaking off to just be on his own, to breathe, someone eventually notices.

Harry sits in the centre of the floor, cross legged, facing the door, so he sees him coming from miles away, a roiling silver mass of anger that’s dying to strike out, to be used. He doesn’t even try to be sneaky, though it wouldn’t have mattered anyways.

Harry knows it’s cliché but he’s been in a dramatic mood, so when the boy enters and nears, he says, “Come to kill me, have you?”

<◉>

From the moment Draco sees the newspaper the morning after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Draco is filled with this indescribable feeling that could be none other than rage.  

How dare Potter take his father from him. How dare he come back the victim. How dare he sit there and let everyone pamper him. How dare he! How dare he. And he focuses on these thoughts to ignore the fear of what is to come now that his father is in Azkaban, has failed the Dark Lord. Instead of shaking and shivering, he pours his efforts into finding a way to gain revenge. It’s just his luck that Potter seems to be idiotic enough to go wandering on his own, blind how he is. And not just once, but three times, the timing and route the same every day.

On the fourth day, Draco trusts that Potter has already gone to the room he has chosen and doesn’t head out early or stop to watch, he just goes, wand in hand.

He has no plan other than to get there and hurt Potter. He doesn’t know if he’ll maim or kill but he will do something and seeing as no one else has followed Potter here each day, no one will know. Potter won’t even know what’s happened, if he survives. 

A flare of something warm and bright runs through him at the thought that he might be rid of Potter and possibly gain the Dark Lord’s favour once more. Maybe he won’t have to fear after all.

And then he opens the door and takes naught but five steps in before Potter, sitting there with that dark purple, near navy blind over his face like always, opens his mouth.

“Come to kill me, have you?”

Draco pauses where he is, now unsure. Had he not been as quiet as he thought? 

Potter’s head tilts in consideration. “No, not kill me, you can’t bring yourself to do that.” 

Indignation rises in Draco. Who is Potter to decide that of him? Potter knows nothing of him. And why is he even thinking Potter knows who’s standing before him in the first place?! Frustration bubbles within him, mingling with the anger—and something small he hadn’t let himself think of, the hurt —already there, and he grinds his teeth, pulling in on himself, coiling like the snake that his house is matched with.

“But you’re angry.” Potter continues, nodding once to himself as he brings his wand hand to his chin in thoughtfulness. “Yes, you think it’s my fault.”

He looks up then and had Draco not known better, he would think Potter to be staring right at him, into his very soul. “But have you considered yet, Malfoy,” Draco startles and the fear takes over, pushing the fire of anger out like a flood, “That perhaps it is your father’s own fault he has ended up in Azkaban? Have you yet thought that, should it not be his fault, that it be Voldemort’s?” Draco flinches again. He licks his lips but says nothing because surely Potter doesn’t know it’s actually him. His rabbiting heartbeat disagrees. 

Potter… watches him some moments longer, for there could be no other description despite his blindness and the fabric over his eyes, clearly thinking and analysing, though Draco cannot even guess as to what. Potter hums contemplatively, then continues the one-sided conversation as Draco remains frozen. “No, it seems you haven’t, but not because you can’t, but because you won’t let yourself.”

If Draco’s heart was beating fast before, it’s as still as the rest of him now. He doesn’t think he’s even breathing anymore. He swallows harshly. 

“You love your father but you do blame him, just a little.”

“Stop.” Draco croaks, voice just louder than a whisper, and shakes his head as if he could get Potter out of it like that.

“You think he should have done better and you’re upset with yourself for allowing yourself to believe in the fantasy that parents are heroes that can do no wrong.”

“Stop it.” Draco’s hands come up to cover his ears but he can still hear, his eyes squeezing shut like if he could be blind too, he wouldn’t know what Potter is talking about.
“But you’re especially upset that it was his choices in the first place that have chained you and your mother into a position you don’t want. You feel like he should never have bowed in the first place because Malfoys don’t bow.”

“Stop it.” His knees crack on the flagstones but he can barely feel it.

“You think he should have been more prudent to stay out of the war the first time around and joined the victor at the end. But now you’re stuck scraping and bowing kissing the Dark Lord’s feet and worth nothing more than tha-”

“Stop it!” Draco screams at last.

It takes a moment for him to realise the onslaught has actually stopped. Slowly, he raises his head, hands falling from the sides of his head and eyes opening to catch on Potter who sits just ten feet from him. He’s shivering, breath panting, and a cold numbness has taken over him because Potter is right, but no one is supposed to know all that and he wasn’t supposed to think it.

Potter sits silently, never once having moved. He has an air of omniscience similar to that of Dumbledore but more. Dumbledore’s almost seems fake before Potter’s. A tiny blossom of anger at Potter blooms and his mouth forms a snarl, but it quickly dies a bitter death because Potter is still right. Despite it all, Draco has more self-awareness than that and he knows that he just wanted Potter to hurt because he is the only avenue for Draco’s expression of emotion. He had not planned to face himself tonight, but here he is.

They stay where they are in silence for a bit longer, Potter watching him again, and Draco wonders if this is all he will meet tonight.

When Potter finally speaks up again, it is with a whisper, his words soft and gentle, promising, and his wand hand outstretched to Draco. “I can help you,” he says. “If you’ll join me, I can help you.”

Draco hesitates, because while that sounds nice, Potter had been right when he said Draco thinks his father should have waited till one side was nearly victorious before joining it and switching loyalties now doesn’t fit that idea. However, he is already part of the fight and therefore doesn’t have the option to wait and then choose. 

Sensing his indecision, Potter adds, “You know the pain the Dark Lord will put you under and force you to make. You know he will ask you to kill or die by his own hand. Do you think you could live under such a man’s rule?”

It’s that question that decides it, because Potter was right again and Draco doesn’t love pain, on himself or others, or being the cause of death, and he definitely doesn’t want to die himself. He swallows again, nervousness thrumming through him because he knows what taking Potter’s hand really means. He’ll have to put aside any animosity and misconceptions he has for Potter. At the very least, he’ll be alive to do it and Potter already seems as if he has.

He gathers and picks himself up to take those last few steps to close the gap between them before he bends his knee and settles on that dirty floor again, taking Potter’s hand and bowing his head over it.

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, hereby relinquish any former loyalties and swear myself to Harry James Potter, so long as he aids me in whatever manner needed, so mote it be.”

Magic thrums and snaps between them before settling, the promise made. 

Draco looks up and stares into that dark blindfold, for once wishing it Potter’s eyes he was meeting, and hopes that he has not just made a terrible mistake.

<◉>

Something giddy runs through Harry, something excited, and he smiles at Draco. He had not known how far Draco would take it but he’s happy with Draco’s chosen results.

Finally, someone to stand by his side and not treat Harry like glass. Draco may not fully understand or know the depths of Harry’s sight, but he can tell, now, that Harry is more powerful than thought and he will not forget it.

That silver orb that has calmed from its hot liquid state into the eddying flow of the Black Lake when it reflects the grey sky jumps, startled from Harry’s sudden warmth. But it soothes easily, becoming warm and slightly excited as well. He’s beginning to realise what joining Harry means he’ll receive in smaller forms and he’s joyful to have Harry’s smile for himself, an old jealousy healing.

It’s become easier now that he’s blind to see people as they really are, to judge their character, and therefore easier to forgive. He understands now and it’s possibly the best thing to come out of his loss of sight.

Draco Malfoy is far more complex than Harry had ever believed and he thoroughly enjoys looking into him, seeing how he ticks. He reigns himself in before he dives any deeper. He had allowed himself to go as far as he has this evening because it was needed but anything more cannot be so easily excused. Draco still deserves privacy. Instead, he’ll mull over what he has seen and continue his surface level viewing. 

Harry’s hand tightens slightly around Draco’s before going loose again. 

“First, we need to get to know each other, get used to being together, so let's hang out here every evening over the next week. I get here at eight, as you know, and stay til ten. And if you wouldn’t mind, could you guide me to and from classes we share?”

Draco considers it. “What about your other friends? Are they not already guiding you?” Harry grimaces and decides to be honest. “Yes, but they treat me like I’m incapable of anything now and I’m tired of it, which is why I come here in the evenings. You won’t do that, though, right?”

Draco’s orb shivers. “No, I didn’t think so.” Draco’s orb shivers again at being read so easily without eyes. His voice is low and turned away when he mutters, “Would never dream of it.” Then it becomes more direct like he’s turned back to Harry. “How do you keep doing that? How do you see through me?” 

Harry grins sharply, “I can see more than you or anyone else thinks I can,” then the corner of his lips drops into a petulant frown. “And my friends know that which is why it’s so frustrating to be treated like I am.”

“Which of your friends?” Draco asks, clearly trying to figure out who knows what as the knowledge would be helpful. “Ron and Hermione, of course, as well as Ginny, Neville, and Luna.” Draco murmurs “Loony Lovegood?” under his breath in disbelief but doesn’t think more on it other than wondering if his perceptions of the Ravenclaw are all that accurate if she’s in on this… nebulous secret he doesn’t fully understand. His thought process amuses Harry. 

“They won’t know you know as much as you do, just yet though. They’ll be angry and won’t get why I’ve trusted you.” Draco’s orb continues to spin around the main question of what can Harry see, so he promises, “You’ll know more soon enough. For now, I want to see how well this arrangement is going to work out.” He smiles a little at the use of “see.” A small note of pride rings through Draco for Harry’s wariness; he feels as if he’s chosen better than he thought. 

“You said you wanted us to get to know each other… why? Wouldn’t it just be me getting to know you since you already know me so well?”
Harry laughs a little as Draco finally shifts into a more comfortable position, coming to the conclusion that this “getting to know each other” would be starting tonight. “Yes, I said that, and I meant it. Sure, I know quite a bit about you now, but I want to learn more from your own mouth, rather than taking it. So it would be both of us getting to know each other.”
Understanding ripples through Draco’s orb, silver water, and a strange silence holds for a moment before awkwardness joins understanding and Draco clears his throat. “Ah, I see.” And suddenly there’s more awkwardness, Draco’s cool waters warming with embarrassment. He must have nodded first, then remembered Harry couldn’t see that, and then felt worse for saying he could see. 

Harry laughs again. “It’s fine,” he waves his hand, “I don’t mind comments about seeing or not seeing and you’ll discover that I tend to joke with them.”

Awkwardness and embarrassment turn to relief and Draco settles. “So then, how are we going to do this?”
Harry grins, “Let’s try twenty questions.”