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It’s at least three days into this new predicament that Ron comes to him, insisting their new appearances must have some root in dark magic.
Hermione has already ruled out some sort of potions “accident”– or non-consensual dosing, as it was more likely to be, considering it was half the student body and at least a quarter of the professors– and the twins had denied any and all involvement when Harry had owled them, as their benefactor, and they had been so delighted by the news, asking a million and a half questions, that Ron and Ginny both had admitted they likely hadn’t had anything to do with it either. They would’ve taken credit if it had.
“I suppose we can’t rule it out,” Hermione admits, nose in a book, which isn’t all that odd, all things considered, but the mottled white and brown bunny ears sticking up over the top edge of the massive tome in her hands certainly are. “It doesn’t feel particularly malicious, though.”
Ron balks, hands going for the tufts of orange fur in the shape of large pointed ears on the top of his own head. “You don’t think this is malicious?”
As Harry sighs and reaches for a slice of toast, generous with his jam, Hermione peers over the top edge of her book at Ron with her lips pursed. “To be honest, it’s rather cute, all things considered.”
“I– You– ‘Mione–” Harry arches a brow as Ron goes red in the face, huffing and puffing, protest knocked clean out of him by Hermione’s blunt honesty. “Harry! Help me out.”
Harry shrugs a bit. “I mean, it is rather difficult to navigate t-shirts, right now.”
The velvety antlers sprouting from the top of his head often got caught on the cotton of his clothes whenever he pulled a shirt over his head, but despite only three days having passed, Harry had rather gotten used to the additional weight. His shorter stature has been something of a blessing, for once– even with the additional height, it wasn’t like he was getting caught in any doorways.
His only concern was the drag whenever he got on a broom. He hadn’t tried it, yet, but he’s got a feeling it will be odd, at the very least.
Though, just like the majority of transformed students, he’s not all that happy about having to cut a hole in the backs of all of his pants and trousers just to keep from being shockingly discomfited by the tail trapped beneath the material. He at least isn’t suffering quite as much as Ron, with the long length of a fox tail hanging down to the backs of his knees. Harry and Hermione both have the smallest little tufts to contend with.
“If the professors aren’t worried, we shouldn’t lose sleep over it either,” Hermione insists. “In fact, I was thinking of reviewing Hogwarts: A History again – I feel like I read about something similar happening before.”
Finally giving up for the morning, Ron settles to Harry’s right at the table, burying his face in his arms as he groans. Harry reaches over, patting his shoulder as he bites into his breakfast.
“At least it’s a Hogsmeade day,” Harry tells him. “We can get our minds off of it for a while.”
*
Harry has been watching Ron and Hermione dance around each since the start of the year Winter is already around the corner and Harry wonders if they’ll stop being totally obtuse by winter hols, or if they’ll be playing this little game until May.
He trails behind them on the way to Hogsmeade, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, the air cold enough to nip his nose and cheeks and ears pink, but not enough for him to want to bundle up properly. He’s got no real purpose for coming down to the village today, not really, but his feet are feeling itchy and he feels an awful lot like wandering. He’s felt an increasing need to run off somewhere since the antlers appeared, and wonders if it’s an aspect of their strange circumstances.
When Hermione ends up dragging Ron off to Tomes and Scrolls with her, Harry takes the opportunity to scarper off on his own.
It’s been something of an unspoken rule that Harry isn’t meant to be left to his own devices since the near tragedy of the year previous and the reveal of Voldemort’s return at the Ministry. He’d nearly lost Sirius, due to his own rash decisions, and had suffered near possession in the atrium. He’d ended up spending the summer tucked away at Grimmauld, after Sirius insisted– rather loudly – upon Dumbledore’s attempted insistence that Harry spend yet another summer at the Dursley’s. He’d ended up receiving all sorts of instruction during the days there– more useful than any of his years at Hogwarts, if he’s being honest– and had spent the evenings fending off dreams and nightmares and visions sent to him by Voldemort.
Not only were his friends concerned about him this year, but it almost seemed like the entire world was watching him, waiting to see what the Boy Who Lived would do now that the Dark Lord he’d “defeated” as a babe had returned.
The professors were particularly keen to keep an eye on him. Harry imagined that was at the behest of Dumbledore, especially when Voldemort seemed to go eerily quiet after their last confrontation, sinister moves kept to the shadows. He’s worried, Harry knows, the way Sirius and Remus are worried, and Harry has felt the weight of that concern like a stifling, heavy blanket in the dead of summer. The pressure of it has had Harry’s nerves on edge, has left his magic stirring and snapping under his skin, and when he finally gets a chance to get away from all of the scrutiny, it is something Harry takes full advantage of.
He ends up finding himself trailing near the sparse treeline that leads up to the Shrieking Shack. Out here, away from everything, Harry’s head finally feels quiet for the first time in a long time. A peace that settles into his bones and soothes him, especially when he slips between the trees, and lets his feet lead him blindly into the forest.
It is unfortunate that his peace and quiet does not last long.
“Harry Potter. We finally meet once more.”
Harry had heard that voice so many times, now. Had heard the whisper of it haunting him for years, now. Defiance and rage and a healthy dose of annoyance had become his norm when hearing that voice. Fight or flight were his usual gut reactions.
Something about their strange transformations must have rewired something in Harry’s brain.
Because instead of any of that, Harry freezes like an almost literal deer in the headlights.
“Uh,” Harry falters, eyes on where Voldemort is standing, alone with Harry between the trees, as though he’d simply been waiting for a chance. “Can’t say I’m exactly enthused to see you, if I’m being completely honest.”
Harry thinks maybe everyone keeping such a close eye on him probably had the right idea, now.
Voldemort’s smile is a sharp and almost nasty thing. “My spies mentioned the incident, but I did not think it would be quite so amusing to witness, myself.”
Harry flinches. He wants to reach up, to touch his antlers or ears self-consciously, but he’s still caught stock still and watching as Voldemort draws a few steps nearer.
“Had a hand in this, did you?” Harry asks, unsurprised by the mention of spies at the very least, and Voldemort’s smile goes smug.
“Hardly,” Voldemort replies, eyeing Harry as he begins a careful circle around him, and Harry can’t move. “You truly are a surprise, Harry Potter.”
Harry flinches again, hair standing on end, a cold sweat breaking across his skin. “I do like to keep people on their toes,” he says.
Voldemort makes a sound, something considering and perhaps amused. “The amount of magic in you is quite astounding. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
Finally– finally– Harry can move, and he jerks about and catches the red of Voldemort’s stare. “Me? What have I done?”
Voldemort hums. There’s shouting somewhere, in the distance, and Harry thinks that someone has realized he’s not in sight– that someone has realized that Voldemort has wandered so near the school.
The fact that he’s gotten this close at all will give Sirius conniptions when he finds out. He’s been rather protective since the end of 5th year.
“It appears our time has run out,” Voldemort says. “Perhaps I’ll tell you next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Harry insists.
Voldemort’s smile is something that will haunt him. “Yes, there will.”
Harry hates how sure he sounds. And hates the insidious curl of curiosity already slipping like a vice around his heart.
And then Voldemort is gone, apparating away with a loud pop as Hermione and Ron come running through the trees, McGonagall on their heels. Hermione frets over him, the moment she’s close enough, and judging by the purse of McGonagall’s lips, Harry knows he’s in store for quite the scolding.
“We were so worried when we couldn’t find you,” Hermione says.
“The Headmaster will want a word, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall adds. “I believe the three of you should head back to the school. Now.”
Harry nods, throat working. He wishes he could explain himself– his need to get away as much as his inability to act upon being faced with Lord Voldemort– but there isn’t any time for that, right now.
Instead, Harry is led back to Hogwarts, practically frog-marched, Voldemort’s knowing words lingering in his head.