Chapter Text
He wonders when stomach pains started feeling so foreboding. Luna tells him about some creature that he can’t remember the name of, says that it could be preying on his negative thoughts and laying eggs in his brain. She recommends listening to the Weird Sisters because she’s heard all the wonderful commentary that Ginny makes throughout the week. The creature will have no choice but to vacate his body.
Hermione passes into the kitchen as she says this, and she stops, scandalized. “There’s no such thing,” she denies incredulously, “He ate an entire bowl of George’s sweets this morning—really, I’m shocked to see him still standing.”
“It was two pieces of chocolate.” His voice is muffled against the countertop, where his head lay as Luna twirls braids into his hair. “I think something bad’s gonna happen to me.” He wasn’t lying. Every second, this feeling of impending doom got stronger, though, perhaps it could be the fact that he was dying a relatively unhurried death from poisoned sweets. He’d say that if he knew Hermione wouldn’t chide him.
Luna makes a sympathetic noise, patting his hair softly.
She’s whisked away by the sound of laughter out in the garden, and Hermione directs him upstairs, listening to his groaning and complaining, only to shut him up by offering a pain reliever once he drops face first onto Ron’s bed. “You—“ he croaks, lifting his head to squint at her amused figure, “You are the loveliest person alive, Hermione.. I mean it!”
“Are the rest of us trash to you?” Ron accuses, whacking him with his rolled up Quidditch Times magazine before he freezes and blanches, hand going to his forehead. “I’m becoming my mum, by Merlin.”
“Of course you are,” Harry passively agrees. Hermione hands him a small vial, and he pops the stopper off with his teeth, chugging its contents down in desperation. He coughs from the foul taste. The fist enclosed around his organs slowly loosens, and he sits up, energized. “Thanks.”
She nods, settling down beside Ron to rub his back. He’s got his head in his hands, moaning louder every five seconds. She tells him, “Honestly, it could be worse.” She tilts her head, hair falling off her shoulder as she thinks, offering, “You could be turning into Percy.”
That cheers Ron right up, but he still leans into her arms for comfort. She rolls her eyes, turning to Harry. “You’ve got a letter from Hogwarts. All of us have, actually.” They’re stacked on the rickety old dresser that Ron and Harry had carved their initials into one summer.
He tosses them their individual letters and stares at his own clenched tight between his fingers. He’d heard the rumors of there being a special program for the seventh years unable to properly attend last year. The Death Eater lesson plan hadn’t been the way to go either. They’d all volunteered for the restoration of Hogwarts, but that didn’t guarantee the Board’s agreement to allow them back once it was repaired. A smile grew on his face against his will, and he ripped open the tab, happy to hear he’d been given a second chance.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall (Order of Merlin, First Class)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that your place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be open to you if you choose to accept it. Please take heed of the Informal-Formative Class Activity Policy that was placed onto the school by the Hogwarts Board of Governors earlier this month.
An enclosed catalogue of activities approved by the Board has been included with this year’s shopping list. Choosing an extracurricular practice is mandatory and cannot be undone. Owls will be taken no later than 31 July.
The Eighth Year term begins on 1 September.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
“Oh, how wonderful,” Hermione gasps, drinking in the words in her letter at inhuman speed. She looks at the two of them, happily restating, “They’ve already made new adjustments!”
“Extracurriculars,” Ron reads, horrified, “Do they think we’re made of time?”
Harry flips through the papers in his hand. “There’s a chess club,” he says, pausing when he sees his name in the long list of activities. “I’ve been recommended as the Captain to,” he squints, slowly mouthing, “the Quidditch League?”
Hermione places her own catalogue of activities on the bed between the three of them, smoothing it out and pointing out certain information. “It means you fit the criteria they’re looking for,” she explains, her words fumbling over in excitement, “Look, I’ve been recommended here because of my time as a prefect!” She draws their attention to where the Hogwarts Student Council was bolded, showing them where her name had been printed. “Here, for Charms Club too—oh, and the Ancient Runes Honor Society as well!”
Under the dark green recommendation column, he only finds one more activity, the Duelling Club, which required him to have had an Outstanding grade for the DADA section of his O.W.L. exam. In his skimming, he’d learned that the Seventh and Eighth Years were forbidden from participating in the Inter-House Quidditch Cup, hence the Quidditch League’s formation. Between the two, the decision is easier than he feared.
She makes a harrowed expression. “These are all good choices, I can’t decide,” she sighs, looking back to the first letter, “I suppose I’ll have all month to write up the pros and cons.”
“I think I’ll join the Quidditch League,” Harry announces simply. He turns to Ron, who shrugs.
“Well, as long as you both remember to mail your letters on time.” She sends Harry a pointed look. “I can’t imagine they’ll be sympathetic with how many students are going to be enrolled this year.”
“I won’t forget,” he defends, to which Hermione and Ron share an annoyingly unprompted glance, “I won’t!” He’d be one of the first few to send their letters back, he swears.
The summer carries on, ignorant to their concerns and, particularly, Harry’s assurances. When he first goes to mail his letter, he bumps into Neville who sheepishly ropes him into carrying an eighty pound plant through the floo. The next time, it’s Ron pulling him in for a game of Quidditch with Dean and Ginny. Then, it’s a Peruvian Darkness Powder accident in the sitting room, and rescuing Luna and her pet succulent from the rooftop.
He’s eating a chicken sandwich out in the garden two days before his birthday, slowly chewing as he tries and fails to figure out what he’d forgotten. He knew he’d forgotten something, but he couldn’t recall what it was, even with Mrs Weasley’s miracle cooking there to lend a helping hand. Ron and Ginny were doing the first rounds of de-gnoming in preparation for the birthday party that everyone was adamant he had. It was turning into a bit of a distraction, and he was contemplating moving when Hermione plopped down next to him.
He offers her half his sandwich, though she shakes her head and cracks open the old textbook in her lap. They sit in a relatively pleasant silence for a while, until she makes an offhand comment about the Weasley’s newest owl.
“Ginny’s just mailed out her letters, so Tiny’s having a rest down in the sitting room with Pig now,” she pauses in her page flipping, cautiously asking, “Harry, you have sent back your letter, haven’t you?”
Harry sees a glimpse of the future in that moment, so he promptly picks up his empty plate and speed-walks to the house, much to Hermione’s confusion. That had been what he'd forgotten. Out of all the things to forget, he thinks, trotting upstairs, taking two steps at a time.
He stumbles into the sitting room, whipping his head around to try—and fail at—finding the tan barn owl. She was a new addition to the household, much more energetic and flighty than her older counterpart. They were often seen chasing each other around the house. If they weren’t in the sitting room, there was only one other place they could be. He sprints to the next best destination. Pig is napping in his cage when he gets to Ron’s room, and Tiny is nowhere to be found.
He considers the owl’s small form. Two days—two days was all that he needed. Pig could deliver a small letter in two days, surely? “Hey,” he whispers, leaning forward to softly rub at Pig’s feathers, “Pig, could you wake up?”
Pig rolls around and stands on his feet, shaking his body with an odd tremble that has a few clumps of feathers falling to the floor. He blinks up at Harry, bleary-eyed and sleepy. “Send a letter for me, alright?” He feels a bit guilty for waking him up out of his sleep, so he promises, “I’ll have a whole spread of the garden worms for you ready when you come back. They’re your favorite, aren’t they?”
Pig doesn’t look impressed. His beak still takes the letter, and with a tired shimmy, he launches himself out through the window.
He doesn’t come back until the third of August. The festivities are well over, and Harry is certain of two things: he will never make another attempt at drinking Seamus’ cocktails, no matter how colorful they seem, and he will never have Pig carry his letters again. It isn’t the bird's fault, really. He’s just doing what he’s been told to do. While having bird flu.
How was he meant to know birds got the flu? Yeah, they had said Pig had been feeling a bit under the weather, but he hadn’t known that it was wizarding code for: “My owls got bird flu!”
Still, the damage has been done, and all hopes that the letter had been delivered on time were horribly low. Ron—breaking his two-day silent treatment after he’d learned that Harry had ‘killed’ his bird—says that he’d gotten lost. It didn’t take much to confirm that. Pig had used Ron’s dresser as a landing pad for his freshly painted purple claws, bouncing up and down like those planes Dudley loved so much. Cinched around his left leg was a foot ring with a lovely message from the witch who’d given Pig refuge on his three day flight there. It’s framed somewhere around the house.
He tried not to think about it too much over the course of the remaining holiday. Which, he didn’t have to try hard at that with how many guests self-invited themselves into the Burrow, and how many family dinners he ends up engorging himself stupid on. He even holds a small funeral with Luna for her beloved moon frog. Not that he’s much help, he mostly just gives a fumbled speech on how great the thing was, burning up from Hermione’s baleful gaze on the side of his head. She hadn’t exactly approved of that endeavor.
He’s boarding the train when the realization becomes all-consuming and clear. He turns to Ron, asks him, “Do you think they got my letter?”
Ron pauses mid-step. “Mate, I reckon you should’ve asked yourself that question before you got on the train.”
They knock into each other as a tiny first year slams into their backs—she takes one look at their faces and flees the scene into the nearest compartment. Next to him, Ron makes an offended noise. “I figured it would just, you know, sort itself out,” Harry reluctantly admits. Ron sends him a judgemental look at that.
“Why ‘cause you’re the Chosen One,” Ron mocks in a high pitched falsetto, inching closer to Harry in a rendition of the reporter who’d tailed him all the way down to the station.
She’d called out to him, asking, almost reverently, like he was a god standing before her, “It’s the Chosen One! How do you plan to maintain your status as the public’s number one hero?” It had freaked him out, and he jumped into the nearest alleyway just as her cameraman started clicking and flashing. He’s been trying not to think about what they were going to do with that photo.
He shoves his shoulder into Ron’s, hard enough that he knocks into a compartment door. He complains over the other’s groaning, “That’s not it, you arse.”
A compartment door slides open. Neville waves at them, grinning and causing the poorly bandaged purple burn on his chin to stretch almost painfully. He leads them inside, where Luna is organizing a set of Quibbler magazines. Harry hefts his trunk up into the racks, listening to the slow conversation.
“So, er, what happened to your, uh..” Ron gestures to his own face, wincing.
Neville blinks, reaching up to graze the edges of the scabbing burn like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh, this? I was cultivating the Anthiatus Professor Sprout sent me over the summer. Anty got really attached to this one planter, and when I re-potted it, it wasn’t too happy with me. Gran could heal the bites, though I need the professor’s Juniper oil mix to fix up the acid burn.”
Ron repeats, incredously, “Acid?”
He sits down next to Luna, taking the small package that she hands him. “What’s this?” He asks, when a plum-colored hard sweet rolls out.
“I noticed the Cogimulus in your hair were agitated today,” she replies, flipping over two magazine covers and holding them up to compare them at eye-level. “You didn’t listen to the Weird Sisters like I told you to,” she says, in a tone that almost sounds chiding, “This should calm them down.”
He notices speckles of gold rolled into the sweet. It doesn’t look harmful, and when he brings it close to his nose to have a sniff, it smells like blueberries. He also doesn’t think Luna would ever intentionally harm him. He does have a brief moment where he considers the possibility of her harming him unintentionally, but it’s not as though he’d end up dead from sweets. He shrugs and pops it into his mouth. He hums, surprised at the bitter taste that floods his tongue, and he turns to Luna with a grimace on his face. She laughs and pops her own into her mouth.
“Are you sorting?” he asks, nodding to her paper shuffling.
He hears a hollow crack come from her jaw, crystal sugar breaking down and dissolving as she answers, “I want to gift my Magizoology club members with some ‘Did You Moo?’ clippings. I’d like it if they could come and see the Mortis Bat pups that Hagrid’s wrote to me about too. They’re lovely in his letters.”
He crunches down on his own sweet, and a gooey filling rushes out to curl at his cheeks. “I’ve never heard of such a thing, but they’re babies, aren’t they?” He rolls the word on his tongue, which feels heavier than it was a minute ago. “I think the babies will be lovely. Just like in the letters. They’ll love them, I’m certain. Luna, could I join your club, maybe?”
She pats his shoulder. “You won’t like it.” He tries to reply, but his head ends up falling and he doesn’t remember much after that.
When he wakes up, the train lurches. His neck is stiff, and he has to spit out a few blond hair strands that end up in his mouth. He flexes his right cheek, looking down to see Luna in a similar state on his shoulder.
“He’s awake,” someone says. Ron, he thinks.
“Are we here?” he asks, peering his bleary eyes out the window. He rubs a hand under his glasses, which, thankfully, didn’t break in his sleep. Hermione and Ginny are standing across from him now. Really, how long had he been asleep?
Luna lifts her head off his shoulder, smiling. “Good morning, everyone.”
“It’s five to seven,” Hermione corrects, “And it’s time to disembark.”
“It’s good that you woke up,” Ginny tells them, “Hermione was having kittens over here trying to wake the two of you.”
Ron tosses him his robes, already adorning his own over a sweater and trousers. Harry shrugs it over his shoulders and offers a hand to Luna to help her up, but she forgoes the help and stands on the seats to dig into her trunk for Merlin knows what. Hermione does look a little frazzled, but it might be because she was the only person in the room besides Ginny that was following the school’s dress code. She insisted upon it despite the Headmistress’ lax attitude towards it in their letters for Eighth years.
“I didn’t mean to make a fuss,” he apologizes, “Luna and I shared a few sweets, and I think they made us a bit sleepy.”
“S’not a fuss,” Ron dismisses, hefting down the remaining trunks that weren’t already on the floor. “Just wanted to be certain you weren’t dead, is all.” He pauses, deep in thought. He tilts his head to add, “Again.” He slides Ginny and Harry their respective trunks before dusting his hands.
They’re one of the last ones to make it to the carriages. It’s always a shock to see the Thestrals, though he notices a foal nuzzling up against its mother’s belly and that makes everything slightly better. The walk to the Great Hall is even more daunting. Volunteering helped with the memories, all the moving and lifting becoming something like a balm on his soul. Still, he’s a little nauseous as he walks past certain spots.
Eighth Years got a shorter table behind the other house tables, and it’s placed in such a way that it almost feels like they’re meant to be watching over the younger years. It seemed that most of their graduating class had decided to return for a re-do of their final year, with the majority of Slytherin and a few others being an exception to this. Harry sits between Ron and Hermione, trying out the platters squeezed onto the table.
At one point during the Sorting, he looks down the table and nearly chokes to death when he sees a head of blond hair. Malfoy hadn’t been on the train—he would’ve noticed him. He assumed he fucked off to France or somewhere like the majority of their peers. His probation had ended right before the new term, last he’d heard. Why had he come back? Why would he come back? It wasn’t as if anyone wanted him here. Harry cleared his throat, taking a sip of pumpkin juice and shrugging off Hermione’s concerned look. He wouldn’t let Malfoy get to him. He had other—increasingly important, now that he thought about it—matters to worry about. Malfoy would just have to keep to himself.
“…your best to avoid the men’s lavatories on the third floor, as we have yet to hear any word from our staff regarding the exploding sink pipes,” Headmistress McGonagall explained, forcibly drawing Harry’s attention away from Malfoy. She shares a soft smile with the room, breaking down her stern demeanor. “Lastly, once you’ve finished your meal, I’d like to bring your attention over to the board posted out in the Entrance Hall. I have very high expectations for this year’s new extracurricular program.”
As a whole, it seems everyone in the Great Hall stands and begins rushing out. She tries to calm down the overexcited crowd but stops after two failed attempts. The doors slam shut, and she raises her voice, pressing her wand to her lips. “As I have already said, you may visit the Entrance Hall once you’ve finished your meal—that being so, I must ask that Credence Firth, Susan Bloom, and Harry Potter stay behind,” she starts, demanding, “Any others who failed to mail their letters in good time should stay behind and speak to their head of house. You will also meet with your head of house after your viewing to find your dormitory—Eighth Years, meet with Filch regarding sleeping arrangements, please! That is all!”
The doors fling open with a whoosh, and though slower than before, the crowd filtered through it. He felt his ears warm as whispers made their way to him.
Ron stands. He chews around a mouthful of bread, consoling, “Tough luck, mate. Looks like it didn’t sort itself out after all.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Harry dryly replies. He tries his best to ignore him.
Harry shifts in his chair, rubbing his sweaty hands onto the rough denim of his jeans. “What?” he says, a bit dumbfounded.
“It’s exactly as I just said,” McGonagall summarizes, “You’ve not been chosen as the Captain of the Quidditch League. You were too late, Potter. That position has been filled.” She’s seated across from him at her desk.
“Oh,” he says, even more dumbfounded, “Can I ask by who?”
She frowns. “I don’t believe you understand the situation that you’re in. You’ve mailed your letters past their due date, and now, you have nowhere to go for your extracurriculars. Your required extracurriculars, might I add.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he weakly replies, “It’s fine if I don’t get to be Captain. I’m happy just being a member.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, taking a break from her frowning to softly exhale in disappointment. “I’ve brought you here to discuss alternatives, Potter. Nearly all of the extracurricular activities are full, so you don't have many options to choose from.” She points her wand at a small parchment on her desk, and it whirls in a circle before daintily collapsing down into his lap. “This is a list that I’ve compiled for you. I’ve given you a grace period of two days to be inducted into one of these clubs. We’ll have to renegotiate your extracurricular arrangements if every single club president on this list rejects you.”
He takes the paper into his hands, but he can only concentrate on her last sentence. “Wait. They can reject me? I can’t just choose a club on this list?”
“In regards to this year’s events, it’s been decided that the students should have this opportunity to participate in activities that are free from… the school’s handling. We are giving student presidents creative freedom—partial freedom, of course. It’s why the recommendation system was implemented to prevent constant exclusion. Unfortunately, that system doesn’t apply now that the timeframe has elapsed, but let it be known that you will always be under my care, as you are at my institution.”
He’s shocked that the Board would even think to take something like that into consideration. That must’ve been the reason why they needed to mail their letters so early, for the student presidents to pick their members. It wasn’t guaranteed that you’d get the club you wanted. He wanted to ask about the process, but even he could see that McGonagall wasn’t brimming with patience today. He only needed to make a good impression on one of these students. That was easy enough.
She watches him closely, as if considering the motivational factor of her previous words. “If renegotiation is needed, I will make you Finch’s apprentice. Do you understand me?”
He flinched. “Yes, Headmistress.”
- Theatre Guild
- Trivia and Quiz Club
- Pastry and Pâtisserie Society (P.A.P)
- History Club
- Chastity Club
He’s reading over the list with Hermione and Ron in the Eighth Years common room when he realizes the full extent of what he’s gotten himself into. The list was short. It was hardly a list when there were only five clubs. Four, not counting the one on the bottom. He’d nearly tripped over himself when he saw it. “A Chastity Club? At Hogwarts?” he repeats, a little gobsmacked, “That’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“Not quite,” Hermione disagreed, seated at the end of the sofa, her feet nestled right beside Ron’s head. He and Harry were both seated against it on the floor. The fireplace was going strong, and Harry reached a hand out to flex his fingers near the heat. “I’ve read about it in the papers. Muggle papers,” she reminds them, “have all kinds of interesting stories about purity culture and its influence on young adults. There are mixed opinions, of course, but generally, it’s not as popular here in Britain than it is elsewhere.”
“That’s a Muggle concept,” Ron points out, “Only purebloods worry about that sort of thing. Gotta keep their pedigree from going off where they don’t want it to.”
“Ron, you’re a pureblood.”
Ron waves him off. “You know what I mean,” he continued, “There are spells to keep these things from happening. Most parents just teach their kids contraception charms—or they place it themselves.” He summarizes, “What’s the point in a Chastity Club when you’ve already got a magic belt to spruce up the place.”
Hermione gasps, scandalized, and he looks around wide-eyed and confused. “What? It’s true!”
“Completely untrue, that’s what it is,” she denies, softly patting his head with her Ancient Runes textbook, “There is no such thing as a magical chastity belt! That’s simply not how that spell works, Ron!”
They begin bickering, and Harry pulls his hand away from the fire to rummage through his bag. He clicks a pen, moving it along the paper to cross out Chastity Club. There were four other choices. He could do it.
The next day, he finds himself walking through a re-modeled corridor, glancing at the name plates beside each classroom door. He figured he’d have a go at the Trivia and Quiz Club first. It was the slightly better version of the History Club, his last choice—he’d already made enough history, why bother learning more in his free time. He slows his pace once he sees the door to the Trivia Club. He twists the door handle, pushing into the room.
He didn’t expect the room to be so large or so full of motion. There are two long tables opposite of each other, filled with five people sitting behind a wand. There are seats cluttered around the room facing the tables. They pause their heated discussion to stop and stare at him. He awkwardly waves. “Hello.”
The man standing in the center of the room nearly drops his note cards, spluttering out, “You’re Harry Potter!” He hops off his podium, stumbling forward, absolutely beaming. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, actually,” he replies, “Could I maybe speak with the club president?”
“That’s me! Club President Wallace, at your service.”
Harry walks closer to the podium at the man’s excited waving. “I heard you have an open spot.”
“We do,” he confirms, “Are you interested?” Harry nods, and he claps his hands, grinning around at the others. “Brilliant! We’d be honored to have you!”
Harry blinks, a little taken aback at the man’s reaction. “That’s it?”
He leads Harry over to one of the tables, casually looking back, explaining, “Well, you’ll have to go through a mock competition, but I’m confident you’ll do well!” He snaps his fingers at a girl seated in the very middle of the table, voice changing entirely as he softly hisses, “Fucking move, Lesley, can’t you see Harry Potter’s here!” The girl rushes out of her seat, running out to join a group of annoyed looking bystanders.
Wallace pulls out his chair, motioning for Harry to sit. Harry slowly sits, feeling out of place. “This is your handheld sparker,” he tells him, pointing at the red standard wand in front of him. “If you think you’ve got an answer, just touch it! It’ll shoot out your team’s color.”
He rearranges his cards, walking back to the podium. “No touching your wand before the question is finished, no yelling out answers or changing your answer after you’ve given your first answer, and lastly, the correct answer will always, always be announced at the end of each round.” He places the cards on the flat surface, clearing his throat and straightening his collar. “And no cheating, of course! We’ll start this round off with the red team.”
Harry greets the red-faced boy beside him before reaching out to grab the wand. The boy stops him, vigorously shaking his head. Harry keeps his hands in his lap until the game starts.
“I’ll start off easy,” he says, looking down and reading off, “Question One: In what year did the Wigtown Wanderers win their hometown, Wigtown, its iconic nickname ‘Winnerstown’?””
After reading the card, he glanced back at Harry. There seems to be a lull in the room, stilling their movements as though they were waiting. Which, in a way, they were. They were waiting for Harry to answer, except Harry had absolutely nothing to offer. Who even were the Wigtown Wanderers? A band, maybe?
Blue sparks shoot out from the next table over. “1428,” she answers, once given permission to speak. She elaborates, “The year they won their fifth Sweepers Award.” Harry leans forward to see her, shocked, and she studiously ignored him, pushing her glasses up her nose. The Sweepers Award was an idea he could get behind. Oliver Wood rambled about it enough that—in one instance—Harry was able to recite the 1984 winners straight from memory.
“Correct! One point to the blue team!” A piece of chalk floats into the air to update the chalkboard scoreboard. Harry tries to gather everything he knows about Quidditch in that moment, relieved that he could contribute something useful to their round if a similar question were to pop up.
“Question Two: Which species of bullfrog incorporates wart eating into their courtship display?”
That was an entirely different question! Harry’s mind races—he could only know so many frogs. A brief memory of Dudley chasing him around with an American bullfrog comes to mind, but he doesn’t suppose that’s the type of frog a wizard would want to discuss. The stillness is shorter this time, and a red spark shoots out next to him. It’s the red-faced boy, and he stutters out, “The Fanged Natterjack toad?”
“That is incorrect, Gordan.” He turns to the other table, prompting, “Does the blue team have an answer they’d like to present?”
Sparks. “The Giant Purple Toad.”
“That’s right! Another point to the blue team!”
They end up losing nine to one.
Wallace walks him back over to the exit. Harry gathers up the courage to ask when the next meeting will be, and he coughs, “We’ll be in contact.” He attempts a reassuring smile and fails. His upturned grimace is only the start of Harry’s downfall into madness.