Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world is a vampire

Sent to drain

Secret destroyers

Hold you up to the flames

And what do I get

For my pain?

Betrayed desires

And a piece of the game

Even though I know

I suppose I‘ll show

All my cool and cold

Like ol‘ Job

If Monday was a person, it would be Umbridge.

After the very first day of school, Harry was totally fed up with Hogwarts already. Before the hearing, he wanted nothing more than to return here. After the hearing, he was delighted and overjoyed not to have been kicked out of school. Now he wondered whether it might not have been better to retreat with Sirius to his unloved house and scrape mould out of cupboards.

Harry had already got himself detention, for a week; and his exorbitantly daft classmates obviously knew nothing better to do with themselves than to run their mouths over Harry and Umbridge‘s fight.

If Harry finally managed to get a hold of Dumbledore by one of his fancy robes, Harry would ask him to let him put his memories of the 'fun' in the graveyard into the Pensive so that every single half-wit and hella stupid student, who was wandering the corridors of Hogwarts, could look inside and see what Harry had to see. So that they could be where Harry was. So that they could see how Pettigrew had killed Cedric and Riddle had climbed out of a cauldron – horribly ugly, but deadly.

The satisfaction when every single person in this madhouse had to admit that it wasn‘t him who was mad, but them – namely for not wanting to believe him. Harry could literally taste it, the satisfaction (though it tasted more like Shephard‘s Pie at that moment, he was sitting at dinner after all), but he already knew that Dumbledore would not allow Harry to use the Pensive to convince everyone.

Because, that would be an easy solution to this problem – and Dumbledore wasn’t one for easy solutions.

And then, of course, there was Fudge, the biggest joke right after Lockhart, who wasted the rest of his life feeding the Daily Prophet with defamations about Dumbledore and Harry. Harry fervently hoped that once Riddle had revealed himself, the man would spend the rest of his life scrubbing toilets at the Ministry. Without magic of course.

Someone sat down next to Harry, he assumed it must be Ron or Neville. He didn‘t have many classmates left who would willingly talk to him.

‘Hey Harry.’

To his astonishment, it was Dean, who now propped an elbow on the table and pulled a bowl of roast potatoes towards him.

‘Shitty Monday, innit?’ Dean asked thin-lipped.

Harry looked at him briefly from the side. Seamus was Dean‘s best mate, Dean himself was sitting a little further away with Lavender and Parvati, chatting to them (the topic, Harry could guess). Seamus, Harry thought, looked as intelligent as a mountain troll.

He turned back to Dean, who was chewing thoughtfully his dinner.

‘Yeah, shitty Monday,’ Harry said curtly and turned his attention back to his Shephard‘s Pie.

Next to him, Hermione poked listlessly at her food. Ron was besieged by Fred and George (‘Could you sign off on this, Ronnie?’ ‘Lads, I‘m a Prefect, I can‘t –’ ‘That‘s the point, ickle brother.’).

Dean had barely eaten a quarter of his dinner when he scowled and pushed the plate away. ‘Well, I‘ll see you tomorrow evening, Harry.’

He looked at Dean with a furrowed brow. ‘Okay?’

‘We‘ve detention together at Umbridge‘s,’ Dean explained, smiling sardonically.

Harry raised his eyebrows and pushed his plate away as well. ‘Why‘s that?’

‘Because I couldn‘t help but ask what proof there was that Cedric‘s death was an accident.’

Hermione snorted softly beside Harry and shook her head disapprovingly. ‘You shouldn‘t have done that, Dean.’

Dean shrugged. ‘If I got a Knut every time someone said that to me …’

Harry felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. It was nice to hear that he was obviously not the only one willing to grill Umbridge about Riddle’s return; even if Professor McGonagall did not approve of it at all. She had given Harry strict instructions to keep quiet and inconspicuous.

But unfortunately, that wasn‘t his thing at all, and Dean‘s obviously either – marvellous.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ Harry confirmed as Dean swung his leg over the bench, stood up and left the Great Hall.

Hermione also gave up eating and got to her feet. ‘I can‘t stand the gossip here, let‘s go to the common room.’

Whilst Hermione was rounding up Fred and George for testing their Fainting Fancies on unsuspecting first-years and Ron was busy being as one with his armchair as possible, Harry was hanging around the table, bored and trying in vain to find the motivation to write Snape‘s essay on moonstone.

There was a scrape and a chair was pushed next to Harry at the table.

‘Busy with the essay for Potions?’ asked Dean as he glanced at Harry‘s parchment, but there wasn‘t much to see apart from the heading.

Harry just nodded idly and continued to watch Hermione and Fred argue, Dean following his gaze.

‘She‘s not entirely wrong, is she?’ he said, dropping into his chair.

Harry just grumbled quietly. He turned to his comrade and asked, ‘Don‘t you usually do homework with Seamus?’

‘I would, but …’ He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

In a corner of the common room, Seamus and Lavender were stuck together like conjoined twins.

‘Oh,’ Harry said. So that was why Seamus had been sitting with Lavender and Parvati. Maybe his paranoia had kicked in again and the three of them hadn‘t been talking about him at all.

‘How long are they like that?’ asked Harry.

Dean chuckled. ‘Depends on what you mean exactly. It ranges from 'always' to 'since the Yule Ball'.’

True, Harry had made every effort to erase that disaster called the Yule Ball from his memory, but until dementia finally took him, he would have to remember that miserable evening.

‘I see, Seamus has better things to do, so you‘re hanging around with us now?’

Dean dug books, parchment and a quill out of his bag. ‘Hope you don‘t mind, I‘d like to do our homework with you guys. A problem shared is a problem halved. I‘m decent at potions.’

Ron, who had realised that help had arrived, broke free from the symbiotic connection with his armchair and came shuffling over.

‘Hey, Dean.’

He gave Ron a friendly nod.

A short while later, Hermione squeezed in to join them at the table, but announced that she was too upset to do any homework. She showed off some home-made hats and had one of her usual squabbles with Ron about S.P.E.W.

Dean looked back and forth between the two squabblers, uncomfortable, and then cast a questioning glance at Harry.

‘Yes, they‘re always like that,’ Harry confirmed grumpily. ‘And no, I haven‘t figured out how to turn them off yet.’

Dean just cleared his throat and opened one of the potions books he‘d fetched from the library. Harry pushed his chair closer to Dean so he could take a look at the pages.

He had been trying to think as little as possible for some time, as Crabbe and Goyle seemed very happy thanks to their mindless existence and Harry thought that this must be a desirable state every now and then. Unfortunately, his brain had a habit of forming thoughts against his will, and one of those thoughts that was currently taking shape in Harry‘s aching head was that it had never occurred to him that Dean smelled amazingly good. One reason for this was, of course, that Harry had never had a reason to be so close to the other boy before, and the other … he can‘t remember. There they were again, his three problems: forgetfulness, whatsit and the other.

While Harry was lost in thought about what Dean‘s smell reminded him of, Dean talked about the essay and explained the properties of moonstone. Harry‘s sphere of thought only reached a fuzzy babble, but at least Dean sounded so much more pleasant than the teachers, especially Snape. Harry‘s ears tended to retreated into his head like a snail into its shell whenever Snape opened his filthy mouth.

‘Harry?’

He took his eyes off the book he‘d been staring at dully and looked up sleepily at Dean. ‘Hm?’

‘So, aren‘t you gonna write down what I said?’ his mate asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry blinked. ‘Come again?’

Dean pointed to a passage in the book and explained it again. Harry pulled himself together and listened attentively. Unfortunately, his headache thwarted his plans, he sighed, rubbed his temples and pulled his glasses off his nose.

‘You all right, pal?’ Dean asked concerned and closed the book.

Harry nodded sluggishly. ‘Yeah, yeah. Sore head, bloody Monday.’

‘Heard Madam Pomfrey has a potion for that.’

‘For Monday?’

Dean laughed, Harry grinned slightly.

‘That’d be great! But meant the Headache, of course. And honestly, the Draught of Peace is something I‘ll probably have to give myself intravenously in Umbridge‘s class to keep from freaking out at the bollocks she‘s spouting,’ Dean said, putting his things in his bag.

Harry watched him in confusion. ‘No Potion essay?’

He looked up again. ‘Maybe later. Thought we‘d go to Madam Pomfrey‘s first.’

Harry thought about following Dean‘s suggestion, Ron was sitting opposite him and had at least already started his essay, Hermione had disappeared into her dormitory after the squabble with the redhead.

‘Wanna come with us, Ron?’ Harry asked, because he thought it was rather mean to leave his best friend sitting there like an unwelcome dessert.

Ron yawned and tidied up. ‘Nah, not in the mood. I‘m going to bed.’

Harry shrugged and stood up. He‘d noticed, of course, that Dean had shot up quite a bit over the last four years, but somehow he hadn‘t noticed at the same time. Harry could ponder why he was thinking such confusing rubbish, but the headache was just getting worse and he‘d rather not.

He left the common room with Dean, curious looks following him as always, and Harry had a great desire to shout at them all that there had to be more interesting things in their lives than watching a 15-year-old leave a room.

They hadn‘t got very far before Harry realised that Dean was thinking about how to ask him insensitive questions as sensitively as possible.

‘I‘m telling the truth,’ Harry finally growled in a bad mood.

Dean nodded thoughtfully. ‘I believe you. I mean, sure, we don‘t know each other super well. But I can‘t remember you ever being fussed over for attention and stuff like that. Y‘know, my parents are muggles and I didn‘t read the Daily Prophet over the summer. The cuttings Seamus showed me then … That‘s just not you, I have no clue why the others can‘t see that.

‘But it was impressive how you made it through this tournament!’ Dean looked at Harry with wide eyes, Harry in turn avoided his gaze, embarrassed.

‘I had a shit load of help. Without it, I would‘ve failed miserably at the first task. For the second task, I was slipped some Gillyweed by a friend a few minutes before the task even started. I had no idea how I was supposed to get by underwater for an hour, let alone find Ron.

‘And in the last task, we know that Fake-Eye Moody paved the way for me so I could touch the Cup. I just wish I hadn’t …’ Harry bit his lower lip.

Dean was walking beside him and had been listening attentively in silence.

‘Anyway,’ Harry continued, ‘I had a lot of help, all the time. I didn‘t do anything on my own, unlike the other champions.’

Dean snorted snidely. ‘Oh come on! You don‘t believe for a second that their headmasters didn‘t give them a hand whenever they could!’

Harry rubbed his temples, remembering how Hagrid had shown Madame Maxime the dragons and Karkaroff had snuck after them.

‘Okay, okay. Kinda true. But still, I didn‘t win because I‘m brilliant. Hermione, for example, is brilliant.’

‘Well, she just knows the books by heart,’ Dean said, shrugging.

Harry shook his head. ‘She can do so much more than that.’

The two were silent for a while, the hospital wing not far away, when Dean asked a question.

‘But you‘ve had help over the summer, haven‘t you?’

From the tone of his voice, Harry would say that he meant something specific, but Harry‘s slow and Monday-tortured brain refused to play Sherlock any longer and just did the unmotivated Watson.

‘What do you mean by help?’ he asked, yawning, the door to the hospital wing already coming into view.

‘Well, you know. Psychological help,’ Dean whispered, leaning down a little.

Harry gaped at him like a mooncalf. ‘Er, nope. Got dropped by my relatives, who loath me to the bits, like every summer, and that was it. Well, I ended up staying with Ron after I endured one month at the Dursley‘s, but I guess psychological help isn‘t a thing in the Wizarding World.’

Dean looked at Harry in disbelief as he pulled open the door to the hospital wing. ‘There‘s no psychological counselling? You saw someone die! They can‘t just say, 'Oh well, how unfortunate, but he‘ll get over it'!’

‘Mr Potter, Mr Thomas?’ Madam Pomfrey came scurrying out of her office and looked questioningly at the two students.

‘Got a headache,’ Harry said, pointing unnecessarily at his temple, as if Madam Pomfrey might otherwise misunderstand him and think his abdomen was hurting.

Madam Pomfrey just nodded, darted to a cupboard and purposefully pulled out a potion. She dropped a few drops onto a teaspoon and handed it to Harry.

For a change, a magic potion tasted a bit like mint and not like Dudley‘s rancid sports socks. After less than a minute, the headache was blown away. At least one problem that could be solved quickly and easily.

Harry and Dean were on their way back to the Gryffindor Tower in not time.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said to Dean and tried to smile genuinely.

Dean, on the other hand, had no problem at all with an honest smile. ‘No biggie, more importantly is, you‘re feeling a bit better.

‘Well, I might not be your first choice, but …’ Dean hesitated sheepishly, ‘if you want to talk, I‘m here.’

Harry felt tingly, on the one hand appreciating Dean‘s offer, on the other feeling embarrassed. And then he had to think about how Ginny had poured all her little feelings into a diary in her first year at school. However, Harry was sure that Dean wouldn‘t drain his life energy and a Tom Riddle would emerge from him. At least, Harry fervently hoped so. If that happened, he would have himself committed to St. Mungo‘s. Then he‘d had enough for good.

‘Thanks, Dean. But I’m fine,’ Harry said in a strained voice.

His emotional world was as gloriously chaotic as you might expect in adolescence, but it was true that there was a little more chaos than there should be.

When they arrived in their dormitory, Dean patted Harry gently on the shoulder and quietly wished him a good night.

Harry crawled under the duvet and hoped for a dreamless sleep. He didn‘t get his wish, but the dream consisted of Harry lying on the couch in the common room and Dean sitting in an armchair in front of him. He was holding a clipboard and a pen, wearing glasses and a white coat.

‘Alright Harry, tell me how you felt when you saw Cedric die.’

‘Shitty.’

‘Could you describe it in a bit more detail?’

‘Really shitty.’

Then Harry woke up.

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage

Someone will say, "What is lost can never be saved"

Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage

Tell me I‘m the only one

Tell me there‘s no other one

Jesus was an only son, yeah

Tell me I‘m the chosen one

Jesus was an only son, for you

(Smashing Pumpkins - Bullet with Butterfly Wings)

Chapter Text

And I forget just why I taste

Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard, it‘s hard to find

Oh well, whatever, never mind

The next morning, Harry realised once again that Hogwarts was unfortunately in Scotland and not in the Caribbean. The weather was just as miserable as he felt. The autumn chill was gradually creeping into his bones and he felt constantly clammy and shivery. In September, it could only get worse.

To his great relief, Dean joined him in the Great Hall while Ron and Hermione continued to argue about S.P.E.W. That way Harry had some distraction and didn‘t have to listen to the two of them bickering all the time.

Dean poured himself a coffee and offered Harry some too. Harry felt strangely touched by this simple gesture. It warmed his drowsy soul that Dean was looking after him in some way, as he had yesterday. He even asked how Harry had slept. Harry preferred to keep his strange dream about his classmate to himself and replied that he couldn‘t remember anything. He hoped Dean didn‘t notice the blush creeping up his face, Harry wasn‘t a gifted liar.

Afterwards, Harry tried to rouse his spirits by sniffing his cup. But coffee, he must say, was like unicorn blood. It kept him alive somehow, just barely, but it was half a life from then on – a cursed life.

‘Tell me,’ Dean began, his brown eyes scanning the teacher‘s desk thoughtfully, ‘where‘s Hagrid anyway?’

Harry winced inwardly, he was very worried about his big friend, but he‘d rather not show that to Dean. Then he would have to explain to him why he was worried and Harry didn‘t know how to explain all of it without mentioning the Order of the Phoenix and other secret whatnot.

‘No idea, we‘d like to know too,’ Harry replied evasively, which wasn't a lie.

‘Hm,’ Dean grumbled. ‘I don‘t care that he‘s a half-giant, you know.’

‘Well, you shouldn‘t anyway,’ Harry said, his tone sharper than intended.

Dean turned to him, sipping his coffee. ‘Hagrid‘s a great bloke, I get on well with him. Okay, his lessons are –’

Harry‘s eyes narrowed and his hand unconsciously tightened around his fork. Don‘t Dean dare criticise Hagrid‘s phenomenally deadly lessons!

Dean, however, didn‘t miss Harry‘s gesture and hastened to say: ‘– great. Great lessons. Can‘t wait till he‘s back!’ He nodded emphatically and hurriedly continued drinking his coffee.

‘Yes, indeed. Grubbly-Plank‘s only half as good!’ Harry hissed, stuffing porridge into his mouth even though he wasn‘t hungry.

Dean sat sheepishly next to him and munched on his toast.

Among other things, the Vanishing Charm was on the agenda in Transfiguration this year, but Harry just couldn‘t get the hang of it. Just as his nightmares, worries and extremely annoying classmates wouldn‘t disappear, the snail he had been given to practise with wasn‘t making any attempt to vanish as well. Instead, his snail crawled slowly but determinedly towards the edge of the table. Harry assumed it was about to plunge to its death and couldn‘t blame it. There were certainly better things in life than having a boy in front of you waving a stick around and shouting ‘Evanesco!’ more and more desperately by the minute.

Dean next to him had started tapping rhythmically on the snail‘s house with his wand, humming ‘Smells like Teen Spirit’.

‘You know, Harry – the Vanishing-Charm is great when you think about it, innit?’ he said as his snail tried to take flight.

Harry shrugged. ‘I guess so, otherwise we wouldn‘t learn it.’

‘The biggest motivation would be to make Umbridge disappear with it, eh?’ Dean chuckled and Harry grinned. His classmate wasn‘t too bad at cheering him up a bit, Harry realised. It was good to just be able to laugh about something instead of listening to his friends argue or dwell on his own glum thoughts.

‘Mr Thomas, stop abusing your snail as a drum and practise the charm! Mr Potter, your snail is stuck under the table,’ Professor McGonagall said sternly, her eyes sliding back to Dean. ‘The charm doesn‘t work on humans, by the way, Mr Thomas.’

‘Shame. Professor, I had a thought …’

‘Yes, Mr Thomas?’

‘Where does the snail actually disappear to?’

‘Well, that‘s not for you to worry about.’

‘Are we killing the snails?’ Dean asked with wide eyes.

Hermione‘s, who had succeeded on her third attempt, mouth fell open and looked at her wand in horror.

Professor McGonagall rolled her eyes in annoyance. ‘No, of course you‘re not  killing the snails!’

‘Yes, but where are they disappearing to?’

Although the question was exciting, it entailed a very, very dull explanation with diagrams and formulae on the blackboard, and so Harry‘s brain simply shut down. Dean‘s blank look showed that he had also switched to energy-saving mode. Well, great minds think alike or nothing at all.

Homework was starting to pile up, so Harry and Ron saw no other option but to skip lunch and go to the library. Dean asked if he could accompany Harry and Ron. Harry was happy to have him around, Ron seemed rather confused.

‘Lemme get this straight,’ Ron said as Dean pushed open the door to the library, ‘Seamus and Lavender are a couple now. And Seamus doesn‘t have time for you anymore. And that‘s why you‘re hanging around with us?’

Dean sighed. ‘Well, not exactly … Seamus is bugging me about the Daily Prophet. He really wants me to be on his side, whatever this site is supposed to be.’

Harry wasn‘t particularly good at naming or interpreting his feelings, and Divination or keeping a dream diary (which he wasn‘t planning to do anyway) didn‘t help either. Perhaps this “psychological counselling“, which the Wizarding World had apparently never heard of, would help him. But at that moment, something fluffy and warm spread through him and his stomach relaxed. It was too nice to think that Dean was ditching his best friend and decided to ‘waste’ spend his time with Harry, because Dean would rather believe him than this rag called Daily Prophet that the British Wizarding World worshipped without rhyme or reason.

‘Harry?’

He looked up, lost in thought; he had stopped in the middle of the library and was staring at nothing, Ron and Dean looking at him with furrowed brows.

‘You all right?’ Ron asked cautiously.

‘Yeah, I‘m fine. Just thinking,’ Harry talked himself out of it and started moving again.

‘‘Bout what?’

Harry frowned puzzled and gave Dean an uncomprehending look. Well … Then he realised that Ron would never have thought to ask that. Hermione had. But Harry was used to that from Hermione.

‘Er … Homework – the Vanishing Charm – you name it …’

Dean grinned wryly. ‘Is that so? Those are the things you think about?’

For reasons Harry couldn‘t quite explain, his cheeks turned red and he tried to snort dismissively.

The three of them found a table and spread out their stuff to finally start on the moonstone essay. Since Hermione was still offended with Ron, she was absent and so they both looked expectantly at Dean, who sighed deeply, opened the book and helped them cobble together the essay with the patience of an angel.

In the afternoon they were on their way to Care of Magical Creatures. Dean pestered Harry and Ron to get them to practise the Vanishing Charm with him later, if Harry and he could find the time after detention. Hermione rejoined them, Harry crossing his fingers that she and Ron wouldn‘t be at each other‘s throats again after two minutes.

As expected, the lesson was given by Professor Grubbly-Plank, who refused to tell Harry where Hagrid was (stupid cow!) and then, of course, Malfoy had to make ominous hints about what might have happened to Hagrid.

Frustrated, worried and close to another migraine, Harry sat on the grass in a bad mood, trying to keep the creature they were given still – a Bowtruckle. It was their job to draw the thing. Fortunately, Dean was a very good draughtsman and willing to share his knowledge with them.

‘Professor Grubbly-Plank?’

‘Yes, Mr Thomas,’ the teacher replied, annoyed, because one or two Bowtruckles had already dashed off to the Forbidden Forest.

‘Can I draw with something other than a quill? That‘s not at all suitable for this and –’

Professor Grubbly-Plank sighed deeply. ‘Look, Mr Thomas, I don‘t care what you draw the Bowtruckle with, as long as you draw it. In silence.’ With these words, she stomped off, catching the Bowtruckle that had escaped Harry‘s too-tight grip and badly mauled his hand.

He‘d almost crushed the poor creature by accident, having to listen to Draco‘s bollocks about how if Hagrid turned up again they‘d sack him anyway. Ever since the graveyard incident, Harry‘s nerves had been pretty frayed and he wanted to go over to Malfoy and ram his fist into his face really, really hard because that would be so much more satisfying than firing a curse at that twit.

Dean put a hand on his arm, startling Harry out of his violent thoughts.

‘Malfoy‘s a git, just ignore him. Believe me, it‘ll upset him ten times more than if you speak up to him.

‘Come on, I‘ll help you with your drawing and your hand,’ he offered with a smile. He reached for Harry‘s wrist so that he could take a closer look at his wound.

A pleasant tingling sensation spread through Harry‘s entire body from the spot Dean was touching and Harry wondered if Dean was already doing magic or if he was hallucinating for good. But either way, Harry just felt good, so he let his classmate, who actually had some gauze with him and was bandaging the wound, do his thing. Dean said that he had learnt one thing early on at Hogwarts: injuries were normal, surprisingly common, and you could never carry enough bandages around with you.

After Harry‘s hand was fixed, Dean went back to drawing, handing Harry a pencil and his own drawing as an example.

Dean‘s Bowtruckle had turned out exceptionally well for the short time they‘d had to draw it (and until Harry‘s Bowtruckle had scolded off).

Dean made a few simple strokes, showing the basic shape of the creature. ‘Always start with simple shapes, then add the details. Like this …’

Harry, Ron and Hermione watched him intently. Dean made it look so easy, Harry thought. With his tongue between his lips, Harry put his pencil down and tried to copy Dean’s drawing.

It looked bad. Like a car accident. Or a natural disaster. But not like a Bowtruckle.

‘Very good, Harry! I know, I know, it doesn‘t look that great now!’ Dean said, as Harry was already grimacing and trying to tell him that it rather resembled a drawing by a blind three-year-old.

‘Trust the process, Harry. Practice makes perfect. It‘s quite normal for it to look like this at first.’

‘Okay, your homework is to finish your Bowtruckle drawing. You are dismissed,’ shouted Professor Grubbly-Plank and collected the Bowtruckles that had not yet made a getaway.

Next up was Herbology, the subject where you were pretty sure to smell like dragon poo afterwards. Professor Sprout also took the opportunity to remind everyone of their O.W.Ls Harry could feel his stomach churning, he had a pile of homework and detention on his hands. How was he going to get it all done in time?

Harry mentally formulated a complaint to Professor Dumbledore, partly because he pretended Harry didn’t exist and partly because you couldn‘t do that much homework unless you slaved away all night. Then Harry realised that he was rubbish at writing and imagined Hermione writing the complaint while Ron said something and then they started bickering.

Nice. Not even in Harry‘s mind could the two of them get along – splendid.

Someone patted him gently on the back as the class left the greenhouse smelling of dung. Harry flinched, Dean smiled encouragingly at him.

‘You look worried, Harry. Fearing detention?’

Harry puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly. ‘Lots of homework. We‘re halfway through Snape‘s essay, but we’ve got so much more on our plate.’

Dean nodded sympathetically. ‘Yeah, I feel you. I‘d love to know if the Muggles are that crazy too, about school and homework, I mean.’

Hermione raised her head. ‘It depends on which academic path you want to take. In the British Wizarding World, there‘s obviously only this one, but in the Muggle World, there are lots of schools and –’

Harry zoned out and felt his stomach grumble, he was very hungry. He quickened his pace, arrived at the Gryffindor table and, without putting his bag down, grabbed something to eat.

‘Hey, Harry!’

‘What now?’ he groaned annoyed and hastily stuffed more lamb chops into his mouth.

Angelina Johnson had become captain of the Quidditch team and stomped towards Harry, scowling.

He got an angry lecture about how dare he get himself detention on Friday when the try-outs for the new keeper were coming up.

‘Let him eat, was a rough day,’ Dean said placatingly to Angelina.

She only gave him a quick glance. ‘Harry, I don‘t care how you do it, tell her You Know Who is a figment your imagination, but get out of detention! I want the whole team together, understood?’

Before Harry could answer, she had already stormed off.

Dean shook his head. ‘Sweet Jesus …’

‘We‘d better check if Oliver Wood kicked the bucket. Angelina‘s behaving like she‘s channeling his spirit …’

Dean and Ron giggled at Harry’s joke.

Ron wondered how likely it was that Umbridge had let Harry off the hook on Friday.

Dean snorted. ‘Zero? If she realises Harry‘s up to something important on Friday, she‘ll even end up keeping him extra late to smack him.’

Harry chewed thoughtfully. ‘Does that mean I shouldn‘t even give it a try?’

Dean shrugged. ‘Doesn‘t matter that much. You won‘t get out of it if you ask me.’

Harry shot him a dark look. ‘Thanks.’

He gave Harry a broad smile and leant forward slightly. ‘We‘ll get through this together.’

Harry blinked in confusion. For a moment, the intricate cogs in his head interlocked until he remembered that Dean meant detention, of course, but for a split nano-second, there was this insane idea that Dean also meant all the other madness Harry had been stuck in since the end of last June. Although he realised immediately what Dean had been talking about, the idea had been nice. But why did Harry like the idea so much when he had Ron? And Hermione? And a very bad-tempered Sirius … He wasn‘t exactly alone, so why was wishing Dean was there for him so appealing?

While Harry twisted and turned these confusing thoughts in his mushy brain – and Dean practised the Vanishing Charm on Brussels sprouts next to him, which nobody liked anyway – the first, ominous hour of detention approached inexorably.

As Harry spoke out loud again about everything they had on the list, Ron looked up and groaned that it was probably going to rain on top of all of this.

Hermione wondered what that had to do with homework, but Ron just got red ears and said, ‘Nothing!’

Harry frowned and glanced at Dean, whose first Brussels sprout was indeed gone. But judging by the puzzled look on his face, Dean couldn‘t make sense of Ron‘s concern either.

It was five o‘clock, Harry said a grumpy goodbye to Ron and Hermione and left the common room with Dean.

‘What d‘you think she‘ll let us do?’ Harry wondered aloud.

‘Not magic, obviously,’ Dean said, wrinkling his nose, making Harry laugh softly, Dean joining in.

They stopped outside Professor Umbridge‘s office.

‘Ready, Harry?’

‘Nope.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

Load up on guns, bring your friends

It‘s fun to lose and to pretend

She‘s over-bored and self assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word

With the lights out, it‘s less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are now, entertain us

(Nirvana – Smells like Teen Spirit)

Chapter Text

It‘s your move

I‘m in pain

I‘m a pawn

In your game

It‘s your life

I just happen to be in it for a while

Oh, you‘re lovin‘ me to death

You‘re killin‘ me with kindness

What‘s behind this sudden tenderness

Dean stepped forward and opened the door to Umbridge‘s office. The two students walked in with stiff expressions, but no matter how much Harry wanted to remain stoic, he just couldn‘t. The sight that met his eyes made his jaw drop, and a quick glance at Dean told him that he wasn‘t the only one whose perception was wrestling with reality.

It was all pink. And what wasn‘t pink was covered in hideous ornamental plates, with paintings of cute-as-puke kittens with disgusting big bows around their necks or on their heads. Harry had the impression that this must already be the punishment. Looking at this nightmare was punishment enough, wasn‘t it?

‘Good evening Mr Potter, Mr Thomas,’ Umbridge greeted them both.

Harry hadn‘t even noticed her, his eyes were hurting too much. She was perfectly camouflaged in her hideous outfit, which matched the tablecloth she had draped over her desk. If the desk had feelings, it would be deeply depressed right now.

‘Good evening Professor Umbridge,’ Harry greeted darkly, Dean merely nodded.

‘Well, have a seat,’ said Umbridge, gesturing to two tables where black parchment was already waiting.

Harry found the colour peculiar, Dean obviously did too. Harry could literally see that Dean wanted to make a stupid comment about it, but since his classmate had no interest in being in detention for the rest of this school year, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Harry briefly thought about asking about Friday, but he saw Dean shake his head imperceptibly out of the corner of his eye. So Harry decided to drop it, he also thought that asking Umbridge for a favour would be pretty pointless. So he sat down at one of the tables, Dean‘s was right next to him.

Next to the parchment was a black quill which was unusually pointy.

‘I want you to write “I must not tell lies”,’ Umbridge said softly.

‘How many times?’ asked Dean gruffly, leaning back as far as he could on the chair.

‘Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in, Mr Thomas!’ replied Umbridge in an unbearably cloying tone. ‘Off you go.’

Harry reached for the jet-black quill, frowned and realised that something crucial was missing.

‘We have no ink,’ he said grumpily.

Umbridge said with a broad grin, ‘You won't need any.’

Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dean, who was also holding the quill in his hand and shrugging. They both placed their quills on the parchment and began to write.

Harry gasped, the words I must not tell lies appearing blood red on the parchment, and the words had also appeared on the back of his hand. Incised, scalpel had done it. The cuts disappeared immediately, but the skin remained inflamed and reddened.

Dean cursed and Harry winced. His classmate had thrown the quill onto the parchment and was holding his hand.

‘Is there a problem, Mr Thomas?’ asked Umbridge sweetly, looking at him with a smile.

Dean stood up with so much vigour that his chair fell over backwards, Harry looked at him with wide eyes.

‘You must‘ve lost your marbles, man,’ Dean hissed at Umbridge, still holding his hand.

He took two large steps towards Harry (he had really grown up over the last few years), snatched the quill from Harry‘s fingers, grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet.

Then he turned back to Umbridge. ‘You can stick your quill anywhere you like, Umbridge! We –’

‘Professor Umbridge!’ she interrupted Dean in an agitated voice, she had also stood up and looked satisfyingly unhappy about the development of the situation.

‘You‘ll have to earn that title first! So far, you‘ve done nothing that even begins to qualify you as a professor!’ Dean shouted at her, banging on Umbridge‘s desk very impressively, which vibrated pitifully.

Harry felt as if his heart had stopped. He stood there petrified, blood rushing in his ears and his mouth turned into a desert. Dean turned on a teacher. Dean risked being thrown out of Hogwarts by Umbridge, Harry thought in horror. But Dean couldn‘t be kicked out of school! Because – because – that’s why!

After Dean‘s outburst of anger, it had become completely quiet, so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

‘Mr Thomas,’ Umbridge began, so calmly that Harry got a very, very uneasy feeling in his stomach.

‘You have detention and –’

‘– and that doesn‘t give you the right to torture us! Harry and I are going to leave now. We‘re going to leave now and report to Professor McGonagall,' Dean said in an icy voice, and before Harry‘s brain, which was struggling to follow what was happening, had even begun to kick into gear, Dean was already dragging him towards the door.

He yanked it open, pushed Harry out, followed him, turned round, shouted a ‘Bye!’ into the room and slammed the door behind him. Then, still holding Harry‘s upper arm in an iron grip, Dean stomped off in the direction of Professor McGonagall's office.

Harry followed him, stumbling, the gears in his head spinning so fast they threatened to run hot. They had already travelled a few corridors when Dean suddenly let go of him.

‘Sorry, was lost in thoughts,’ he mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand absent-mindedly.

Harry stopped, hesitating. ‘Dean, she – she‘ll have you thrown out!’ he stuttered, feeling a wave of panic wash over him, feeling an uncontrollable tremor creep into his limbs.

Dean shook his head seriously. ‘On what grounds? That I won‘t let her torture me? That‘s bollocks. She‘ll have to come up with something wild, and she‘ll have to prove it first. I know the professors will believe us, not that deranged cow.

‘Harry …’

The pain on his hand, sudden and unforeseen, memories flooding back to Harry from long ago and actually not so long ago. Of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. It wasn‘t that they ever wanted to touch him, certainly not. But sometimes, when they were terribly angry –Harry hated the carpet beater so much …

‘Harry.’

Two large hands placed themselves on his shoulders and he blinked. Dean stood in front of him, bending down to him with concern.

‘Harry, are you okay?’ Dean asked softly, squeezing Harry‘s shoulder gently.

But Harry couldn‘t say anything, and even if he could, what should he say? Dean stepped up beside him and put an arm around his shoulder, rubbing it gently.

‘Looked like you‘d just been somewhere else,’ Dean said softly.

Harry stood silently beside him, trying to shrug.

‘Come, I‘ll take you to the common room, to the dormitory. I'm going to see Professor McGonagall on my own and –’

‘N-no,’ Harry said, his voice rough and cracking. ‘I want – want to come with you!’

Dean stood silently beside him, continuing to rub Harry‘s shoulder, pondering.

‘Okay,’ he finally decided, and together they walked to their Head of House.

Professor McGonagall opened the door in surprise after Dean knocked hard.

‘Mr Thomas? Mr Potter?’ She scrutinised the two of them intently, then frowned.

‘Shouldn‘t you have detention with Professor Umbridge?’

‘Yes, we should,’ Dean said darkly. ‘Can we come in?’

Professor McGonagall replied in the affirmative and stepped aside. There was only one chair in the room, but she quickly turned one of her snow-white quills into a second chair, which turned out to be far more comfortable than the first.

Dean gently manoeuvred Harry into the more comfortable one and sat down in the other.

Professor McGonagall took a seat behind her desk and looked at both of her students waiting.

Dean cleared his throat. ‘Umbridge –’

‘Professor Umbridge.’

‘With all respect, Professor, that woman doesn‘t deserve the title. Let me explain,’ Dean continued as Professor McGonagall was about to raise her voice. ‘This woman … Do you know what Umbridge‘s idea of detention is? She wanted us to write lines with a quill. With our own blood.

‘Show her, Harry.’

Harry looked up in panic. Show her? No! No, no, no, that wasn‘t an option, that was completely out of question! Because – because – that’s why! Quickly, he sat down on his hand, Dean frowned, Professor McGonagall looked back and forth between the two boys in confusion. Instead of reaching for Harry‘s hand, Dean held out his own. Since they had only written the words once, the injury could only be guessed at, but Professor McGonagall didn‘t have to rely on her own eyesight.

She drew her wand, cast a charm, and the back of Dean‘s hand lit up.

I must not tell lies.

Professor MGonagall watched the words silently for a while. She put her wand aside and Harry noticed that her hand was trembling slightly.

‘I understand, Mr Thomas. You and Mr Potter may go to the common room. I will talk to Professor Umbridge,’ she said in a voice that sounded so controlled that it was tense to the breaking point.

Harry stumbled to his feet, he had to get out of here. He really wanted to come with Dean, without being able to say exactly why. Perhaps because he wanted to prove something to himself. But what? He didn‘t know, he rushed out into the corridor.

Dean followed close on his heels as Harry dashed through the door and ran off towards Gryffindor Tower.

‘Harry!’

Dean had easily caught up to him, he was so much taller and had so much longer legs, it was easy for him to keep up with Harry.

Harry didn‘t want to stop and to his relief Dean didn‘t seem to have any intention of stopping him either. He just ran alongside Harry, as if he was just trying to make sure he didn‘t hurt himself on his run.

Finally arriving at the portrait, he was so short of breath that Dean had to say the password. The portrait swung aside, Harry stumbled into the common room and, without looking round, continued towards the stairs to the dormitory.

‘Harry! You‘re back already? Harry?’ Hermione got to her feet in surprise, she had been sitting at one of the tables, engrossed in one of her essays, but Harry ignored her and shot up the stairs.

‘Harry?!’

‘He‘s not feeling too well right now,’ he heard Dean say quietly to her.

‘What‘s happened?’ she asked worriedly.

But that was all Harry could hear. He threw the dormitory door on its hinges, changed to his pyjamas and crawled under the duvet.

He hated Umbridge.

He hated that quill.

He hated the carpet beater.

The next morning, Harry dragged himself down the stairs, he was late, he hadn‘t slept well, waking constantly and lurching between terrible dreams and unwelcome reality. He dreamt of sitting in Umbridge‘s office again, quill in hand, the words cutting deep into the back of his hand.

Dean wasn‘t there.

He was trapped, with her, in that room, he couldn‘t get out. He was never getting out.

When he arrived in the common room, Dean, Ron and Hermione were already waiting for him. Ron looked just as exhausted as Harry felt, wondering what his red-haired friend was hiding from him.

Hermione eyed Harry worriedly and closely. Had Dean told her something? Judging by the look on her face, yes.

‘How are you?’ Hermione asked cautiously.

Harry looked at her grumpily. ‘Lovely, like reborn. Literally. Helpless, half-blind and totally inept at pretty much everything.’

‘Harry …’ Hermione looked at him sadly and helplessly.

‘Hey, that might cheer you up a bit, mate.’ Dean let his bag slide off his shoulder, flipped it open, took out a few pages of parchment and handed them to Harry.

He took them uncomprehendingly and looked at Dean questioningly.

‘No detention, so I pulled an all-nighter for the essays. I got them all done. Hermione helped me.’

Smiling, he nodded at Hermione, who smiled weakly back.

‘I finished drawing the Bowtruckle for you, too. Drew it in a way, so Grubbly-Plank would believe it is yours, of course. Well, the only thing I can‘t do for you is the Vanishing Charm.’

‘You could hide behind Harry and cast the charm for him,’ Ron suggested, chuckling, Dean laughed.

‘I’m fairly certain Professor McGonagall would notice.’

Harry looked at the essays Dean had given him. ‘H-how did you manage to copy my writing?’

Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘I‘m a wizard, Harry.’

Harry started laughing, shaking his head, what a morning. What a morning. For a brief moment, he felt like hugging Dean, but … Yeah, that would come across a little weird now. Harry mentally gave himself a slap and instead grinned as wide as his tired face would allow.

‘Dean – I don‘t know what I‘d do without you now!’

‘Homework?’ Dean suggested jokingly.

Hermione cleared her throat. ‘I helped, remember?’

Harry didn’t mind hugging Hermione though, so he did. She giggled sheepishly and hugged Harry back tightly. He was a little surprised that she had no objections to Dean doing his homework. Especially in O.W.L.-year. But apparently, in her opinion, yesterday‘s experience was terrible enough for him to have earned it.

Ron pouted mockingly. ‘Okay, so why didn‘t anyone do my homework?’

Dean snorted. ‘Because they didn‘t torment you with a torture quill, that‘s why. Your business if you‘d rather hang around outside instead of getting you‘re stuff done.’

Ron‘s face turned red. ‘I wasn‘t hanging around, I – never mind!’

Grumbling, he stomped out of the common room, the others following him.

Harry felt light, so light. Like a fed... snowflake. Yes, he still had to practise the damn Vanishing Charm, but everything else was done and dusted – thanks to Dean. How much time had Dean spent in the common room last night trying to get it all together? Judging by the bags under his eyes – a very long time. A large part of Harry wondered why he was taking this on, he could have just done his homework and generously let Harry copy. Instead, he had gone the extra mile of copying his writing and wording.

Something occurred to Harry as they stepped into the Great Hall. ‘Oh bugger, I didn‘t wrote anything for that stupid dream diary!’

‘Did you dream anything?’ Dean asked casually.

‘Yeah, but I don‘t want to write that down. It‘s none of Trelawney‘s business. I need to think of something quick.’

He dug his diary out of his bag and scribbled something in it, eating toast Dean looked over his shoulder.

‘Write that a monster ate you in bed,’ he suggested, chewing.

Harry snorted. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, if you‘re going to make something up, make it so she‘s grossed out. Okay, and then the monster just ate your insides and –’

Hermione coughed. ‘I’m having breakfast!’

‘– pulled your guts out and –’

‘Yeah, okay. I think Trelawney will think that‘s disgusting enough,' Harry said, chuckling and writing down Dean‘s gross idea.

Ron slid next to the two of them and looked at Dean hopefully. ‘Could you spice up my dream too?’

Hermione snorted contemptuously. ‘A little less disgusting would be nice, thank you!’

‘Mr Potter, Mr Thomas?’

The two looked up from their breakfast as Professor McGonagall approached Harry and Dean.

‘I had a conversation with Professor Umbridge,’ she began, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, Dean‘s face hardened.

‘You still have detention with her, of course, but,’ she looked sharply at Dean, who had already opened his mouth in protest, ’on my terms. You will write your lines, with a normal quill and normal ink. As agreed, all week at five o‘clock.’

The lightness that had flooded Harry for a short time washed out of his body and he slumped down on the bench like a balloon that had deflated. Yes, he didn‘t have to write with that dreadful quill, but he still had detention, all week – back in that office, with that dreadful woman. Harry felt like he was suddenly getting a lot less air.

Dean rubbed his back gently.

‘Don‘t worry about it. We‘ll get through this together.’

You‘re lovin‘ me to death

And leavin‘ me to die

You make me wanna scream

But my tongue is tied

You played me like a toy

You made my life a mess

Everybody knows

You‘re lovin‘ me to death

(Scorpions – You’re Lovin‘ Me to Death)