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Chapter Text

Harry Potter had always known love.

It wasn’t just the sweeping gestures or grand declarations people often spoke of. For him, love was found in the quiet moments—like the warmth of a blanket as rain tapped rhythmically against the window, or the thrill of a well-played Quidditch practice. It was in the forgiveness after a mistake, the gentle ruffling of his hair, and the steady hum of his family around him.

Love, in all its forms, was constant. Even 12 Grimmauld Place, once dark and echoing, had become a home filled with warmth and protection. The house had witnessed horrors, but it had also become a haven where Harry was enveloped in a fierce, unspoken love, a love that was deeply rooted in history and family. He had learned early that love, though sometimes quiet, was the thread that kept him whole.

It was the legacy of his parents’ that had shaped his life, but Harry had always carried something more—a love that had been passed down, not only from Lily and James but also from unexpected places.

“Harry James Potter!” Lily’s voice rang through the house, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Downstairs, the familiar sounds of his family’s morning activity hummed through the walls—Sirius’s laughter, Regulus’s dry remarks, and Remus’s soothing voice. Harry grabbed his last bag and rushed down the stairs, where his mother stood, clipboard in hand, a look of warm concern in her eyes.

“Are you all packed? You haven’t forgotten anything, have you?” Lily asked, a touch of worry in her voice.

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “Mum, you’ve got a clipboard,” he teased. “It’s impossible for me to forget anything.”

She softened, her expression shifting as she reached up to ruffle his hair, her lips brushing the top of his head. Harry stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of her love, the same love that had guided him all his life. She gazed at him with a mixture of pride and sadness, her smile tinged with the knowledge that he was growing up too fast.

“Harry, my love!” James’s voice boomed from the kitchen, followed by the rich smells of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. The chaotic comfort of the kitchen was something Harry would never take for granted.

Remus was already at the stove, flipping pancakes with his usual quiet grace. James and Sirius, on the other hand, were doing their best to “help” by getting in the way, hovering and offering unsolicited advice. Regulus, ever the one to maintain order, stood at the counter, making sure things didn’t descend into complete mayhem.

“Come get your breakfast!” James called again, his voice warm but commanding.

Sirius threw an arm around Harry’s shoulders, loading his plate with food. “You need food if you’re going to grow into a big, strong Quidditch lad!” he joked, flashing a grin.

James puffed out his chest. “He’s going to be a Chaser, just like his father,” he said proudly, winking at Harry.

“No, he’ll be a Beater, just like his Uncle Pads!” Sirius shot back, tossing a wink of his own.

Remus, ever the peacemaker, sighed and wiped his hands on his apron. “Or he could just eat his breakfast because it’s good for him?”

“That’s a true fact, my Moony,” Sirius said, adding another scoop of eggs to Harry’s already overflowing plate.

“Dad, Pads, I have enough food,” Harry protested, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll eat on the train if I get hungry. Besides, there’s a huge feast when I get to school.”

Regulus, who had been watching the spectacle with a raised eyebrow, gave a small smirk. “Humor them,” he said dryly, glancing at his watch. “We’re running late.”

In the end, Harry ate everything they piled on his plate, his stomach protesting but his heart full. When breakfast was finally over and the kitchen was tidied, Lily checked her list one last time. With final preparations complete, the family gathered around the Floo to make their way to the train station.

The magic of Platform 9¾ hit Harry as soon as he stepped through the barrier. The vibrant hustle and bustle of families, students, and the distant whistle of the train filled the air. The sight of it all made his heart race, his nerves mixing with excitement. His parents stood beside him, their love radiating through the crowd.

“You ready?” James asked, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re not. I wasn’t ready when I first went,” he added with a sheepish grin. “I’m still not, and I’m a bloody—”

Before he could finish, Lily wrapped her arms around Harry. “I love you so much, Harry,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Never hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

“I love you too, Mum. Dad,” Harry whispered, holding on tightly.

Sirius swooped in, pulling Harry into a hug. “You’re going to do amazing things, kid. We’re all going to watch you be great.”

Regulus, glancing at his watch again, cleared his throat. “As much as I hate to break up this charming moment, Dumbledore doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Harry smiled at his family, his heart swelling. “See you guys later,” he called as he turned toward the train, his new adventure just beginning.

On the train, Harry found himself in a busy compartment, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the space. He took a seat next to a freckled boy who stared at him with wide eyes.

“Blimey! You’re Harry Potter!” the boy exclaimed.

Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Charlie, Fred, or George?” he muttered to himself, trying to place his face. The ginger hair, matted robes, he’s a Weasley– but which one.

“I’m Ron Weasley!” the boy said, offering a hand enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I’m Harry,” Harry grinned, shaking his hand.

As they settled into the compartment, the conversation flowed easily. Ron was full of stories about his family—his seven siblings, his mother’s cooking, and of course, his pet rat. It didn’t take long for Harry to notice how Ron’s eyes kept flicking to his scar.

“Wicked!” Ron whispered when Harry pulled back his curls to reveal the jagged lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

A brief silence followed, but it was interrupted by the sound of the snack trolley approaching.

“Would you like anything off the trolley, dears?” the woman asked, her smile warm.

“No thanks,” Harry replied, his stomach still full from breakfast.

Ron, however, couldn’t resist. “Yeah, no thanks.” But his eyes didn’t leave Harry’s scar, and Harry could sense the growing curiosity.

A small rat popped out of Ron’s pocket, nibbling on a bit of bread. “This is Scabbers,” Ron said proudly. “He’s been with the family for years.”

Harry forced a smile, trying not to cringe. “Cute,”

Before Ron could answer, the door slid open with a squeak. A girl with bushy brown curls and oversized front teeth stood in the doorway, looking flustered.
“Have either of you seen a toad? A boy, Neville, lost his,” she said breathlessly.

Harry perks up at the mention of Neville Longbottom, they played together often during their childhood and Harry was excited to see him at school.

“No, sorry,” Ron muttered, nervously adjusting his jacket sleeve.

The girl spotted Ron’s wand and her eyes lit up. “Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then!”

Harry grinned at the girl’s eagerness, she reminded him of his mother’s determination.

Ron, trying to impress, pointed his wand at Scabbers. “Sunshine daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow.”

A faint yellow glow came from the tip of Ron’s wand, but all it did was make Scabbers scurry back into his coat.

“Well, that’s not very impressive,” the girl giggled, her attention now firmly on Harry. “You’re Harry Potter! I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Ronald Weasley!” Ron added with a slight flush.

“Pleasure,” Hermione said with a bright smile as she sat down across from them.

The rest of the train ride passed in a blur of introductions, laughter, and small talk. Harry barely noticed the time slipping by, his thoughts focused on the new adventure awaiting him at Hogwarts.

As the train pulled into the station, Harry’s thoughts were a whirlwind. He had no idea what to expect, but something inside him knew that this was the beginning of something incredible—something that would change him forever.

In the distance, a boy with pale blonde hair watched the train pull into the station, his cold eyes narrowing slightly.

Chapter Text

The train ride felt endless. As the Hogwarts Express chugged along, Harry sat beside Ron and Hermione, the quiet hum of the train only broken by bursts of laughter, hurried whispers, and the occasional clink of the trolley as it passed. The steady rhythm of the train seemed to mirror the beating of Harry’s heart, a constant pulse of nervous anticipation.

Ron, with his ever-present tales of family mishaps and endless jokes, made Harry laugh more than he thought possible. Hermione, on the other hand, was all seriousness, keen to prove herself and already rattled off facts about Hogwarts that she’d read in some book. The trio quickly settled into a rhythm, but Harry could feel the weight of what lay ahead.

Harry thought back to the night before. The sounds of his parents’ excitement, their love and encouragement, had surrounded him as he’d packed his trunk. He could still hear his mother’s voice, teasing him about forgetting his favorite scarf, and his father’s booming laughter as they discussed everything Harry would experience at Hogwarts. That warmth seemed to linger even now, though Harry couldn’t ignore the slight weight in his chest. He had heard stories about Hogwarts for as long as he could remember. But now, as the landscape blurred past, he was about to live those stories.

Soon, the train began to slow, the steady pull of its brakes a reminder that they were nearing their destination. A soft bell rang through the compartments, signaling the arrival.

“Time to change,” Ron said nervously, eyes darting to the window as if trying to steady himself.

Harry, in a daze, grabbed his robes from his bag and awkwardly slipped into them. As he looked out the window, a sharp gasp escaped his lips. Hogwarts stood before him, its turrets piercing the sky, the towering castle illuminated by the flickering light of thousands of candles. Harry’s breath caught. He had heard about this moment, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight. The reality was even more magnificent than the tales.

“Blimey,” Ron breathed, his face pressed against the window. “It’s huge!”

Hermione, always precise, was already scanning the scene, her eyes wide with curiosity. “It’s not just huge, Ron,” she said in an awed voice. “Look at the architecture! It’s centuries old.”

They were soon ushered off the train and onto boats that floated across the shimmering lake. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared a boat with a few other first-years, all of them staring in awe at the castle growing closer with every passing second.

“This is mad,” Ron murmured, eyes wide. “I still can’t believe we’re actually here.”

“It’s perfect,” Hermione said, her voice tinged with admiration. “I can’t wait to see the inside.”

The boats glided smoothly over the water, the night sky above mirrored perfectly on the lake’s surface. Harry sat quietly, soaking it all in, his excitement now mingling with a dash of fear. Hogwarts was everything he had imagined, but the unknown was still looming.

They arrived at the stone dock, where Professor McGonagall, in her stern but kind way, greeted them. With a brisk wave, she ushered them up the flight of stairs leading into the castle. Harry could barely keep his eyes off the grand, enchanted sky above, the floating candles casting a soft glow as they entered the Great Hall. It was a place of legends, and Harry now stood within it.

The hall stretched on endlessly, its ceilings high and reflected with the night sky. Hundreds of candles floated in mid-air, lighting the long rows of tables below. The four House banners fluttered above them, each representing its own history and pride. But for Harry, the noise, the faces, the bustle of Hogwarts, it all blurred into one overwhelming sensation of awe.

“Welcome, first-years!” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the quiet murmur. “Please form a line and await your sorting.”

Harry’s stomach flipped, and he glanced nervously at Ron, who was visibly tense. Hermione, surprisingly, was the most composed of them all, standing straight and looking determined as ever.

The Sorting Hat was placed on a stool in the center of the hall. The hat was ancient, its patchwork fabric barely holding together in places. Professor McGonagall called out the first name, and the sorting began.

“Hermione Granger,” she announced.

Hermione stepped forward with a small, shaky smile, her bushy hair framing her face like a lion’s mane. She placed the Sorting Hat on her head and waited.

“Gryffindor!” the Hat bellowed.

The Gryffindor table erupted in applause, and Hermione hurried to join them, face flushed with pride. Harry saw his parents among the other staff, their faces bright with love and excitement. The sight brought a warm, bittersweet feeling to his chest.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that name. Draco Malfoy was, without a doubt, someone he’d heard about over the years. His father and Sirius had occasionally mentioned the Malfoy family in passing, and Harry knew they were closely connected to the Black family. He had even met Draco once or twice during the rare family gatherings, but the boy had always seemed… different.

Draco sauntered forward, the picture of practiced arrogance. He wore a smug, superior expression as the Sorting Hat barely touched his head before declaring, “Slytherin!”

The Slytherin table cheered, and Draco grinned broadly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. At the staff table, Harry could see Regulus Black, the head of house for Slytherin, nodding in approval. Harry’s stomach tightened.

“Ronald Weasley.”

Ron stepped up, his face pale, and Harry could almost hear the rapid beating of his heart. The Hat took longer than expected, and Harry felt his own anxiety spike. Then, with a loud cry, the Hat finally shouted, “Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindor table exploded into cheers, and Ron let out a breath of relief as he joined them, flashing Harry a grin.

“Harry Potter.”

The entire hall seemed to go silent. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He stood, almost on autopilot, and walked to the stool. His hands were clammy, his heart racing. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and for a moment, all he could hear was the soft voice of the hat in his mind.

Interesting… Very interesting. Plenty of courage, yes. A thirst to prove yourself… But you have potential for greatness. Where to put you?

Harry held his breath.

Not Ravenclaw… Hmm, Gryffindor? Or perhaps…

Slytherin.

The word echoed in his mind before the Hat shouted, “Slytherin!”

A stunned silence fell over the hall. Harry felt his face go hot as whispers rippled through the crowd. He turned and saw his parents at the staff table. His mother’s face was filled with concern, but James—his father—was beaming with pride.

“That’s my boy!” James called out, his voice loud and clear, breaking the silence. Harry managed a tight smile, though his mind was still spinning.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy grinned, his sharp features gleaming. He nodded toward Harry. “I knew there was something different about you, Potter,” he said, his voice low and filled with satisfaction.

Harry hesitated but then managed a small smile. “Glad we’re in the same house, Malfoy,” he replied. “Nice to have a familiar face.”

Draco smirked. “Yeah, well, get used to it, Potter. Slytherins stick together.”

Harry sat down next to Draco, feeling the weight of the moment sink in. He had expected to be sorted into Gryffindor, just like his family, but fate had made a different choice.
As the feast began, the table filled with food, but Harry’s thoughts lingered on his new house. He glanced at his parents, who were still smiling, though their confusion was evident. He had just done something unexpected, something that would make the next seven years far more complicated than he had imagined.

“Well,” Harry thought, “this is going to be interesting.”

Draco continued to pile food onto his plate with an almost obsessive enthusiasm. “Relax, Potter,” he muttered, his voice low. “It’s embarrassing.”

Harry nodded, though his mind was far from at ease. As the feast continued and the noise around them grew louder, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to change.

Chapter Text

The first morning at Hogwarts for the Slytherin first-years began with the usual chaos of a new school year, an early breakfast, hurried discussions of their classes, and awkward greetings between students who hadn’t quite yet found their place.

Harry stepped into the Great Hall, the warmth of the room pushing back against the chill of the morning air. The usual buzz of excitement from breakfast filled the space, but there was a noticeable difference at the Slytherin table. The chatter was subdued, quieter than the laughter and yelling echoing from the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and even Ravenclaw tables. Slytherins, Harry noticed, seemed to communicate with subtle glances and gestures, their voices low and controlled. The only table that might rival them in silence was Ravenclaw, but even they hummed with soft conversation, their heads tilted in scholarly discussions.

Harry walked along the long, polished table, his footsteps muffled on the stone floor. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle were already arguing in low tones, their voices heavy and unintelligible. Harry wasn’t sure why he’d been paired with them for the morning, but it felt like a choice made by chance. At least he had Draco Malfoy walking by his side, his pale blonde hair gleaming under the enchanted ceiling as he surveyed the room with a practiced, uninterested air.

Crabbe and Goyle settled into their seats at the far end of the table, where they could be left alone to stuff their faces in peace. Harry, unsure of the social dynamics at play, hesitated for a moment before following Draco, who had already claimed his spot at the other end of the table. The noise from the other tables barely reached them here. Slytherin always had a certain stillness about it, Harry thought. Even the plates seemed quieter, clinking softly in comparison to the loud clatter coming from Gryffindor.

Harry sat, a slight frown tugging at his lips as he looked around. No one seemed to be watching him—at least not directly—but there was something in the air, an undercurrent that made him feel like an outsider, even among his fellow Slytherins.

Before he could take a bite of his toast, Crabbe’s voice sliced through the stillness. “No Gryffindors allowed,” he hissed, his words dripping with venom.

Harry froze. At first, he thought the comment was meant for someone else, someone across the table. He turned, searching for a Gryffindor who might be in earshot. But there was no one. Just the thick-set figure of Crabbe, sitting opposite him, staring with narrowed eyes. The realization settled over Harry like ice water.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his tone steady. “We both were sorted into Slytherin,” he replied, trying to mask the awkwardness in his voice.

Crabbe’s lip curled into a sneer. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if savoring the words, “but the Hat must’ve been off its rocker. It would never put someone like you with us. You’re a half-blood, a Potter... it’s a disgrace to the Slytherin name.” His eyes were hard, full of judgment, and for a moment, Harry’s chest tightened. The words stung, a sharp reminder of his blood status, and the weight of his family’s name settled over him like a cloak.

Just as Harry was about to respond, Draco Malfoy’s voice cut through the tension like a cool breeze. “Crabbe,” Draco said with a calmness that was almost lazy, “everyone knows Slytherin is slowly becoming more and more mixed-blood. Either get with it, or get out.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Crabbe looked as if Draco had slapped him. He blinked, staring at Draco as though the words didn’t quite register.

Draco, unfazed, scooped a generous helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate, his silvery eyes still trained on the table, not sparing so much as a glance at Crabbe. His voice, when it came, was casual, almost dismissive. “You’re just jealous that Harry’s smarter than you.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of surprise. Draco wasn’t being warm or kind, but the sheer ease with which he shut Crabbe down left Harry feeling strangely grateful. The weight of Crabbe’s words still sat heavy in Harry’s stomach, but Draco’s sharp retort had drawn a clear line between them. He had defended him, even if it was more out of amusement than camaraderie.

Crabbe, however, wasn’t done. His face darkened as he shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. But he didn’t say anything else. He wouldn’t. The quiet but growing tension between him and Draco filled the space, the only sound the scrape of silverware on plates and the occasional cough from the students nearby.

Harry looked at Draco, who had already returned to his food, as if the confrontation hadn’t even happened. A part of him wondered if Draco had done it just to silence Crabbe or if there was something more to the gesture. Either way, Harry felt a strange mix of gratitude and wariness. For all the harshness in Draco’s voice, it seemed like he might be someone Harry could rely on—at least for now.

With a deep breath, Harry reached for his own breakfast, trying to push away the tension from the exchange. He wasn’t sure where he stood with Draco, or even with the other Slytherins, but for the moment, he would take it one meal at a time.

Harry had expected it to be strange, but he wasn’t prepared for the emotional jolt of stepping into the Potions classroom and seeing his mother standing at the front, looking every bit the formidable Professor Potter she had become. To the rest of the class, she was just another teacher—equally respected and feared. But to Harry, she was still his mum, the woman who kissed his forehead before bedtime and made sure his favorite jumper was washed before he left for school.

However, the woman at the front of the classroom was no longer just Lily Potter. She was Professor Potter, and the separation felt like a small, invisible chasm between them.

“I do not expect many of you to appreciate the science of potion-making,” she began in her usual calm, authoritative tone. Her auburn hair fell neatly around her shoulders, a stark contrast to the chaos of the dungeons, and her green eyes, as sharp as ever, scanned the room. “However, for those of you who possess the talent, I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

A smirk tugged at her lips as a ripple of gasps and murmurs spread through the room. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His mother wasn’t just any teacher—she was a legend, and everyone knew it. Her partnership with Regulus Black, her long-standing battle with the Dark Lord, her uncanny ability to face death and walk away victorious—it all made her the most intimidating presence at Hogwarts. Harry sometimes wondered if people truly understood just how much she and Regulus had done to defeat the Dark Lord. Harry had been a baby at the time, but it was his mother and his uncle who had done all the heavy lifting. He’d grown up with the echoes of their sacrifices, but here, it seemed like no one truly grasped the extent of it.

“Can anyone tell me,” she continued, unfazed by the buzz of gossip around her, “what would I get if I added powdered root of ash-window to an infusion of wormwood?”

Before anyone else could raise their hand, Harry felt a familiar nudge beside him. He glanced over at Malfoy, who was already poised, his hand half-raised, mirroring Harry’s own position. The two locked eyes for a moment, and a silent competition flared between them. Who would answer first?

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” Professor Potter called.

Malfoy, looking all too pleased with himself, straightened. “Draft of the Living Dead, Miss Potter.”

Lily gave a nod of approval, her eyes glinting with something almost proud as she turned to the board. “Correct, Mr. Malfoy. A point to Slytherin.”

The sound of Draco’s smug chuckle was barely audible, but it was there, and Harry could feel it settle in his chest. It was clear: Draco and Harry were going to have some serious competition this year, and not just in Potions.

The cold wind whipped across the Astronomy Tower as Harry and the other students filed in, the giant telescope looming overhead like an ancient sentinel. Sirius Black, ever the eccentric, paced in front of the class, animatedly gesturing toward the night sky, rambling about constellations and stars with the enthusiasm of a man who never quite grew out of his youthful exuberance. Harry grinned at his godfather, feeling a strange sense of comfort from Sirius's playful energy.

Draco, as always, was seated next to Harry, his posture rigid and his eyes scanning the room with the practiced gaze of someone used to navigating complex social hierarchies. On Harry's other side, a young Ravenclaw girl had settled, her wide eyes never leaving the lecture. Her gaze wasn’t one of wonder, though, but of something else—an almost permanent look of shock. Her matted blonde hair hung in uneven strands around her face, as if it hadn’t seen a brush in days. She looked slightly out of place, as if she had wandered into the wrong classroom or perhaps the wrong world entirely.

While Sirius continued his tangent about a particular star he seemed particularly fond of, the girl suddenly leaned toward Harry, her voice barely a whisper. “Might you have a quill I can borrow?”

Harry blinked, startled by the request. He glanced at Draco, who seemed intent on studying Sirius rather than paying attention to the exchange. Harry gave a small nod, reaching into his bag for a spare quill. He handed it to her, watching curiously as she took it with a distracted look, tucking it behind her ear with an odd sort of grace that didn’t quite match her disheveled appearance.

She went right back to listening to Sirius, her attention split between him and her odd, unmoving gaze. Harry, unsure of what to make of the situation, decided to break the silence. “Um, what’s your name?” he whispered, trying to keep his voice casual.

The girl turned her head slightly, her eyes blinking slowly as if coming back from a distant thought. “Luna Lovegood,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as though the name meant nothing special to her. “Most people call me Loony Luna, though.”

Loony Luna? The name struck Harry like a bolt of lightning. He racked his brain for a moment, then a name surfaced—Xenophilius Lovegood. He’d heard the name many times, growing up in the wizarding world. Xenophilius was a journalist, a somewhat eccentric and controversial figure in the magical community. Harry hadn’t liked him much during his childhood, not because he had done anything directly to Harry, but because the man was always hovering at the edges of his family’s life, eager to get a glimpse of the famous boy who survived the Killing Curse. It made Harry feel like a curiosity—like a thing to be ogled at.

He forced himself to push aside the memory, focusing back on Luna. Despite the odd feeling in his chest, he couldn’t bring himself to judge her—she was just another student, just like him. But the air around her was strange, a quiet sort of defiance against the world’s expectations, even if she didn’t always seem to notice.

Just as Harry opened his mouth to respond, Draco hissed sharply beside him. “Can you both shut it?” His voice was low but laced with a sharp edge, and he glared at Harry with a mix of annoyance and barely concealed frustration.

Harry flushed, suddenly aware of how loud their whispering had become. He shot a sheepish glance at Draco, then quickly turned his attention back to Sirius, who was still happily prattling on about some star or constellation that Harry didn’t particularly care about. Sirius’s voice was a comfort, though, even if the lesson itself was difficult to follow.

The rest of the class passed in a blur, with Sirius talking passionately about the mysteries of the night sky while Harry tried to ignore the occasional muttered comments from Draco. When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the lesson, Harry gathered his things, relieved that he could escape the rigid atmosphere of the classroom. But as he stood to leave, Luna’s quiet voice stopped him.

“I know it’s not the same, but when my uncle was here, people called him Loony Lupin,” Harry continued, his gaze distant. “And now he’s a professor and a war hero. I just… don’t let them get to you, okay? If you ever want me to talk to anyone—”

Luna blinked, surprised by his words, but before she could respond, the girl looked down at his hands. “Harry,” she said softly, her eyes focused on his fingers. “Your hands are covered in ink.”

He glanced down, realizing that his hands were indeed stained with the dark blue ink from his quill. He hadn’t even noticed. The odd thing was, it didn’t bother him. It felt strangely fitting, like something that could only happen in the whirlwind of Hogwarts, where everything was just a little bit messy, and even the most serious moments were punctuated by the bizarre.

Harry smiled sheepishly, wiping his hands on his robes as he made his way out of the classroom. As he walked away, Luna’s words echoed in his mind, settling into his thoughts like something heavy and important. He wasn’t sure if it was her words of encouragement or the strange bond they shared over their eccentric family members, but something about Luna’s quiet resilience made Harry feel… less alone.

Harry was so absorbed in his quiet conversation with Luna that he lost track of time. He didn’t realize until it was too late that he’d lingered too long in the corridor, wiping ink from his robes and trying to make sense of the conversation.

By the time he glanced up at the clock in the hallway, it was almost five minutes past the hour. His heart skipped a beat. He bolted toward the Transfiguration classroom, trying to shove his bag over his shoulder as he hurried through the winding hallways, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.

When he burst into the classroom, the door creaked loudly, and all eyes turned toward him. Professor McGonagall’s sharp gaze landed on him, her brow furrowed behind her square glasses.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice clipped. "Do you have an explanation for why you are late?"

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Harry’s cheeks burned. McGonagall had always been fair but firm, and he knew better than to make excuses. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he gave a quick shake of his head.

"I... I’m sorry, Professor," he said quietly.

McGonagall regarded him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “See that it doesn’t happen again. Detention, Mr. Potter, and five points from Slytherin, for tardiness.”

A collective murmur of surprise rippled through the students. Harry’s gaze flickered toward Draco, who looked mildly amused.

"Yes, Professor," Harry muttered, slumping slightly in his seat as he made his way to an empty desk at the back.

The class continued, but Harry’s mind kept drifting back to Luna’s strange demeanor. He didn’t really mind the detention, though he knew it would be a hassle. A part of him admired Luna’s ability to stay calm and positive, even in the face of being teased by the others. Harry couldn’t help but think that, in her own way, Loony Luna had a lot to teach him.

As McGonagall’s instructions filled the room once more, Harry leaned his chin in his hand, distracted. He was more determined than ever to find out more about this strange Ravenclaw girl. But for now, he’d have to make do with cleaning up his messes, both literal and figurative.

Chapter Text

The bell rang at the end of Transfiguration, signaling the end of classes for the day, but Harry didn’t share in the usual relief that the others did. Instead, he lingered behind, already dreading the hour of detention he had ahead of him. He was certain he had more than earned it, and now he just had to get through it.

As Harry trudged toward the door, he noticed a large, burly man standing just outside the classroom, waiting for him. The giant of a man had a soft smile on his face, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told Harry he wasn’t about to get an easy pass for being late.

"Alright, Harry, ready for your detention?" The Man’s voice boomed, drawing a few curious glances from passing students.

Harry nodded, trying to muster a half-smile. "Guess I don’t have much of a choice," he said sheepishly.

He chuckled and clapped a massive hand on Harry’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “Don’t worry, lad. It’s not so bad. I’m Hagrid, the keeper of grounds and keys here at Hogwarts. We’re goin’ down to the paddocks. Got a special job for ya.”

The pair walked together across the grounds toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the paddocks were located. The air was thick with the earthy scent of fresh hay, and Harry could just make out the faint rustling sounds of creatures in the distance, as though the forest itself was quietly watching them. The sky was beginning to fade into soft hues of orange and pink, casting long shadows over the path ahead. With each step, Harry’s curiosity grew, his thoughts spinning with what could be in store.

“What are we doing exactly?” Harry asked, his voice quiet against the natural hum of the evening.

Hagrid, walking a few paces ahead, looked over his shoulder with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Gonna help me tend to the gardens,” he said, his massive form hulking in the fading light. “It’s a bit tricky, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Gardens? I thought I was supposed to be cleaning something or mucking out stables.”

Hagrid chuckled, his hearty laugh echoing off the stone walls of the castle in the distance. “Aye, I suppose that's what most people expect, but this isn't your usual kind of gardening. You'll see.”

As they approached the paddocks, Harry's eyes widened. The area wasn’t quite like any garden he’d imagined. There were rows of strange, glowing plants that twisted toward the sky in unnatural ways, their leaves shimmering with hues of blue and purple. Some plants seemed to shift ever so slightly, like they were alive, while others pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow. The air around them hummed, carrying the faintest scent of something sweet and foreign. Harry’s pulse quickened as he realized the magical creatures Hagrid had mentioned weren’t the only fascinating things out here.

“Don't worry about them," Hagrid said, noticing Harry’s uneasy glance at a patch of twitching roots. "They may look like they’re up to no good, but they’re harmless. Just gotta be careful, is all.”

Hagrid handed Harry a large, wooden trowel, its surface worn smooth by years of use, and pointed to a patch of vibrant, silvery plants that looked like tall, swaying grass.

“Alright, lad,” Hagrid continued, gesturing to the patch, “We’re gonna transplant these here. They’re picky, these ones—if you yank too hard, you’ll end up with a whole heap of roots to deal with. Gotta coax 'em out gently.”

Harry stepped forward, kneeling beside the plants, still unsure of what to expect. He’d always thought gardening was a simple task—dig a hole, put the plant in, water it. But this felt different. He reached out to carefully grip the base of one of the glowing plants, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of its stalk. He hesitated for a moment, feeling the odd hum in the air that seemed to vibrate through his fingers. Slowly, he began to pull, coaxing the plant gently out of the soil.

To his surprise, the plant responded, its long, silver leaves curling and wriggling in his grasp, as though it were a living thing, reluctant to leave its home. Harry's eyes widened, and he pulled a little harder, using the trowel to loosen the soil.

“There you go,” Hagrid encouraged, watching from a few paces away. “Nice and steady. Not too much force.”

The plant finally relented, easing from the earth with a soft, almost satisfied sigh. Harry stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, feeling a sense of accomplishment. The plant now sat in his hands, swaying slightly, as though it were waiting for its new home.

“Good job, Harry,” Hagrid said, clapping him on the back. “Told ya you’d be fine. Now let’s get it settled into its new spot over there.”

As the evening wore on, Harry continued to work alongside Hagrid, helping to transplant more of the glowing plants, each more peculiar than the last. Some of the plants responded with more resistance, and others seemed to thrive under Harry’s touch, their colors becoming more vibrant as they adjusted to their new homes. Every so often, Hagrid would explain the plants' unique characteristics, occasionally sharing stories about the magical creatures that roamed these parts of the grounds. Harry found himself growing more and more fascinated by the intricate world of magical flora and fauna, the feeling of peace settling around him with every task completed.

By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the paddocks in the soft, dim light of dusk, Harry had completely forgotten about the detention itself. His hands were sore from the work, but he felt oddly content. He could hear the distant calls of owls and the rustling of the trees, and for the first time that day, his mind wasn’t racing with thoughts of schoolwork, house loyalties, or expectations. It was just him, the plants, and the strange sense of connection he was beginning to feel to this wild, magical world.

As they finished the last of the work and stood together, gazing out at the now-quiet paddocks, Harry looked up at Hagrid, feeling a wave of gratitude.

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I never thought I’d actually enjoy this.”

Hagrid grinned, his eyes twinkling with pride. “Aye, lad, the world of magical creatures and plants is always full of surprises. I’m glad you gave it a chance. You’ve got the right heart for it, Harry.”

As they made their way back toward the castle, Harry felt a sense of belonging settle in. It was like he had found a place where his world and the magical one around him had started to blur, weaving together into something more familiar, something he could actually call his own.

Detention didn’t feel like such a bad thing.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter and the clatter of silverware as the students settled into their seats for dinner. Harry stood at the edge of the Slytherin table for a moment, looking down at the familiar green and silver banners. The usual sense of discomfort that had followed him all day still lingered—Draco had hardly said a word to him since the incident in Astronomy, and Crabbe and Goyle were still casting side glances his way, muttering under their breath. Harry could feel the tension rising in his chest, and a sudden thought struck him. He didn’t have to sit there, did he?

With a quick glance toward the Gryffindor table, he made up his mind. Without giving himself the chance to second-guess, he turned on his heel and walked across the hall, his shoes tapping against the stone floor. The sudden quiet of his movement seemed to attract a few curious stares, but Harry kept his focus straight ahead, looking for a friendly face.

He spotted Ron, Hermione, and Neville all seated near the middle of the table, chatting animatedly about something. It wasn’t hard to spot them—they were the loudest group at the Gryffindor table, their voices blending in an easy rhythm. Harry swallowed, feeling a moment of uncertainty, but then Ron caught sight of him and waved enthusiastically.

“Oi, Harry! Over here!” Ron grinned, his freckled face lighting up in a way that made Harry’s heart feel a little lighter.

Harry hesitated for just a second more before slipping into the seat next to Ron. Hermione smiled warmly at him, giving a quick nod of greeting, while Neville beamed at him from across the table.

“Didn't think I'd see you over here,” Ron said, raising an eyebrow. “What happened? Did you get sick of sitting with the snakes?”

Harry felt the faintest pang of guilt but shrugged it off. “Yeah, I... needed a break,” he muttered, not wanting to go into details. He could already feel the heat of the Slytherin table’s judgment on him, like a weight on his shoulders.

"Glad you’re joining us!" Hermione said, adjusting her glasses. “It’s nice to have you here. You must be sick of all the drama over there. I swear, every time I look over at their table, there’s something brewing between Draco and the rest of them.”

Ron nodded in agreement, and Harry could sense how easy it was to slip into this familiar rhythm. Here, with Ron, Hermione, and Neville, it was different. There was no scrutiny, no judgment over who he was or who his family was.

As they dug into their meals, the noise of the Great Hall seemed to fade into the background. Harry found himself laughing at something Neville said, relaxing in a way he hadn’t been able to do all day. Every now and then, he’d glance over his shoulder at the Slytherin table, but he didn’t feel the same weight on his chest anymore.

The conversation continued around him, and Harry began to enjoy himself—genuine laughter filled his chest, the way it hadn’t since arriving at Hogwarts. As the meal went on, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d made the right choice. For once, he wasn’t caught between the two worlds that had never quite fit him.

“Good to see you, Harry,” Neville said, his voice full of sincerity. “We’ve got your back, you know.”

Ron looked over at him with a grin. “Don’t worry, mate. If anyone asks, you’re just a Gryffindor who’s temporarily been assigned to the wrong table. Easy mistake.”

Harry laughed, the tension finally ebbing away. 

Dinner carried on, with the usual jokes and stories, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace settle over him. Maybe being here wasn’t about fitting into a mold or being defined by where he sat. Maybe it was about finding where he felt most like himself—where he could just be .

And for the first time, Harry let the weight of the day lift, knowing that no matter the conflict in his own house, he had found a place at the table where he truly belonged.

As Harry settled into the warmth of the Gryffindor table, the conversation flowed easily, with Ron and Hermione bantering back and forth about something trivial, and Neville occasionally throwing in a shy comment. But it wasn’t long before Neville’s voice cut through the chatter, full of excited energy.

“Hey, Harry! Check this out!” Neville said, practically bouncing in his seat. He pulled something small and round from his pocket, holding it up for Harry and the others to see.

It was a small glass ball, about the size of an apple, swirling with a faint mist inside. Hermione raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

“What’s that?” she asked, leaning in a little closer.

“This,” Neville said proudly, “is my Remembrall. It helps me remember things I forget.” He tapped the side of the glass, and the mist inside it turned red. “See? It's turning red. I must’ve forgotten something. But I’m not sure what…”

Harry squinted at the ball, clearly intrigued but skeptical. “Well, it only tells you if you've forgotten something,” he explained. “It doesn’t actually tell you what it is. Just that you’ve forgotten it.”

Neville’s face scrunched up in frustration as he watched the Remembrall. “I hate when it does that,” he muttered, shaking it lightly. “It’s so annoying. I don’t even know what I’ve forgotten.”

Ron, who’d been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “Classic Neville,” he teased. “You’re never gonna get that thing to help you if you don’t know what you’ve forgotten in the first place!”

Neville turned a shade redder, his cheeks puffing out as he blew out a frustrated breath. “I know, I know... It’s just—well, I thought it might be useful. It’s not like I’m good at remembering things anyway.”

Harry chuckled, a small, sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry, Neville. We all forget things from time to time. Maybe it’s just your brain’s way of telling you to take a break.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in with a grin, “or it could be telling you to start writing stuff down , mate.”

Neville gave them a sheepish grin but quickly glanced down at the Remembrall, which had stopped swirling and was now it's clear, original color.

“Guess I didn’t forget anything this time,” Neville said, his expression a little less embarrassed as he tucked the ball back into his pocket.

Harry was about to say something when the unmistakable sound of a broomstick soaring across the hall caught his attention. He turned, watching as a pair of students—two red-haired Gryffindors—zoomed past, laughing loudly as they made a narrow escape from the angry Professor McGonagall. 

Ah, Fred and George.

The brief distraction made Harry smile, and he turned back to Neville, who seemed to have forgotten the conversation completely. He was already halfway through his dinner, looking pleased that his Remembrall had at least behaved for the moment.

“Well,” Harry said, feeling the warmth of camaraderie as the conversation flowed on around them, “I think that’s one mystery solved for today, Neville. At least you’re not forgetting anything yet.”

Neville laughed quietly, his usual shyness melting away in the company of friends. "Thanks, Harry," he said, still grinning. "Maybe I’ll keep it in my pocket for now. Just in case."

Chapter Text

Harry only goes to his dorm to sleep.

Down in the dungeons, the cool air settled into the stone walls, and Harry was reminded of the cold, shadowy spaces he had lived in all his life. He’d grown up in the remnants of 12 Grimmauld Place, a house that had seen better days. He was used to dim rooms and eerie quiet. But he wasn’t used to sharing a space, at least not one as hostile as this.

At Hogwarts, Harry had been assigned a room with Draco, Blaise Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle. The tight quarters were an adjustment, especially after growing up in the expansive mansion of Grimmauld Place, where privacy had been easy to come by. The constant chatter of Crabbe and Goyle was especially grating, as the two of them asked question after question about Harry’s family, his mother, his background most of which Harry didn’t feel like discussing.

“Your mum’s a Muggleborn, right?” Crabbe asked one evening, his voice thick with judgment.

Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand, but he kept his expression neutral. He knew better than to snap. Crabbe and Goyle were products of their upbringing, raised by Death Eaters and groomed to believe that anyone not of pure blood was inferior. Harry had heard enough stories from Regulus and his godfather about the Black brothers’ own struggles with their upbringing, about how they had both had to learn to think for themselves and reject the bigotry they had been raised with.

Draco, on the other hand, had been raised by his mother and cousins to question those things, to challenge them. But Crabbe and Goyle? Not so much.

On that particularly cold October night, Harry was lying on his bed, a Walkman between him and Draco. Harry had pulled out an old tape of Bowie’s Rise and Fall, something he’d inherited from his godfather, and was listening to it while reading. Draco was watching him, looking completely perplexed.

“So, you just put this tape in here,” Draco asked, pointing at the small machine. “And it plays music?”

“Yeah, I got it from Uncle Pads,” Harry said with a laugh, rifling through a drawer filled with muggle knick knacks that Remus and his mother had given him over the years. He found a second set of headphones and passed them to Draco. “Here. You can listen too.”

Draco took the headphones with skepticism, but when the music began, his eyes widened. “Whoa. How does it get the voice in there?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, shrugging. “Maybe Moony or my mum could explain it better.”

Draco sat up a bit, intrigued now. “Moony? Who’s that?”

“Professor Lupin,” Harry said, slightly embarrassed by the apparently childish nickname. “It’s just what my dad and Sirius call him. My dad’s Prongs, Sirius is Padfoot.”

“That’s… odd,” Draco remarked, clearly processing this new information.

Before Harry could respond, the door to their shared room opened with a loud, grating sound.

“Oi! Potter!” Goyle’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “What’s that thing?”

Draco, ever the show-off, smirked. “It’s a Walking-Man. It plays music.”

Harry had to stop himself from correcting Draco. It wasn’t a walking- man , but it was too late to explain now.

“Oh?” Crabbe grunted as he stalked closer, squinting at the device. “Did your Muggle mother get it for you?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but his voice was as cool as he could make it. “No, my pureblood godfather did, if you’re so concerned about blood status.” He raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Is that an issue?”

The moment hung in the air, thick with tension.

Crabbe snorted. “The Blacks have as much status as the Weasleys ,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “The once noble and ancient house of Black fell with Orion and Walburga. The Black brothers are a dirty stain—”

Before Harry realized what was happening, his wand was in his hand, aimed directly at Crabbe’s face.

“Watch your filthy mouth,” Harry growled.

“Or what, are you going to cry to your mudblood mummy?“

The wand felt right in his hand—powerful, familiar. It was the same wand he’d picked up at Ollivanders, the one made from holly and a phoenix feather. He remembered the day his parents took him to Diagon Alley for school supplies. It had been his first time feeling the weight of destiny, and wondering if this wand, so similar to Voldemort’s, would lead him down a dark path. His mum had knelt before him then, reminding him that his destiny was his own to choose.

But at this moment, Harry wasn’t thinking about destiny. He was thinking about Crabbe’s words. 

The moment was a blur—his wand forgotten on the floor, his fists pounding into Crabbe’s face with reckless fury. The pain in his knuckles was sharp, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop. Not until someone intervened.

And intervene they did.

“Harry!” Regulus’s voice cut through the chaos. The Slytherin head of house appeared at the door, breathless, followed closely by Blaise, who had evidently been running to get help.

The sight of Regulus seemed to freeze the room in place. Harry stopped, panting heavily, blood on his hands and a red haze still clouding his vision. Regulus’s stern expression softened, just slightly, before he guided Harry away from the scene.

“Goyle, bring Crabbe to the hospital wing,” Regulus said quietly. “Potter, let’s have a word.”

Once the room cleared, Harry collapsed onto his bed, still shaking with the aftermath of the fight. Regulus sat beside him, handing him an ice pack with a quiet flick of his wrist. The cold relief on Harry’s bruised knuckles felt almost surreal after the chaos that had just unfolded. Harry took the pack, pressing it to his swollen hands, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

Regulus sat next to him, his face calm but clearly disappointed. “You let your temper get the better of you, Harry,” he said, his voice low and measured. There was no anger in it, just a quiet sense of regret. “I understand why you’re upset. I understand why you acted the way you did, but it’s not the way we solve things.”

Harry lowered his gaze, his heart still racing. “I just couldn’t… I couldn’t let him talk about mum like that. It wasn’t right.”

“I know,” Regulus said, his voice softening a little. “But we learned a long time ago that fighting back like this only feeds the hate. It doesn’t fix anything. Words are just words, Harry. They hurt, but they can’t break you. Not if you don’t let them.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You should’ve heard him, Regulus. The way he said it , like it was nothing. He didn’t care.”

Regulus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know. Believe me, I do. I was there, too, growing up in this house. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of those words. But that’s the thing, Harry—we don’t let those words define us. Not anymore.”

Harry’s thoughts wandered back to his parents—his mum—the strength she carried with her every day. She’d been through so much, and she’d never backed down from it. Could he do the same? Could he stand strong in the face of it all?

“Do you think my mum would’ve hit him?” Harry asked quietly, his voice uncertain.

Regulus gave a small chuckle, though it was laced with sadness. “No. Lily would’ve had something much sharper to say. She’s always had a way with words. But that’s the thing—words don’t lose their power when we fight with them. Violence, on the other hand…” He shook his head. “It only hurts us in the end.”

Harry nodded slowly, taking in the weight of Regulus’s words. “I get it,” he said, though the tension in his chest didn’t completely ease. “I was just so angry. I couldn’t think straight.”

“I know, kid.” Regulus’s voice softened further, the hint of something like understanding in his eyes. “But you’re not alone in this, Harry. You never will be. If you need someone to talk to, if you ever feel like you’re about to lose it…” He placed a hand gently on Harry’s shoulder. “You come to me. We’ll handle it together.”

Harry gave him a small, grateful smile, feeling a flicker of reassurance in his chest. He wasn’t alone. Even here, with the ever-present shadow of his past, with the legacy of his parents and his uncles, he wasn’t alone. Regulus, in his quiet way, had always been there for him.

Before Harry could speak again, the door to their room opened, and Malfoy stepped in, his expression uncertain. He glanced from Regulus to Harry, clearly uneasy.

“Harry…” Draco started, looking like he didn’t quite know what to say. “I—”

“Don’t,” Harry cut him off, his voice sharper than he intended. “Please, Draco.”

Draco stiffened, but Regulus raised a hand, halting whatever he was about to say. “Draco,” Regulus said calmly, “we’ll handle this in due time. But I think you need to go, now.” His tone brooked no argument.

Draco hesitated, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he nodded stiffly and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Regulus watched the door for a moment before turning his gaze back to Harry. “I know you’re angry with him, Harry. But remember—he’s not the enemy. Not like the ones we’ve faced before.”

“I know.” Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing his eyes. “But he’s still… I don’t know. I don’t trust him, Reg. He’s still got that thing inside him. That…” Harry trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.

“Pride?” Regulus offered, arching an eyebrow.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. That.” He sat up a little straighter, biting his lip. “I don’t know how to deal with him. Or the others. They’re all so… different. And I’m still trying to figure out how to be me in the middle of all this. Between my mum and my dad and you…” Harry met Regulus’s gaze. “I don’t want to disappoint you. Any of you.”

Regulus’s expression softened, and he put a hand on Harry’s back, giving a firm but kind pat. “You won’t disappoint me, Harry. You won’t disappoint anyone who matters. But you have to learn to let the rest of it slide. You’re allowed to feel anger, but you can’t let it rule you.”

Harry took a breath, the weight of the situation sinking in. It felt like he was constantly battling between who he was, who people thought he was, and who he wanted to be. It wasn’t just about fitting in with Slytherins or Gryffindors—it was about figuring out where his own heart truly lay in all of it.

Before Regulus could say anything else, there was a knock at the door.

“Harry?” The voice of his mother echoed from the hallway. “Harry, I need to see you.”

Regulus let out a quiet groan. “You’re in for it now, fawn.”

Harry winced but stood up, wiping his palms on his trousers. “Yeah. I figured that was coming.”

Regulus gave him an encouraging nod. “Go on. I’ll be here if you need me.”

With one last look at his uncle, Harry stepped toward the door, his heart heavy. This was it. The moment when he’d have to face his mother’s wrath. He had no idea what she’d say, how she’d react.

The moment Harry stepped into Regulus’s office, his mother was there, standing with James, both looking concerned. When Lily saw him, her gaze immediately softened, but only just. Her protective instincts kicked in, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, a frown tugging at her lips as she noticed the black eye and the bruises forming on his knuckles.

“Harry!” Lily exclaimed, rushing toward him. She cupped his face in her hands, her voice laced with worry. “What happened?”

Harry, suddenly feeling the weight of it all, swallowed hard. “I… I got into a fight.”

“You what?” James sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Do I even want to hear the details?”

Harry lowered his gaze, feeling small under the weight of their attention. “I hit Vincent Crabbe. A lot. I think I broke his nose.” He cringed at the admission.

Lily closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, her gaze unwavering. “Harry, we’ve talked about this.” She sighed deeply, pulling him into a tight hug. “You can’t just go around hitting people, no matter how much they provoke you.”

“I know, Mum,” Harry muttered into her shoulder, feeling guilty. “I just… I couldn’t take it. Not when he talked about you that way.”

James stepped forward then, his tone softer than it had been moments earlier. “I understand, son. But we’ve talked about control before. You’ve got to learn to keep your temper in check. That’s how they win—when you let them get to you.”

Harry nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their words sinking in. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I really am.”

Lily squeezed him tightly, her voice warm but firm. “We know you are, love. But next time, come to us. We’ll figure it out together.”

Before Harry could say anything else, James grinned slightly. “And by the way, congrats on your first fight, kid. You did well, but don’t make a habit of it, yeah?”

Harry smiled back faintly, feeling a warmth spread through him despite the heaviness of the conversation. “Yeah, I won’t.”

Regulus, who had quietly entered the room after them, gave Harry a knowing look. “Don’t worry, Harry. Your mum’s right. You’re just getting started. And I think we’re all in for an interesting year.”

Chapter Text

The next day dawned bright and crisp, perfect for Harry’s flying lesson. He’d been looking forward to it all week. Flying, after all, was in his blood. His dad, the self-titled Gryffindor Quidditch legend, had been teaching Harry since he was old enough to sit on a broom. His godfather had been a beater for Gryffindor for years before retiring, leaving Harry with a wealth of experience and an undeniable talent for the sport. But even with all that, Harry was finding it harder to navigate the shift in the atmosphere at home. His father teaching at Hogwarts had made things complicated.

It wasn’t just his dad. The entire house felt tense. Since the fight with Crabbe, the once-easy camaraderie between him and Drago had been replaced with subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, awkwardness. Even though Draco was still one of Harry’s closest friends, their interactions felt strained. It was easier to spend time with Ron, Neville, Luna, and Hermione. As much as Harry had tried to keep things balanced, the walls between him and his housemates seemed to grow higher every day.

Harry shook off the thoughts as they gathered on the lawn outside the castle. The day was perfect for a flying lesson—no clouds in the sky, the air fresh and crisp. The students lined up in front of Professor Potter, who was striding confidently across the grass, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, a cocky grin on his face. It wasn’t hard to reconcile the man who stood before him with the father Harry remembered from childhood. James Potter had hardly changed at all. His mischievous grin, the glint of laughter in his eyes, it was all still there.

“Good afternoon, class!” Professor Potter called as he walked past the line of students, eyeing each broom with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

The students echoed back in chorus, “Good afternoon, Professor!”

“Welcome to your first flying lesson, dears!” Professor Potter said, throwing his arms wide as though the world were his stage. The warmth and enthusiasm in his voice was unmistakable, but there was always that edge of cockiness, that Potter flair.

Unlike his mum, who had been more of a gentle, patient teacher, his dad was unrepentantly himself, effortlessly charismatic, and a little bit too confident for his own good.

“Alright, everyone, step up to the left side of your broomsticks,” he instructed. “Place your left hand over the broom and say ‘Up!’”

A chorus of “ up ” rang out from the students, each of them trying their best to mimic the professor’s confident stance. Harry, who had already been flying for years, simply raised his hand and said “Up!” firmly. His broom obeyed instantly, shooting into his hand with a satisfying click. The smooth, familiar motion of it felt almost like second nature.

At the same moment, Draco’s broom sprang into his hand with equal ease. The two exchanged a quick smirk. It was a silent competition, one they had shared since childhood—who could get their broom first, who could perform the most impressive stunts. Between Harry’s Quidditch legacy and Draco’s own history with brooms, it was clear they were both right at home here.

A few moments later, Hermione and Ron managed to get their brooms in the air, though Hermione’s face was a mixture of determination and concentration. Harry had learned earlier that this was Hermione’s first time on a broom, and while she was as clever as ever in theory, practice was another matter entirely. Ron, on the other hand, looked more relieved than anything to have his broomstick under control.

“Now, let’s try mounting the broom,” Professor Potter continued. “Hover just a few feet off the ground, lean forward slightly, and then descend. Simple enough, right?”

Harry swung his leg over the broom with practiced ease. His hands gripped the handle, feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingertips and the slight roughness of years of use. This was where he belonged—the wind in his hair, the broom between his legs, the open sky ahead. It felt right.

A loud shout interrupted his thoughts.

“Whoa!” Neville's voice rang out across the field, and Harry glanced up just in time to see the boy flung skyward, his broom jerking beneath him. It looked like his broom had a mind of its own, dragging Neville up at a dangerous speed.

“Longbottom! Are you doing this on purpose?” Professor Potter’s voice was laced with amusement as he fumbled through his robes, clearly searching for his wand.

“No, sir!” Neville yelled, his voice high-pitched with panic as his broom sent him spiraling higher and higher. Harry’s eyes widened. Neville was going to crash if he didn’t do something, and fast .

Neville’s broom lurched, sending him crashing straight into a flagpole. His robes caught on the metal, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to be suspended in mid-air. Harry’s dad, still fumbling with his robes, didn’t have his wand in hand, and without it, he couldn’t help.

Harry, however, was already moving. His broom shot off the ground, the wind rushing in his ears, and within seconds he was hovering next to Neville, who was now struggling to free himself from the flagpole.

“Hold still, Neville!” Harry shouted over the roar of the wind. “Stay calm, I’m going to get you down.”

Neville, flailing, only seemed to panic more. His hands grabbed the broom’s handle with desperate urgency. “My Remembrall!” he shouted, eyes wide with fear.

Harry glanced around and, out of the corner of his eye, spotted the small glass orb plummeting from Neville’s pocket. Without a second thought, Harry dove. He shot downward, aiming directly for the falling ball. His broom nearly slammed into the ground, but Harry stretched out his arm just in time to catch the Remembrall in his hand. He pulled up, the broom swerving dangerously as the ground rushed up at him. At the last possible moment, Harry yanked back, narrowly avoiding a crash as he landed with a soft thud on the grass, the Remembrall safely in hand.

The class erupted into cheers, but before Harry could even catch his breath, his father was at his side, his expression a mix of admiration and exasperation.

“Harry James Potter!” Professor Potter’s voice rang out, half amused, half reprimanding. “What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”

“I—uh—caught the Remembrall, Dad,” Harry muttered, trying to grin but still feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

The sound of footsteps drew Harry’s attention to the sudden arrival of Professor McGonagall, her sharp gaze locking onto him in an instant.

“Mr. Potter!” she called, her voice as sharp as ever. “I need to speak with you, right away.”

James immediately stepped in front of Harry, looking almost sheepish. “Professor, I’m terribly sorry for my son’s reckless behavior. I assure you, he’ll receive a proper talking-to.”

“Oh, believe me, Professor Potter,” McGonagall said, her voice dry, “young Mr. Potter will be getting more than a talking-to. But I’m afraid, despite his… enthusiastic display, I’m not here for that.”

McGonagall turned to Harry, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “I’ve been watching you, Potter. You’ve got some remarkable reflexes. I think we’ve found a new Slytherin Seeker.”

Before Harry could protest or even fully process what was happening, McGonagall was already dragging him away, leaving his father behind, both apologetic and somewhat proud.

“But Professor, I was really hoping to try for a Chaser position,” Harry protested, though his words fell on deaf ears.

McGonagall’s grip on his arm was unyielding as she led him through the halls, her voice almost smug. “Professor Black will be thrilled to have you on the team. We’ll start your training right away.”

She isn't even in his house.

Harry could only shake his head, slightly dazed, as McGonagall continued to lead him down the corridor. What had just happened?

Chapter Text

For the next few weeks, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about it—his new role as Slytherin’s Seeker. It wasn’t just the thrill of it, though that was a large part of it. It was the way his father had looked at him when the announcement was made, his eyes glowing with pride. 

“Just like James,” Regulus had said, his voice a low rumble of admiration.

His mother, on the other hand, had not shared that enthusiasm. The moment the news reached her, her face had turned an alarming shade of pale. 

“Regulus,” she’d hissed that night, “an eleven-year-old? Really?”

Regulus had simply shrugged. “He’s good, Lils. And he’ll be safe with Flint and Bletchley watching him. You’ll see.”

But Lily, her face a mask of concern, didn’t seem convinced. Still, there was one silver lining to this whole Quidditch business. Harry could finally pick his own broom.

The Nimbus 2000 was a far cry from the hand-me-down or loaner brooms he’d been using before. He ran his fingers down its smooth handle, marveling at how it felt perfectly sized for him—small and nimble, just like he was.

When Lily appeared in the dorm a few days later, holding his broom with a tight, almost possessive grip, Harry could see the familiar worried crease on her forehead. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes landing on Crabbe and Goyle, who were lounging nearby. Her expression hardened instantly.

“Good afternoon, Draco,” she said, her voice sweet as honey, but her eyes burned through Crabbe like lasers. She didn’t spare him a glance as she stepped further into the room, where Draco was sitting on Harry’s bed, a book of potion theories open in front of him. “What are you reading?”

“Trying to get ahead of the first-year class, potions studies” Draco answered, flashing a bright smile that made Harry’s chest swell with a strange sense of pride.

“Good lad,” Lily said with a nod, approving of Draco’s ambition.

“Harry, here’s your broom,” she added, handing it to him like it was a precious artifact.

“Wicked!” Harry couldn’t contain the grin that spread across his face as he cradled the broom in his hands.

Lily didn’t smile back. Instead, her eyes narrowed slightly. “God, your father is so lucky you’re cute, otherwise I’d wring both your necks,” she muttered. Her lips twitched, but it was clear the worry still lingered beneath the teasing. “Quidditch is dangerous, and I—”

“I know, Mum,” Harry interrupted, leaning into the broom, “but you’re forgetting I have the legendary James Potter’s blood.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said, exasperated.

The day of Harry's first practice as Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team had arrived, and despite all his preparation, a sense of nervous excitement buzzed in his chest. The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Hogwarts grounds as Harry made his way toward the Quidditch pitch. His broomstick was slung over his shoulder, and Draco, looking smug as ever, would be watching from the stands with Ron, Hermione, and Neville.

"Ready for your first real test?" Draco asked, his voice almost teasing as he walked slightly ahead, clearly eager to see how Harry would perform.

Harry adjusted the grip on his broom, feeling the familiar smooth wood under his fingers. "I think so. At least I know what I'm doing with the broom. It's just... the team, you know?"

Draco gave a short laugh. "Don’t worry about the team. You’re basically a Black, you’ve got Slytherin blood. That’s all that matters. Just show them you can catch the Snitch, and they’ll follow your lead."

Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake the nerves fluttering in his stomach. He had been practicing with his broom for weeks, honing his skills in secret, but now the pressure was on. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about proving to his teammates that he belonged.

As they reached the pitch, the rest of the team was already gathered, and the sight made Harry’s heart beat faster. The Slytherin team was a group of intimidating figures, tall and broad, clad in their deep green robes.

"Everyone's here," Miles Bletchley, an older boy who played as keeper, said, gesturing toward the others. "The captain’s probably just finishing his rounds. Get ready, we’ll be up in the air in a minute."

Harry nodded again, not trusting his voice. He stood there for a moment, trying to calm his nerves as the wind picked up, causing the long blades of grass at the edge of the pitch to sway.

After a few more minutes, the captain, Marcus Flint, walked toward them, his broomstick tucked under one arm. Flint was tall, with sharp features and an air of authority that made him seem even taller. His dark eyes briefly scanned Harry, taking in his presence before he gave a curt nod.

"Alright, listen up," Flint called, his voice cutting through the whispers of the wind. "We’re here to work. This isn't some friendly game. We’re going to show the Gryffindors what Slytherin's made of." he called, "I’ll start with the Quaffle. Pucey, you’re with the Bludgers. Bletchley, you’re on defense. And Potter," Flint turned his gaze on Harry, "you’re up as Seeker."

The mention of his name caused Harry's stomach to flip, but he kept his face calm, focusing on the task ahead.

"Right," Harry said, his voice steady even if his heart was racing. He mounted his broom, feeling the familiar sensation of the wind brushing past him. With a swift kick, he lifted off the ground, his broomstick carrying him higher into the sky. The pitch stretched out below him, and the sharp chill of the evening air filled his lungs.

The other players mounted their brooms quickly, and the practice began.

Flint passed the Quaffle to Pucey, who fumbled it a bit before throwing it toward Miles. The Bludgers streaked across the pitch, and Harry kept an eye on them, remembering the drills Hagrid had taught him earlier in the term. All around him, the sounds of broomsticks slicing through the air and the thwack of the Bludgers filled his ears.

For a few minutes, Harry focused on staying in the air, flying in loops and practicing maneuvers, keeping his eyes on the other players. The wind in his face felt exhilarating, and the height didn’t faze him at all. In fact, the more he flew, the more he felt at home.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flash of gold—the Snitch. It fluttered across the pitch, its wings a blur of motion. His heartbeat quickened, and his eyes locked onto the tiny ball. He instantly kicked his broom forward, zipping through the air with a burst of speed.

"Potter’s off!" Draco shouted from the side in a mock event commentator's voice. "Look at him go!"

Harry was unaware of the other players now; his entire focus was on the Snitch. The wind whipped past him, and his grip on his broom tightened as he weaved and dodged, his eyes never leaving the fluttering golden ball. He was close now—so close—but the Snitch darted out of his reach, flipping and spinning just as he leaned forward to grab it.

"Come on, Harry!" Flint shouted from below, his voice full of anticipation. "Don't lose it!"

Harry’s jaw clenched. He pushed his broom forward again, feeling the power beneath him, responding to his command. The Snitch darted to the left. He followed, matching its erratic movements with calculated precision. It was a game of cat and mouse, and Harry could feel his concentration intensify with every passing second.

Finally, the Snitch made one last erratic dive, and this time, Harry was ready. His right hand shot out, his fingers brushing against the cold metal wings of the Snitch. With a swift tug, he snatched it out of the air, the tiny golden ball flapping desperately in his hand.

"Got it!" Harry shouted, his voice a mix of relief and exhilaration. He held up the Snitch triumphantly, the team below breaking into applause.

Miles, who had been flying around with the Quaffle, let out a loud whoop. "Bloody brilliant, Potter! You’ve got the right moves!"

Harry landed gracefully, feeling the adrenaline rush through him as he dismounted. His heart was still pounding, and a wide grin spread across his face. He had done it. He had caught the Snitch, just like he had always imagined he would.

Flint clapped Harry on the back. "Good job, Seeker. You’ve got potential, Potter. Don’t waste it."

As the rest of the team gathered around, offering their congratulations, Harry felt a warm sense of belonging settle in his chest. For the first time since he’d joined the Slytherin house, he felt like he was part of something, part of this team, this family of players who had worked and trained together.

"Nice work, mate," Ron said as he walked over, having watched from the stands with Draco, Hermione, and Neville.

Hermione gave him a thumbs-up. “That was brilliant, Harry.”

Neville nodded too. "You were incredible."

And in that moment, as Harry held the Snitch in his hand, he realized that no matter how different his life at Hogwarts had turned out, he was finally finding his place.

Chapter Text

One particularly chilly October day, Halloween to be exact, Harry found himself in Charms class with Draco. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins were paired together, and for once, Harry could relax without having to answer Hermione’s thousand questions or listen to Ron’s complaints. In fact, Harry felt a bit sorry for Draco, who didn’t seem to have many friends in their house. But out of class, Harry liked Draco’s company. The boy was far less insufferable when he wasn’t busy trying to prove how much better he was than everyone else and it was just the two of them.

Professor Lupin stood at the front of the room, his kind face framed by wild hair. “One of a wizard’s most rudimentary skills,” he began, “is levitation—the ability to make objects float.” He smiled warmly at the class. “Now, let’s see if you can make this feather fly.”

The class was buzzing with excitement. Harry glanced at Draco, who had already set his wand to the feather, his face a picture of confidence.

Harry gritted his teeth. He swished and flicked, whispering the spell under his breath. “Wingardium Leviosa.” Nothing. The feather sat there, mocking him.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Draco flicked his wand effortlessly. The feather soared into the air like it was weightless, rising higher than Harry’s own, which stubbornly remained on the desk.

“Swish and flick, Harry. Like this,” Draco said, his voice quiet but sure.

Draco’s feather floated back down gently, and he gave Harry a bright smile. “Nice one, Malfoy!” Harry cheered, despite the frustration bubbling inside him.

From the corner of his eye, Goyle snickered, his voice an annoying, high-pitched mimic of Harry’s praise. “Nice one, Malfoy,” he mocked, then made a crude noise, “What a couple of fairies.”

Harry’s blood boiled. He bit back the retort that sprang to his lips, knowing that starting a fight in the row in front of a teacher wasn’t the smartest move. But that didn’t mean he had to take Goyle’s disgusting comments lying down. 

“Goyle, shut up,” Harry snapped.

Goyle turned, his face contorted with mock indignation. “Why don’t you make me Potter? Or are you too scared that Loony Lupin will ground you?”

Harry’s hand curled into a fist. His teeth ground together as he fought the urge to stand up and punch the smug grin off Goyle’s face. Draco looked at him with wide, worried eyes, but before Harry could react, Goyle’s voice rose again, dripping with malicious intent.

“Wait until your dad hears about you cozying up to the Potter boy,” he sneered, emphasizing the name with a cruel twist. “How do you think he’ll react to his son being a faggot ?”

A sharp gasp echoed across the room. Draco’s face twisted, the color draining from his cheeks. His eyes went glassy, and without warning, he bolted out of his seat, knocking his chair to the floor in his rush to escape.

“Draco!” Harry called, his voice cracking. He surged to his feet, ready to follow, but a shout rang out.

“Goyle!” Professor Lupin’s voice was sharp, the warning laced with wandless magic, freezing Goyle in place. “You’ve just earned twenty points from Slytherin and a meeting with me after class!”

The class fell silent as Goyle’s smugness disappeared into sullen silence. Harry didn’t waste another moment. He grabbed both his and Draco’s things and darted out of the classroom, heart pounding.

He found Draco in the dungeon, curled on his bed, head buried in his knees. A soft sniffling noise escaped from the boy, and Harry’s chest tightened.

“Draco?” Harry’s voice was gentle.

“What do you want, Harry?” Draco snapped, his red-rimmed eyes glaring at him.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Harry said, sitting next to him, trying not to crowd him.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been called that,” Draco muttered, his voice small. “Not all of us were raised in healthy, happy homes, Haz.”

“I know,” Harry whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Draco looked away, his face contorting with emotion. “Just leave me alone,” he said.

But Harry didn’t leave. Instead, he smiled softly. “I’ll bring you dinner. Crabbe and Goyle won’t bother you for a while, and Blaise is probably hiding somewhere. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you eat something before bed.”

As he left to gather food, Harry reminded himself a lesson that his godfather had instilled in him from a very early age: good food made everything better. Especially chocolate. He always watched as Sirius cooked Remus dinner for their monthly date nights, the practice of expressing love through food was deeply ingrained in him. 

He maneuvered through the Great Hall, quiet and unobtrusive, hoping to avoid any further confrontation. But as he made his way to the Slytherin table, the doors to the hall suddenly slammed open. Professor Quirrell came rushing in, his turban askew and his face pale.

“Troll!” he shouted, wobbling and swaying as if he might collapse at any moment. “Troll in the dungeon! I thought you’d like to know—”

And with that, the man fainted.

Panic rippled through the Great Hall. The students screamed, bolting from their seats, the thought of a troll in the school sending them into a frenzy. But Harry didn’t hesitate. His mind was focused on one thing: Draco. He wasn’t thinking about the troll or the chaos unfolding around him—he just had to get to Draco.

His feet pounded against the stone floor as he raced toward the dungeon, scanning the hallways for any sign of the beast. He could hear the heavy thud of lumbering footsteps ahead, the stench of something foul in the air.

The troll.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he pushed through the cold stone corridors, his wand tightly gripped in his hand. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster, but his focus remained on one thing—finding Draco before the troll did.

He rounded the corner into the dungeon, the sound of monstrous footsteps growing louder. The air grew thick with the stench of rotten meat, and the distant screech of claws scraping on stone sent a chill down his spine. Harry pressed his back against the wall, trying to keep as quiet as possible, his mind running through every possible scenario. He couldn’t let Draco get hurt.

And then, he heard it.

A sharp, panicked scream.

“Draco!” Harry’s heart skipped a beat. The sound was unmistakable—his friend, alone and terrified.

Without a second thought, Harry bolted down the hallway, his feet slipping on the damp stone floors as he moved. He rounded the corner to the Slytherin dorms, his heart in his throat. There, in the dim light of the corridor, the troll loomed like a shadow. Its massive club was raised high over Draco, who was crouched beneath it, eyes wide in horror.

The troll swung its club down with terrifying force, and Draco rolled out of the way just in time, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Draco!” Harry shouted again, his voice raw with panic.

Draco’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?!”

“Troll in the dungeon, obviously!” Harry shouted back, adrenaline flooding his veins. He didn’t stop to think. He lunged forward, grabbing the club in both hands, trying to pull it from the troll’s grasp. His fingers slid off the rough wood, and with a sickening jerk, he was thrown sideways, crashing into the wall with a bone-jarring thud.

“Ow.” Harry groaned, struggling to push himself up, his vision blurry from the impact.

Above him, the troll continued to focus on Draco, raising its club again. Draco’s face contorted in terror, and Harry’s blood ran cold.

“No!” Harry thought, his heart racing. The troll was going to kill him!

In a blur of motion, Draco scrambled to his feet and shouted, “Swish and flick, Potter!”

Harry’s mind clicked into place. His wand was still in his hand, and he was still close enough to reach the troll’s club. He could do this. He could help.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Harry shouted, his voice hoarse, as he pointed his wand at the massive club.

For a split second, nothing happened. But then, with a lurch, the club jerked upward into the air, floating above the troll’s head. The troll blinked, confused, its gaze shifting upward.

Now was his chance.

With a quick flick of his wrist, Harry let the club drop. It crashed down onto the troll’s head with a deafening thud, and the troll staggered backward, its body crumpling to the ground with a loud thump. It lay there, unconscious, drooling from its gaping mouth.

Draco stared at the troll, wide-eyed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “You… you did it,” he whispered, disbelief in his voice.

Harry didn’t have time to answer. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to Draco’s side.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, his voice tight with worry, his hands hovering over Draco’s body in case he was injured.

Draco blinked, looking up at Harry, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, in a small voice, he muttered, “I’m fine.”

Before Harry could respond, the sounds of rushing footsteps echoed down the hall. The teachers were arriving.

“Oh my goodness!” Professor McGonagall shrieked, rushing into the room, her face pale with concern. “Explain yourselves at once!”

Harry opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he was enveloped in a hug.

“Oh my god! Harry!” His mother was kneeling in front of him, checking him over for injuries, her hands shaking. “Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mum,” Harry said, pushing her hands away gently. He looked past her to where Regulus was kneeling beside Draco, inspecting him with the same worried intensity.

“Draco, are you alright?” Regulus asked, his tone firm but soft.

“I’m fine, Professor,” Draco replied, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “Just a little bruised, that’s all.”

Sirius appeared from behind McGonagall, his face twisted in anger. “What the hell were you thinking, going after a troll by yourself?”

“I wasn’t going after it,” Harry snapped back, frustration and fear making his voice sharp. “It was going to hurt Draco!”

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes, though he didn’t know why. He felt an overwhelming wave of emotion, a mixture of fear, relief, and helplessness.

His godfather stared at him, momentarily taken aback by the outburst before his expression softened. “Alright,” he said quietly, his voice a little more controlled. 

“It’ll be waking up soon,” Regulus says. He placed his hand gently on Sirius’s chest, his tone firm. “Best if you lot clear out while Severus and I deal with it. Potter-Black household, we’ll talk about this later.” He gives a pointed look at James who nods in agreement “Boys, you two go get checked out by Madam Pomfrey.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered, wiping his face hastily. He turned to Draco, who was still sitting on the floor, looking somewhat dazed. “You’ll be alright?”

Draco nodded, though his face was pale. “I will be. Just a little shaken, I guess.”

Harry hesitated for a moment but then gave him a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring you something to eat after you’re checked out. You need to eat.”

Draco looked at him, something unspoken passing between them. Then he nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As they made their way toward Madam Pomfrey’s office, Harry couldn’t help but think about how close they had come to losing everything in the blink of an eye. The troll had been terrifying, but what had terrified him more was the thought of Draco being hurt.

In that moment, Harry realized something he hadn’t fully understood before. He wasn’t just protecting Draco because they were friends. No. There was something deeper there, something that tied them together in ways he couldn’t explain.

And as they entered the hospital wing, Harry promised himself—he’d never let anything happen to Draco again. No matter the cost.

Chapter Text

The following Saturday, Harry found himself sitting in his father’s office in their cottage, the large mahogany desk between him and his family. James Potter’s office, the place where all family meetings took place, was what Harry affectionately dubbed a “dumpster fire.” It was one of those times when Harry could feel the weight of the world pressing down on him, but also the sharp sting of parental concern.

James cleared his throat, his voice filling the otherwise silent room. “In the past month, you’ve been in a fight, drafted into Quidditch, and, let’s not forget, fought a troll.”

Harry immediately bristled, unable to resist throwing in his own defense. “At least I didn’t punch Goyle when he called my best friend a slur!” he shot back, his voice already laced with defiance.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the outburst. But before the conversation could devolve further, Remus calmly placed a hand on James’s arm. His voice was softer, more measured. “Harry, we’re not mad at you. We’re just… confused, is all. We’ve all seen how you interact with the rest of the Slytherins, and honestly, you’re not at fault here.” He paused for a moment as if weighing his words carefully. “What we need to discuss is your reaction to these conflicts.”

Sirius, who had been quietly sipping his tea, added with an exasperated sigh, “Yes, Harry. However, you can’t keep starting fights with them. As hard as it is, you need to ignore them. For your own safety.”

Lily, who had been quiet until now, interrupted sharply. “Quidditch and bullies, I get. But Harry—fighting a troll? Are you kidding me? This is Hogwarts, not a battlefield!” Her voice wavered with worry. “How did a troll even get in here? How is this happening?”

Remus took another sip of tea, his brow furrowing in concern. “Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in the world. But now, I can’t help but wonder if it’s turning into a death trap.”

Regulus, who had been standing by the window, suddenly spoke up, his voice dripping with disdain. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? With a dark magic magnet in the castle. I spoke with Severus while dealing with the troll. Dumbledore’s hiding a dark artifact on the third floor. That’s why students are forbidden from going there. Last night’s troll? It was a distraction—someone tried to steal it, but luckily Severus got there first.”

James threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Well thats just bloody brilliant. Now Snivellus is involved,” he groaned. “As if we didn’t have enough to deal with.”

Sirius snorted. “He’s the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and the only one who might know more about dark artifacts than him is Reggie. As much as I hate admitting it, the greasy little git is actually smart.”

Harry sat quietly, trying to make sense of all the adult chatter. “If there’s a dark artifact in the castle,” he murmured, almost to himself, “would Voldemort come after it?”

The room fell deathly quiet. It was a simple question, one that had been hanging in the air for a while now, but hearing Harry say it out loud was like a stone sinking into water.

Sirius was the first to break the silence. His tone was softer now, more reassuring. “Harry, you don’t need to worry about those things right now. Just… keep your head low. Stay close to your friends. That’s all you can control, alright?”

“Okay,” Harry said, his voice small but resolute.

Keeping his head low wasn’t exactly in the cards for Harry.

 A few days later, he found himself on the Quidditch pitch for his first match as Seeker. The air was crisp and cool, the stands packed with students who were buzzing with excitement. Harry hovered high above the pitch, the wind rushing past him, whipping his green Slytherin kit around his legs. He glanced around at the others: the Gryffindor Seeker, slightly larger and older than him, was already eyeing him warily, and Fred and George Weasley were on the Gryffindor team as beaters, leaving Ron with conflicted loyalties. Luna has shown up to the match in full Slytherin support, decked out in green and silver. 

Harry’s gaze shifted to the crowd, where his father stood at the sidelines, eyes tracking his every move. When James blew the whistle, the game erupted into motion, the chaos of flying brooms and bludgers filling the air.

The instant the game started, Harry veered away from the Quaffle, letting the chasers handle the ball while he scanned the skies. His new prescription goggles—matching his father’s, but with Slytherin colors—were perfect for this. His heart raced in anticipation. The Snitch had to be around here somewhere.

As he soared up to his perch, the Gryffindor chasers quickly racked up twenty points, easily making it past Slytherin’s Keeper. Harry watched the action, but his eyes never left the sky. His focus was singular: find the Snitch.

That’s when it happened.

A bludger flew past his face, missing by mere inches. One of the Slytherin beaters, a burly boy named Darian, shouted, “Potter, look out!” But Harry didn’t flinch. He didn’t take his eyes off the swirling mass of players, not even for a second.

He was waiting for that high-pitched whizzing sound. The telltale sign that the Snitch was nearby.

And then—there it was.

A flash of gold caught his eye, and before he could even register what was happening, he was flying toward it, adrenaline coursing through him. But as he did, his broom jerked violently to the left, then to the right, then up and down, as if it had a mind of its own.

“Come on!” Harry gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself. The broom was jinxed. He could feel it, the way it bucked beneath him as if trying to throw him off.

It twisted upside down, and Harry’s heart stopped. His fingers slipped from the handle. The ground was so far below, and his stomach churned. This was it.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the broom stilled.

A flash of relief washed over Harry, and before he could think twice, he jumped back on. But as he did, something caught his eye—a flicker of red beneath him. The Gryffindor Seeker, desperate to catch the Snitch before him, was already streaking toward it.

The two boys collided in midair, the Snitch darting between them like a mocking tease. They were locked in a race, a blur of green and red as they both reached out, fingers grazing the golden ball.

The Snitch dipped lower, diving toward the ground. Both boys followed, their brooms diving at breakneck speed. The Gryffindor Seeker broke off first, veering sharply to the side, but Harry was determined.

With a final, desperate lunge, he positioned himself perfectly, standing on the broom with his feet firmly planted. As the Snitch shot past, he lunged forward—and just barely caught it in his hand. The crowd erupted as Harry tumbled onto his broom, raising the tiny golden ball triumphantly.

“Slytherin wins!” he shouted, barely able to contain the thrill that surged through him.

So much for staying low.

Chapter Text

The night after the match, the Slytherin common room felt like a victory parade. The cheers for Harry echoed through the dungeon, the fire crackling brightly in the hearth as students clinked goblets of pumpkin juice in celebration. Harry sat back, basking in the praises, feeling lighter than he had in days. His team had won their first match of the season, and with it, 150 house points. It was hard to not feel a rush of pride, especially when the entire house was rallying behind him.

Yet, amid the cheers and laughter, Harry felt a pull in his chest, a need to retreat to something quieter. He excused himself, slipping away from the celebrations before they could become overwhelming. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the attention, but the events of the day, the Quidditch match, and everything that had happened earlier, were still weighing heavily on his mind. The clamor of the party seemed too loud now, too insistent. He needed solitude.

He made his way through the winding hallways to the Slytherin dorms. When he arrived at his room, he found it, for the first time in weeks, peaceful. Crabbe and Goyle had been moved out after the incident in Charms, leaving Harry alone with Draco and the perpetually elusive Blaise.

Harry collapsed onto his bed, letting out a breath. The room was far quieter than the common room, and for a moment, he could almost pretend everything was normal. Almost.

Draco, who had been sitting at his desk, suddenly turned towards him, his pale eyes sharp with curiosity. “Who’s trying to kill you?”

Harry froze, his mind racing. “What?” he muttered, not quite understanding.

“Your broom, Potter,” Draco said, his tone slightly more serious than Harry was used to. “It was jinxed. I saw the professors arguing in the stands, but I don’t know who caused it.” Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, who would be trying to kill Harry Potter?”

Harry sat up, pulling his knees to his chest. His thoughts tangled. “Honestly, I have no idea,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But my parents… They said something was drawing dark forces to the castle—something on the third floor. That’s why we’re not supposed to go there.” He let the words hang in the air, an unsettling realization settling in. “Maybe if we find out what it is, we can stop it.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Or… we could leave it to the people above the age of thirteen to handle,” he said, smirking slightly. “Besides, we wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Harry grinned, feeling the familiar thrill of mischief. “We could start on the third floor. See what’s up there?”

Draco stared at him, incredulous. “You’re a horrible influence on my otherwise amazing upbringing.”

“Just continuing the Potter-Black tradition,” Harry retorted with a wink. He grabbed Draco’s hand, pulling him out of the chair. “Come on. Everyone will be too busy celebrating to notice us.”

Draco let out a groan but allowed himself to be pulled along. They tiptoed through the common room, where the sounds of laughter and music floated out from the gathering students. No one seemed to notice as they slipped through the shadows, unnoticed.

The winding staircase leading to the third floor was eerily quiet. The stone walls loomed high above them, the dim lighting casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward them like arms. They continued up, each step creaking underfoot, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched.

Finally, they reached the third floor. The hallway stretched out before them, deserted and covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs. The lack of student foot traffic was obvious in the oppressive silence that filled the space. There were no portraits, no voices to be heard. Just the muffled sound of their footsteps.

“There, a door,” Draco said, breaking the silence. He pointed to the far end of the corridor. At the end of the hallway stood a weathered wooden door, its surface cracked and worn by age. It looked as though no one had touched it in years.

Harry reached for the handle, but to his surprise, the door wouldn’t budge. He pulled again, frustration creeping up his spine. “It’s locked.”

Draco, ever the resourceful one, smirked. “Move over,” he said, stepping forward and pulling out his wand. With a flick of his wrist, he muttered, “Alohomora!” The lock clicked open with a satisfying sound.

Harry blinked. “We haven’t learned that yet!”

Draco shrugged casually. “It’s in chapter seven. Hermione and I have been practicing it together.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “You and Hermione?”

“Yeah, well, someone has to do something while you’re off with your broomstick and your Quidditch practices,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “Besides, she’s brilliant. If you need anything unlocked in this school, she’s the one to ask.”

Harry shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

They stepped into the room, the air heavy with dust and stale air. The room was enormous, though its corners were lost in shadows, and the walls were covered in old, faded tapestries that looked as though they had not been touched in decades. The only object that stood out in the center of the room was a large, black lump.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. What was it?

Before either of them could approach, the lump shifted, and with a deep growl, three massive dog heads appeared from the darkness, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. The sound of snapping jaws and growling filled the air, a trio of heads staring directly at them.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “What the hell is that?” he whispered.

Before Draco could answer, the dog lunged, its massive paws slamming against the floor. “Run!” Draco yelled, panic in his voice.

Without thinking, Harry turned and bolted, barely managing to slam the door shut behind them as the dog’s growl echoed in the corridor. They leaned against the door, breathless, their hearts pounding.

“I think that dog was guarding something,” Draco said, his voice shaky but still sharp. “There was a trapdoor under it. If that’s what’s guarding whatever’s on the third floor, I think whoever’s trying to steal that artifact is going to have a hard time.”

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. But who would put a three-headed dog in charge of an artifact? And why here, of all places?”

Draco didn’t answer, but the questions hung in the air like a thick fog. The mystery deepened, and they both knew that they were far from finding the answers. But one thing was for sure: the third floor wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed. And whatever was hidden there, they were getting closer.

Christmas at Hogwarts was always a strange mix of warmth and quiet, with the castle dimly lit by candles, and the air filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon. The students who stayed at school, like Harry, found themselves surrounded by festive decorations—sparkling lights hanging from the rafters, giant Christmas trees filling the common rooms, and the usual cheerful bustle that filled the halls. 

The Potters, along with the Blacks, had made a tradition of spending the holidays at their Hogsmeade cottage in past years, and even though Harry was far from 12 Grimmauld Place, it still felt like family. His parents had gotten him a few gifts—a warm sweater from his mum, some new books from his dad—but the rest of the holiday was left to the unexpected. As he sat in the common room, watching the fire crackle in the hearth, Harry felt a small flutter of excitement. His first Christmas with his Hogwarts friends. Once the Potter-Black celebrations were over, Harry made his way back to the school.

The great hall had been lively, filled with laughter and noise as students gathered to enjoy the Christmas feast. But it was the quiet moments that Harry savored most. It was only when he returned to the Slytherin common room that he realized something was waiting for him. A small package, wrapped in plain brown paper, sat neatly on the edge of his desk. There was no card, no sign of who had left it, but Harry’s curiosity piqued. It was unusual for anyone to leave him a present, and for a moment, he wondered if it might be from one of his parents or uncles.

He picked it up, feeling the weight of the package. It wasn’t large, but it felt solid and mysterious. With a small flick of his wrist, he unwrapped it. Inside was a smooth, dark cloth, folded carefully. As he pulled it free, his breath caught. It was a cloak—an ancient-looking, shimmering material that felt like it was woven from shadows themselves.

"An invisibility cloak," Harry murmured, turning the material over in his hands. The fabric shimmered in the light, and he could feel its magic humming softly, as if it had a life of its own.

He’d heard the stories—his father had once had an invisibility cloak, the same one that had been passed down through generations of the Potter family. It was one of the fabled Deathly Hallows, though Harry had never fully understood the legend. Still, he couldn’t deny the thrill that surged through him. The cloak was a piece of his family, a part of his history, something his father had worn during his own time at Hogwarts as a student.

His hands trembled slightly as he draped it over his shoulders, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if the cloak responded to his touch, the world around him blurred and disappeared. Harry blinked, feeling a sense of exhilaration wash over him as the common room became empty, the fireplace flickering in the distance, and everything around him fading into nothingness.

He was invisible.

A laugh bubbled up in Harry’s chest, unbidden. It was an odd feeling, not unlike floating. He took a tentative step forward, hearing only the faintest sound of his own breathing. The feeling of freedom, of being unseen, made him feel light, as though he had slipped away from the weight of everything—his past, the expectations, the world outside. It was a rare gift, a moment of solitude that felt like it was entirely his.

"Wow," Harry whispered, his voice muffled under the cloak. He looked down at the fabric, marveling at how it felt like a piece of his parents’ legacy had just become real, tangible, something he could hold in his hands.

He wandered around the room, testing the cloak, feeling both powerful and small at the same time. Invisibility wasn’t about avoiding danger, though. It was more than that. It was about having the ability to step away, to observe the world around him without being seen. It was like stepping into a different reality, where he could be anyone or no one at all.

"Not bad, is it?" Draco’s voice came from behind him, startling Harry. He hadn’t heard Draco enter the room. The Malfoy boy received a few gifts from his mother via owl, but his family was at their vacation home in Scotland so he was spending his break at the school as well. 

Harry turned, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders, his grin turning wry. "Not bad at all. How did you know I had it?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against one of the chairs near the fire. "You’ve got that look on your face. Like you just found something out of a storybook. I thought you might’ve gotten it from your family."

Harry shrugged, still feeling the rush of discovery. "Yeah, I guess so. It’s... it’s my dad’s cloak."

Draco’s expression softened just a fraction, an emotion Harry couldn't quite place flickering in his eyes. "That’s a pretty big deal. It’s not just any cloak."

With a soft laugh, Harry pulled the cloak tighter and made his way toward the door. "I’ll be back in a bit. Thought I’d take it for a spin around the castle."

Draco smirked. "Just don’t get caught. And don’t go getting any ideas about sneaking into Gryffindor Tower. I’ll never hear the end of it."

Harry grinned, already feeling the tug of adventure. "Don’t worry. I’ve got it under control."

Chapter Text

The month after break passed in a blur of whispered discussions, late-night study sessions, and half-formed plans. Harry, Draco, Ron, and Hermione found themselves thrown together more than ever, chasing down the mystery of an artifact hidden somewhere within Hogwarts—an artifact tied to dark magic and, curiously, to Dumbledore’s tangled past.

It all started with their collective decision to focus on the artifacts Dumbledore was known to have worked with, particularly those rumored to wield dark magic. The headmaster, long regarded as a paragon of virtue, was a figure whose past held both awe and shadows. Harry had always admired him, but as they dug deeper, his history grew more convoluted—and his ties to certain dark elements of wizarding history were undeniable.

Albus Dumbledore had played pivotal roles in many monumental events: from helping defeat Grindelwald alongside Newt Scamander, to shaping the post-war laws that redefined the wizarding world. These were well-known facts, accepted by all who knew the history of the great wizarding wars. However, there was one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit: Nicolas Flamel.

In the wizarding world, Flamel was a celebrated alchemist, famous for creating the Philosopher’s Stone and living well beyond the natural lifespan of most wizards. But when the group researched Flamel’s birth date, it raised even more questions. According to Muggle records, Flamel had been born in the 14th century—an impossibility, or so it seemed, for a man still alive and well into the 20th century.

Now, Harry knew that wizards could live far longer than Muggles—an average wizard might live 140 years, maybe more—but 600 years? That seemed too much even for Dumbledore’s world of strange happenings. And if Flamel truly had lived that long, how had he done it? What did Dumbledore have to do with it? This mystery drew them all in deeper.

One cold evening, Harry sat across from Ron, the two of them facing off in a game of wizard’s chess. It was an odd moment of normalcy between the madness of their search for answers. 

“Knight to E-5,” Harry muttered, moving his piece with deliberate care.

Ron groaned. “Again with the knights, Harry. You know they never work.”

But Harry grinned, his eyes narrowing in on the game. “You’ll see.”

The chessboard seemed to take on a life of its own. The knight clattered across the board, and Ron’s queen, with a flourish, swept in from the opposite side and cleaved it in two.

“That’s totally barbaric!” Hermione’s voice rang out from behind them, sharp and surprised. Harry jumped, nearly knocking the chessboard off the table. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, confused but relieved to see her. “I thought you would be hunkered down for your final exams?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I should be asking you two. You’re still sitting here playing this barbaric game instead of, I don’t know, researching Nicolas Flamel?”

Draco stood beside her, his arms folded, smirking at the two boys. “You heard her,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “Get your heads out of the chessboard and back into the library. We’ve barely scratched the surface on Flamel.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. “We’ve looked a hundred times, Draco. It’s all just dead ends,” Ron grumbled, dropping his head to the table in defeat.

Hermione snorted, looking down at him. “Not in the restricted section, you haven’t.” The bushy-haired girl gives her patented know-it-all smirk and walks out of the great hall, presumably to go study. 

Ron sighed, watching Hermione walk away. “I think we’ve had a bad influence on her,” he muttered, his tone filled with regret.

The first time Harry used the cloak to break the rules, he did so with a rush of adrenaline and a sense of quiet defiance. The night was cold, and the corridors of Hogwarts were eerily silent as he slid through the shadows, the invisibility cloak snug around his shoulders. It was a thrill—a rush of power and secrecy like he had the entire school in the palm of his hand. His footsteps were muffled as he made his way toward the library, heart pounding with the weight of what he was about to do.

Reaching the familiar oak doors of the library, he hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby. The caretaker, Argus Filch, had been a constant presence lately, and Harry had no desire to be caught sneaking around. The coast was clear, so he carefully pushed open the door, slipping inside like a ghost.

He knew exactly where he was headed—the Restricted Section. It was forbidden, of course, but Harry had never been one to follow the rules if the stakes were high enough. His breath caught as he walked past rows of ancient tomes, the smell of old parchment and dust mingling in the air. He finally reached the shelf where the book he sought was rumored to be hidden: The Secret of Alchemy: The Life of Nicolas Flamel.

The book was bound in deep red leather, its spine cracked from years of neglect. Harry’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled it from the shelf, careful not to let it make any noise. He flipped it open, skimming the pages for the information he needed. He’d barely made it to the second chapter when he found it: Nicolas Flamel, the famed alchemist, responsible for the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone—the legendary artifact capable of granting immortality through the Elixir of Life.

Harry’s eyes widened. He quickly glanced around the dimly lit library, ensuring no one had noticed him, before turning back to the book and reading further. Flamel had created the stone centuries ago, and the records suggested it still existed, hidden away. His mind raced. If Flamel’s stone could grant immortality, could it also bring someone back from the dead? Could it bring Voldemort back?

Harry slammed the book shut, his heart pounding. He had to find the others. He hurried out of the library, careful not to make a sound, and made his way to the Slytherin common room. He needed to tell someone—someone who could help him figure out what to do.

Later, Harry and Draco sat in a corner of the common room, recounting their discovery to Hermione and Ron. The crackling fire in the hearth cast a warm glow over them, but Harry felt a chill at the thought of what the Philosopher’s Stone could mean.

“That explains why You-Know-Who would want it,” Hermione said, her voice tight with concern. “If he can get his hands on the Elixir of Life, he could come back to full strength. He could come back to life.”

Ron’s face darkened, his eyebrows drawn together in worry. “We should tell the professors,” he suggested, his voice low. “This could be really bad, Harry. Really bad.”

Draco didn’t look up from his school notes, but his posture stiffened. “Oh, this is really bad,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his voice tight. He had to stop this. He had to figure out what to do with the information he had, before it was too late.

“We could try to get the stone before You-Know-Who does,” Draco said, his voice eerily calm as he leaned against the cold stone wall of the castle, his pale eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. “I’ve read that the three-headed dog can be put to sleep with music. Once it’s out, we could get to that trapdoor and grab the stone.”

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion, his thoughts racing. “What would we do with it once we have it?” he asked, his voice cautious. It sounded too simple, too dangerous.

Draco’s face hardened, his jaw clenching. “I don’t know,” he snapped, irritation flashing in his eyes. “But we have to do something. If You-Know-Who comes back—if he gets the stone—everyone will be in danger. Don’t you get it, Potter?”

Harry met Draco’s gaze. The desperation in Draco’s voice made Harry’s pulse quicken. “Alright,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Let’s go.”

With no further words, the four students moved swiftly down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the quiet of the castle. They knew the path well, though it always felt a little more forbidden with each step. The third floor was a place they were never supposed to be, yet here they were, driven by the knowledge of what might lie ahead.

As they rounded the corner, they collided with an unexpected presence.

“Students!” a voice barked from the shadows.

Before they could react, Argus Filch appeared from an alcove, his crooked smile twisted with malicious glee. “What do we have here? Out past curfew, snooping around where you shouldn’t be. You’re in trouble.”

Hermione’s face twisted in frustration. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

Filch was having none of it. He dragged them down the halls, his bony fingers digging into Harry’s arm. “The four of you—detention. Tonight. You’ll regret it.”

They didn’t have a chance to protest before they were ushered down to the grounds, where the moonlight barely pierced the thick clouds. Filch’s grip on them tightened as he led them toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where a hulking figure stood waiting. The massive groundskeeper towered over them, his shaggy hair and beard like a forest of their own. He waved enthusiastically when he saw them approach.

“Filch, what’s this about?” Hagrid boomed, his voice deep and warm, though there was an edge of confusion in it.

Filch sneered, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. “These ones were found wandering where they shouldn’t be. I’m assigning them to you for detention.”

Hagrid’s eyes flickered with surprise, then softened. “Well, no sense in arguing now. Come on, kiddies. We’ve got a job to do.”

Harry’s stomach tightened. “A job? What kind of job?”

“You’ll see,” Hagrid said with a wink. “It’s urgent business, so we’ve got to move quickly. We’re looking for a missing unicorn in the Forbidden Forest.”

“Wait—unicorns?” Harry asked, his voice incredulous. “But isn’t the forest—well, forbidden?”

“Yes, but you lot are with me. It’s Hogwarts business!” Hagrid grinned, leading them toward the dark tree line. His giant dog, Fang, padded silently at his side, looking none too pleased about the situation.

Chapter Text

The deeper they ventured into the forest, the colder it became. A damp chill seeped into Harry’s bones, and the air grew thick with the scent of wet leaves and decay. The towering trees loomed like dark sentinels, their branches creaking in the wind. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was alive—watching, waiting.

Hagrid’s lantern light flickered as they moved further in. The darkness seemed to swallow the sound of their footsteps, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

Suddenly, Hagrid held up a hand. “Stop.”

The five of them came to an abrupt halt. Hagrid knelt by a small puddle on the ground, the lantern light casting long shadows over the silver liquid that shimmered faintly.

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, her voice quiet with curiosity. She leaned in to get a closer look, her breath fogging in the cold night air.

Hagrid sighed deeply, his large hand brushing the puddle gently. “That’s unicorn blood,” he muttered, his face grim. “I found a dead one a few weeks back. This one’s been hurt bad by something—so it’s up to us to find the poor creature.”

Harry’s stomach turned. “Unicorn blood?” He glanced at Ron, who looked equally unsettled.

“This is madness,” Ron muttered, his voice edged with frustration. “First-years shouldn’t be hunting injured unicorns. This is crazy.”

But before Harry could respond, Ron trailed off, his eyes wide with sudden terror. Harry followed his gaze, his heart skipping a beat. 

In the distance, barely visible through the dark trees, a figure stood over the body of a unicorn, its black cloak billowing in the wind. The faintest glint of silver liquid dripped from the figure’s lips.

Harry’s hand instinctively shot up to his forehead, his scar burning with a violent, searing pain. He gasped and staggered back, his vision blurring.

“Run!” Hagrid shouted, his voice rising with panic. “Run now!”

Draco, Ron, and Hermione wasted no time. They turned and sprinted through the trees, Fang barking furiously at Ron’s heels. But Harry, still reeling from the pain in his head, struggled to move. His legs felt like lead, and every step was slow, and weak. He backed up, his hands outstretched, but he could barely see through the tears of pain clouding his vision.

Then, the sound of hooves—loud, thunderous—filled the air. Before Harry could process what was happening, a centaur appeared above him, flying through the air with startling speed. The creature landed next to Harry with a crash, hooves striking the ground with a force that shook the earth. The centaur kicked at the figure who had been feeding on the unicorn’s blood, sending it sprawling into the fog.

The pain in Harry’s scar instantly vanished, and the world around him seemed to steady itself. He looked up at the centaur, who stood tall and proud, his face marked with an ancient wisdom.

“You must leave, Harry Potter,” the centaur said, his voice deep and solemn. “You are known to many creatures here. The forest is not safe for you, not at this time.”

“What was that thing?” Harry gasped, still shaking from the encounter.

“A monster,” the centaur replied, his eyes cold with anger. “To kill a unicorn is a terrible crime. Drinking its blood will keep someone alive—even if they are on the brink of death. But at a cost. The moment the blood touches their lips, their life is cursed. They will never truly live again.”

Harry’s mind raced. “Who would choose that?”

The centaur’s eyes locked with his, a knowing gleam flickering in them. “Can you think of no one?”

A sick realization crept over Harry. “Do you mean… that thing—that killed the unicorn? That was Voldemort?”

The centaur nodded gravely. “You understand now. But be warned, Harry Potter. There is more at Hogwarts than you know.”

At that moment, Fang’s bark pierced the air again, and the centaur stepped back, giving Harry a slight bow. “This is where I leave you. You’re safe now. Good luck.”

As Harry stumbled back toward the edge of the forest, he could hear Hagrid and Draco shouting for him in the distance. Draco reached him first, throwing his arms around Harry in a tight, unexpected hug. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice strained with worry.

Harry swallowed, his chest tightening with the weight of the secrets he’d just uncovered. “We need to get that stone,” he said, his voice quiet but determined.

Draco nodded grimly, and together, the five of them made their way back to the castle, each step heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead.

“This needs to happen tonight,” Harry muttered under his breath, his heart pounding as he and the others sprinted across the castle grounds, making their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The cold night air stung his face, but it did little to slow him down. His mind was a blur of urgency, the image of the dark figure in the Forbidden Forest haunting him with every step.

They skidded to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. Harry barely managed to catch his breath long enough to blurt out the password, “Caput Draconis,” and the portrait swung open with a squeak. He didn’t wait for it to fully open before darting through, dragging Draco along.

“ Harry! What’s going on?” Hermione asked, running up behind the frantic slytherin quickly, her eyes wide with alarm.

“Voldemort’s here,” Harry breathed, panic lacing his voice. “He was in the Forbidden Forest. He’s on campus right now. We need to get the stone before he does!”

Ron’s face went white. “You—what? You’re sure?”

Harry nodded, his fists clenching in frustration. “He’s here, and we have no time to waste. The stone could bring him back to life. We have to stop him. Right now.”

Before anyone could respond, a calm voice interrupted from the shadows.

“Children,” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, cool and collected as ever. “What on earth are you four doing?”

The four of them froze, caught in the act. McGonagall emerged from the dim light of her office, her sharp gaze flicking over each of them. Her stern expression never wavered, but her lips tightened as she noticed the seriousness of their faces.

“Professor, we know about the stone,” Draco said, his tone much more controlled than Harry’s, almost too calm for the situation. “The dog, the trapdoor, everything. Someone is going to try and steal it tonight.”

McGonagall sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if she had anticipated this. “I’m going to pretend that you four haven’t been sneaking around, and instead provide you with the comfort that no one can get past Fluffy.”

“Fluffy?” Ron deadpanned, his face incredulous.

“Yes, Fluffy is Hagrid’s pet,” McGonagall replied with a simple shrug as if this was all common knowledge. “Now, go to bed. There’s no need to worry. The adults are handling it.”

She gave them a pointed look before turning back toward her office. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone floor as she disappeared behind the door.

The moment the door clicked shut, Harry was on edge. He wanted to shout, to scream, to argue with her, but he knew it was pointless. McGonagall, despite her sharpness, would never understand. She wouldn’t see it as clearly as he did. They couldn’t sit back and wait for things to unfold. Not when Voldemort was so close.

“Guys, we’re doing it,” Harry said, his voice low and filled with conviction. “I’ll go by myself if I have to, but I’m not sitting here while he gets what he wants. This is happening tonight.”

Ron glanced at Hermione, who nodded resolutely. They both looked at Draco, who, to Harry’s surprise, didn’t hesitate either.

“We’re with you, Harry,” Ron said firmly.

The four of them wasted no more time. They moved swiftly through the hallways, the familiar passageways of Hogwarts now seeming darker, and more threatening than ever. As they reached the third-floor corridor, Harry’s heart raced faster, each step taking them closer to the trapdoor, closer to the stone.

The door they had passed before was now ajar, just enough to slip through. Harry’s stomach tightened at the sight. “That’s not good,” Ron muttered, his face pale with fear.

Inside, they could hear the faint, melodic sound of a harp playing. The room was still, and the three-headed dog—Fluffy—was sprawled on the floor, sound asleep. Harry breathed a quiet sigh of relief, but the tension remained in the air. The trapdoor was already open.

“That’s really not good!” Ron exclaimed, his voice rising with alarm.

“Come on!” He rushed ahead, leaping toward the trapdoor. Without hesitation, he and Hermione jumped through, disappearing from sight.

“Damn Gryffindors,” Draco muttered, his tone exasperated as Harry grabbed him by the arm and pulled him through the trapdoor.

They landed softly, a mess of vines cushioning their fall. Harry looked up, blinking against the sudden disorientation. The room they had entered was dark, and the air smelled damp and heavy with the scent of earth and moss. The four of them scrambled to their feet, their eyes scanning the surroundings.

“It’s Devil’s Snare!” Hermione exclaimed in a panic, her eyes wide with fear. The thick, writhing vines were wrapping themselves around their legs, pulling them down.

“We need to relax,” Hermione continued, her voice strained. “Stay calm. It’ll release us if we don’t struggle.”

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to still. His muscles screamed to fight, but he forced himself to listen. Slowly, the tight grip of the vines loosened, releasing their hold. The ground beneath them shifted, and Harry felt himself drop into a new chamber. He looked up to see Draco and Hermione tumbling down beside him, their faces pale but relieved.

“My god, Ron, relax!” Hermione shouted from above.

“When do I ever relax?!” Ron yelled back, his voice full of frustration.

“Lumos!” Draco shouted, raising his wand. The soft light from his spell illuminated the area around them, and as if the plant had been repelled, the Devil’s Snare recoiled, retreating into the shadows. Ron fell to the ground with a thud.

“Ow, really ?” Ron groaned, rubbing his backside as he struggled to his feet. “Not exactly the most graceful landing.”

“Your fault for not breathing,” Hermione shot back, rolling her eyes.

With the Devil’s Snare behind them, the four of them pressed on, moving through another door that led into an enormous chamber. The walls were lined with old stone, and the floor was covered in a large chessboard, each square a solid black and white. And on that chessboard—life-sized pieces stood waiting, their wooden eyes glaring back at the intruders.

“Live wizard’s chess!” Ron exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe. Without a second thought, he jumped onto the board, making his way to a group of pawns that blocked his path. The moment he took a step forward, the pawns raised their swords, blocking him from advancing.

“Well, now what?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with frustration.

Ron turned to them, his face lit with determination. “We must have to play!”

Harry took a deep breath, glancing at Draco and Hermione. There was no going back now. Every step had brought them closer to the stone—and the danger that lurked at the end of the line.

“Harry, you take the empty bishop square. Hermione, you’ll be the queen’s side castle. Draco, you’re on the queen’s other side. I’ll take the knight,” Ron quickly delegated, his voice tight with focus. He had the most experience with chess, and his commands were swift and sure, like someone used to thinking under pressure.

The four of them scattered into position, each taking their spot on the giant chessboard. The pieces around them were far more than just carved wood—these were real, living figures, their eyes blinking, their bodies solid and intimidating. The tension in the room was palpable as they all waited for the first move.

“What happens now?” Draco asked, his voice tinged with nervousness as he glanced at Ron.

“White moves first, then we play.” Ron’s voice was steady, but Harry could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Even the bravest of them all knew this wasn’t just a game anymore.

The first white pawn lumbered forward with an audible creak, its wooden footfalls echoing in the silence of the chamber. It stopped just short of crossing the black line, ready to engage.

“Ron, you don’t suppose this is going to be like actual wizard’s chess, do you?” Draco asked, a note of unease creeping into his voice.

Ron waved him off with a dismissive gesture, his eyes trained on the board. “Just keep playing.” He moved his pawn forward to D5.

Without warning, the white pawn lunged at Ron’s, smashing it into splinters that scattered across the board like confetti. The pieces that had been knocked aside glistened, broken and jagged.

“Bloody hell!” Draco yelped, his voice rising in alarm. 

Ron, his face grim but resolute, glanced at Draco. “Yes, Draco, I think this is going to be exactly like real wizard’s chess.”

Piece by piece, the battle raged. The white queen glided smoothly across the board, cutting through the black pieces like they were made of paper. It wasn’t long before one of the black knights was crushed beneath the heavy sword of the queen, leaving a mangled mess of wood and dust in its wake.

The sound of splintering wood, the sickening thud as pieces were destroyed—it all blended into the chaos. Harry felt his heart thumping in his chest as he moved with the rhythm of the game, stepping cautiously around the wreckage.

It wasn’t long before the queen moved again, this time targeting a piece directly in front of Harry and Ron. The thud of the queen’s attack shook the entire board, leaving a pile of broken fragments at Harry’s feet.

“Wait!” Harry exclaimed, panic rising in his throat. He stepped forward, eyes wide, as he took in the position. “Ron, you couldn’t possibly—“

“Harry, when I make my move, you’ll be free to check the king,” Ron said, his tone a mixture of calm and determination. There was no hesitation in his voice. His eyes met Harry’s with a silent promise.

“Ron, you can’t!” Hermione shouted, her eyes wide as she saw the same setup that Harry did. She grasped the edge of the board, her hands shaking. “There has to be another way. You’ll be—“

“Do you want to stop Voldemort from getting the stone or not?!” Ron shouted, cutting her off. His face was pale, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the knight’s square. “We don’t have time for second guesses!”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but his focus never wavered. His eyes locked onto the king at the other side of the board. “Ron, don’t—“

“Harry,” Ron said fiercely, his eyes unwavering as he glanced at him. “It’s you who has to go on. Not Draco. Not Hermione. You.” He didn’t wait for Harry’s response. With a sharp intake of breath, he moved his piece. “Knight to H3.”

The moment his piece shifted, the white queen responded in a blur of motion, her sword raised high. With a swift, merciless strike, the queen brought the blade down, slicing through Ron’s knight with a resounding clang. Ron was sent crashing to the ground, his body twisting in a heap as he hit the stone floor hard.

“Ron!” Hermione screamed, her voice cracking as she rushed toward him.

But Draco was quicker. He grabbed her arm before she could move. “Don’t move! We’re still playing!” he shouted, his voice panicked.

Harry’s stomach churned. He could see Ron’s body crumpled on the ground, blood oozing from the gash in his head. But there was no time. Not now.

He stepped through the debris, his eyes trained on the white king. His mind was razor-sharp, every movement calculated. He raised his wand, steadying his breath as he placed the king in check.

“Checkmate,” Harry murmured, his voice almost a whisper, though it rang out in the tense silence that followed.

The room seemed to freeze for a moment. The white king’s sword fell with a heavy thud, the final blow dealt. The pieces around them stilled. The tension in the air began to dissipate, but Harry didn’t feel relief. Not yet.

Hermione was already at Ron’s side, crouching over him. She was pressing her hands to the side of his head, trying to stop the bleeding, her face pale with worry.

“He’s bleeding,” Hermione said, her voice thick with panic as she lifted his head gently to assess the wound.

Draco crouched down beside her, his sharp eyes scanning the injury. “Head wounds bleed a lot,” he said, his voice low and measured, though there was an undercurrent of concern. “But I’m sure it’s just superficial. I know a few healing spells, but he needs to get to Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hermione said quickly, tears welling in her eyes. She grabbed Ron’s arm, pulling him up gently.

Harry hesitated for a moment, his face tight with worry, but he knew there wasn’t time to argue. “You guys take him, then tell my parents what's going on,” he said, his voice tinged with urgency. “Ron was right, I’ve got to go on. Be careful, though.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Draco said, giving Harry a grim nod. He turned toward the door at the far end of the chamber. The stone was closer now. There was no turning back.

With one last glance at Hermione, Draco, and Ron, Harry continued to the stone.

Chapter Text

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he made his way through the long, winding corridors of Hogwarts, each step echoing in the cold stone hallways. The further he walked, the more oppressive the air became, thick with dread and anticipation. The dim light from the torches flickered, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. He reached the base of a steep staircase, the steps old and worn, leading down into an open chamber. The air grew heavier, and a chill crawled down his spine.

As Harry descended, the burn on his forehead flared up again. The pain was sharp, like someone was pressing a red-hot poker into his skin. It was the same pain he’d felt in the Forbidden Forest—whenever Voldemort’s presence drew near, his scar screamed in protest. The closer he got to the source of the pain, the more intense it became. He gritted his teeth, determined to push through it.

The chamber opened before him, vast and cavernous, shrouded in murky darkness. At the center of the room stood a large, ornate mirror, and before it, a figure. Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. The figure was standing still, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

And then Harry’s stomach dropped as he recognized the turban.

“Professor Quirrell?” His voice wavered, but he couldn’t stop the shock from flooding through him. “It was you?”

The man in the turban turned slowly, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Of course, Harry. Who would suspect poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell?” His voice was low and mocking, entirely devoid of the nervousness Harry had come to expect.

Quirrell’s face took on a strange, almost delighted expression as he turned back to the mirror, his eyes gleaming. “Do you know what this mirror does, Harry? It shows the deepest desires of the heart. I see myself holding the Philosopher’s Stone.” He spoke the last words with relish, his voice growing more confident. “But how do I get it?”

A sharp, raspy voice, seemingly coming from nowhere, sent a cold shiver through Harry. It was like nails scraping across stone, each word soaked in malice. “ Use the boy .”

“Come here, Harry,” Quirrell commanded, his voice no longer trembling, but forceful and cold. Harry’s heart raced as he took a hesitant step forward, his eyes wide, his thoughts spinning. His scar throbbed painfully. He wasn’t sure what he was walking into, but he couldn’t turn back now.

When he stood before the mirror, his reflection was almost too surreal to believe. It was him—but there was something else, something different about it. His reflection reached into his pocket, pulling out a glimmering object. The Stone.

Harry’s heart stopped as a sudden weight settled in his own pocket. His breath caught in his throat. The reflection winked at him. His mind reeled. It’s real. He reached into his own pocket, feeling the stone, cold and heavy against his fingers.

Quirrell’s voice snapped him back to reality. “What do you see?” He was watching Harry intently, his face full of anticipation, his turbaned head slightly tilted as though trying to peer into Harry’s very thoughts.

“I… I’m shaking hands with Dumbledore,” Harry stammered, his voice tight with panic. “I won the House Cup.”

Quirrell’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a smirk. “ Lies ,” the voice hissed from behind him, its tone dripping with venom.

“Tell me the truth!” Quirrell shouted, his voice rising in fury.

The sudden outburst startled Harry, causing him to step back instinctively, his eyes scanning the room. He looked for an escape, but all he saw were the stone walls closing in around him. His hands trembled as he searched his mind for a way out, but he had no spells to defend himself. He could only fight with his body, and against Quirrell…

“ You want the Stone, don’t you? ” the voice crooned from Quirrell’s turban. “Let me speak to him. ”

Slowly, Quirrell reached up and unwrapped the turban from his head. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he saw it.

A face. A grotesque, almost shriveled face stretched unnaturally across the back of Quirrell’s skull. The skin was pallid, the eyes sunken and hollow, but Harry knew immediately who it was. Deep within his bones, a chill swept over him.

“Voldemort.” Harry gasped, stepping back, horrified. His scar exploded in pain, making him stumble.

“Harry Potter, we meet again,” the voice rasped, the words curling around him like smoke. Voldemort’s face sneered, his voice dripping with malevolent satisfaction. “You see what I must do to survive, don’t you? Unicorn blood can sustain me, but it cannot give me a body of my own. But there is something that can. Something that conveniently lies in your pocket…”

Harry’s stomach turned. His hands shook, but his grip tightened around the stone.

Without thinking, Harry spun on his heel and bolted up the stairs, his breath ragged in his throat. But as he made it halfway up, the chamber around him erupted in flames.

“Stop him!” Voldemort hissed, his voice seething with rage. The fire was intense, too hot to bear, and Harry recoiled, shielding his face from the searing heat.

“Why suffer a needless death, Harry, when you can join me? You could live. We could do extraordinary things together.” Voldemort’s voice was full of temptation.

“Never!” Harry screamed, his chest tightening as he felt the weight of Voldemort's dark magic pressing down on him.

Voldemort’s laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. “Bravery, just like your parents. It’s a shame they couldn’t finish the job, even with the help of the traitor Black. James and Lily Potter were too weak to kill me.”

Harry froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “Would you like to live in peace with them again?” Voldemort’s voice was smooth, coaxing, like a serpent in the grass. “I can make sure they live out the rest of their pathetic lives in peace. All I ask in return… is the Stone.”

Harry’s hand clenched the Philosopher’s Stone in his pocket. His entire body screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t leave, not without stopping Voldemort once and for all.

“No,” Harry spat, every ounce of his being rejecting Voldemort’s offer. “Liar!”

Quirrell lunged at him suddenly, knocking him down the stairs. Harry’s head slammed against the stone, and his vision spun. The librarian’s hand closed around Harry’s throat, cutting off his air. Harry’s limbs flailed as he fought to breathe, but Quirrell’s grip was too strong.

But then Harry’s hand brushed Quirrell’s, and something incredible happened. A searing pain shot up his arm as the touch burned. Quirrell screamed in agony, his body jerking back as his hand began to crumble into dust.

Harry gasped, instinctively pulling away. His hands were shaking, but his mind was racing. 

This is my chance.

He reached forward, his hands trembling as he touched Quirrell’s face. The moment his fingers made contact, Quirrell’s entire body seemed to collapse in on itself. His head sagged as his body disintegrated into nothingness—dust and tattered robes scattered across the stone floor.

Harry stood frozen, staring at the pile of ashes that had once been Quirrell. His hands still shook, but he couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

“Whoa,” Harry muttered, holding the Stone tightly in his grasp.

  I’ve got to get this to my parents.

But before he could move, a shadow began to rise from the dust—an eerie, ghostly figure with a face contorted in agony. It howled, a high-pitched scream that echoed through the chamber, and Harry barely had time to brace himself before it lunged at him.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of distant voices brought Harry back to consciousness, his head aching like it was being squeezed in a vice. For a moment, he was disoriented, floating somewhere between dreams and reality, his thoughts tangled. Then the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, slow and comforting, tugged at his awareness.

He blinked slowly, squinting against the bright, sterile light overhead. As his vision cleared he saw that he was lying on a bed, the faint smell of antiseptic mingling with something more familiar—the comforting, homey scent of Remus’s homemade blankets. One of which was laid across his bed. 

A soft murmur to his left caught his attention. Turning his head carefully, Harry was met with the sight of his parents standing close together at his bedside, their faces etched with concern, yet glowing with an almost indescribable relief. Lily’s hand was resting gently on James’s arm as she leaned over him, her green eyes searching his face as if memorizing every inch.

“Harry?” Lily’s voice was a whisper, soft but unmistakably filled with love. “Sweetheart, you’re awake.”

The words seemed to settle on Harry’s chest like a warm blanket, and for a split second, the world around him felt incredibly still. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Is he—?” Harry started to ask, his voice rough, barely above a croak.

Lily smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, her touch so gentle, like she feared he might shatter at any moment. “You’re safe now, darling,” she reassured him, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re safe.”

Harry swallowed, trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind. “Voldemort?” His voice cracked as he said the name, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his blanket, feeling the sharp sting of his scar as the memories flashed back—Quirrell, the mirror, the Stone, the pain. “What happened? I… I couldn’t stop him. I…”

His father, who had been standing quietly, reached down and placed a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You did stop him, Harry. You saved everyone. You don’t need to worry anymore.”

“But I—” Harry’s voice faltered again. “I thought… I thought I’d…”

Lily cut him off with a gentle laugh, though there was a slight waver in her tone. “No, Harry. You’re okay.”

“Harry,” came a voice from the other side of the bed, and he turned his head, blinking in surprise as Ron, Draco, and Hermione stood there, their faces filled with relief. Ron had a bandage wrapped around his head, and Draco’s eyes were still red-rimmed, but he was smiling, tears running freely down his cheeks.

“You scared us half to death,” Draco muttered, though there was no malice in his voice, only a deep affection. “You don’t get to do that again, alright?”

Hermione nodded, taking a seat next to him, carefully smoothing his sheets with trembling hands. “We were so worried. You… You really scared us.”

Harry gave them a weak smile, though his heart felt too heavy to return the warmth they were offering. The Stone. The mirror. Quirrell. Voldemort. He could still feel the burning weight in his pocket, the distant echo of the Dark Lord’s voice haunting him. But it was gone now. The Stone was gone, and Voldemort was nothing but a shadow in the past. But the questions, the weight of it all, still gnawed at him.

“Is it… really over?” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile peace surrounding him.

James leaned closer, his face soft with unspoken emotion. “It’s over, Harry. You stopped him. We’re all safe, thanks to you.”

Harry’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he just let the warmth of his parents’ presence wash over him, as if trying to soak in every detail—their voices, the way they looked at him, the way it felt to be truly home.

But something tugged at him, something he couldn’t quite place.

A soft voice broke the silence, and Harry turned his head to see a figure standing in the doorway of the hospital wing. It was Professor Dumbledore, his usual serene expression slightly softened with something that almost resembled pride. Behind him was Regulus, looking uncharacteristically subdued.

“You gave us all quite a scare, Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly, his blue eyes twinkling with more warmth than Harry had ever seen. “But I believe I speak for all of us when I say… well done.”

“Harry,” Regulus added, his deep voice thick with emotion, “you’re a brave boy. Reckless, but brave.” He gave Harry an affectionate but somewhat exasperated smile. “You’ll never get me to believe you did all that on your own, though. If it weren’t for your mum and dad…”

The old wizard’s gaze seemed to pierce right through him as he trailed off, as if searching for something deeper within. “You’ve shown remarkable courage, Harry. But I must ask you—how do you feel? Truly?”

Harry swallowed hard, his chest tight. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he felt, but couldn’t quite express. The fear, the loss, the pain. The guilt. But as he looked at the faces around him—his family, his friends—he knew, deep down, that it was worth it. They were here. They were safe.

“I feel… like it’s not over,” Harry said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like there’s more to come.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful, but not surprised. “You’re not wrong. There’s always more to come, Harry. But remember this—you’re never alone in this fight. You have people who will stand by you, no matter what comes next.”

Harry nodded, feeling the weight of his words sink in. He glanced around the room—at his parents, his friends—and felt something shift within him. A quiet resolve. He wasn’t the same boy who had stepped onto the train at King’s Cross, unsure of who he was. He had a purpose. And no matter what happened, he wasn’t going to let that go.

“Thank you,” Harry said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “All of you. Thank you for believing in me.”

Lily reached forward, brushing his hair back from his forehead once more. “You’re our son, Harry. We’ll always believe in you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry believed it too.

Harry spent the next few days in the hospital wing, his head still foggy with lingering thoughts of the past week. It was surreal, really—the echoes of the battle with Voldemort still ringing in his ears, but now muffled by the steady beeping of the hospital’s magic-infused equipment. The stone was gone, Quirrell was gone, and everything felt strangely quiet.

In the silence, Harry focused on what little he could control: his exams. His first ones, no less. Madam Pomfrey had insisted that he finish them here in the hospital wing, though she had been kind enough to enchant the parchment so that it didn’t roll off the table every time Harry dozed off. But it wasn’t the exams that lingered on his mind, nor the ache in his scar. It was the feeling that he was in the eye of the storm—safe for now, but knowing another gust of wind would blow through soon enough.

Sirius and Remus had stopped by a couple of times, bringing carts filled with sweets. Their presence felt like a balm, soothing the parts of him that were still raw. Each visit reminded him that, despite everything that had happened, he wasn’t alone. 

It was Draco’s visit that caught Harry off guard.

Harry had been resting, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting, when a soft knock on the door broke his reverie. His eyes snapped open, and he turned to see Draco stepping in, looking uncomfortable but determined, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“Hey,” Draco said quietly, standing near the foot of the bed as if unsure whether to come closer.

Harry straightened up, though it took a moment for him to feel steady. “Hey, Draco,” he replied, managing a small smile despite the exhaustion that still clung to him. “I thought you’d gone,”

Draco glanced around awkwardly, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “I thought I should. You know, before I go. Just…” He hesitated. “Just wanted to say goodbye.”

Harry’s chest tightened. They hadn’t spent much time together, not really, but in the chaos of the past few months, Draco’s presence had meant more than Harry was willing to admit. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yeah.” Draco gave a small nod, though his eyes were conflicted. “I packed up my stuff. Had to leave quickly. Father expects me back in Malfoy Manor in a few days.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t that… bother you? I mean—”

Draco waved his hand, cutting Harry off before he could finish. “Let’s not. Look, I’m not pretending to understand your life, and you probably can’t understand mine, either. But if you ever need anything… If you need me…” Draco hesitated, his fingers drumming nervously on the side of the bed. “Don’t hesitate to reach out, alright? You’re not in this alone. You’ve got your family, and your friends, you know where to find me.”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say. “Thanks,” he managed, his throat suddenly tight. “I’ll—yeah. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Draco gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Take care, Harry, try not to get killed over break?”

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “You too, Draco.”

They both chuckled, the weight between them lightening just enough that it almost felt like things were back to normal. But before Harry could say more, there was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice.

“Boys?” Sirius’s voice rang out, smooth and deep, though there was a playful edge to it. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh and shifted away from the bed, standing up to make room for Sirius. “I was just leaving,” he said, rolling his eyes with a grin. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of family time.”

Sirius shot Draco a skeptical look, but he didn’t argue. “I’ll see you around, Harry,” he said, and then, with a slight bow, he left, his footsteps soft on the stone floor.

Chapter Text

It was crisp and cool on the last day of July, Harry Potter’s 12th birthday arrived, and the house at 12 Grimmauld Place was abuzz with excitement. The Potter-Blacks’ home, a charming little townhouse set against a backdrop of muggle streets was filled to the brim with laughter and warmth. Harry was used to celebrations, but this one felt different—it felt like a proper family reunion. The house was alive with the sounds of voices from his parents, friends, and family, all of whom had gathered to celebrate his special day.

As Harry stood in the doorway of the living room, he was overwhelmed by the sight of so many faces—some familiar, others not so much. His father had already rolled up his sleeves to prepare a big birthday breakfast. Mum was bustling about, ensuring that everything was in place, her bright smile reflecting the happiness that filled the house. Ron and Hermione were sitting at the table, chatting excitedly about their upcoming year at Hogwarts. Neville and Luna were in the corner, discussing some strange herb Neville had been trying to cultivate. Even Luna’s father had come, much to Harry’s surprise. His presence added an air of eccentricity to the occasion, as always.

"Happy birthday, Fawn!" Sirius exclaimed, pulling Harry into a tight hug. His godfather's grin was as wide as ever, his dark eyes filled with a mischievous twinkle.

"Thanks, Pads!" Harry said, smiling back. 

Lily smiled at the exchange. "Come now, breakfast is ready, Harry," she said. "Everyone’s been waiting."

Sirius, always the entertainer, immediately launched into a story about one of his ridiculous adventures with James back in their youth. "Remember that time we snuck into the Forbidden Forest?" he asked, looking over at Regulus with a knowing smirk. Regulus, who had been quiet up until then, merely rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

"How could I forget?" Regulus replied, his voice tinged with a touch of dry humor. "You nearly got us both eaten by a blasted tree."

Lily shook her head, but her smile was full of warmth. "It’s a miracle you boys survived those years, isn’t it?" she said fondly, addressing both James and Sirius. "You and your reckless antics."

James chuckled and shrugged. "What can I say? It was a time of adventure. And we had to keep things interesting."

"Well," Ron said, reaching for a stack of pancakes, "I’m starting to see where Harry gets some of his... tendencies." He grinned at Harry.

Harry shot him a look, rolling his eyes, but he knew exactly what Ron meant. 

Hermione, as always, was the voice of reason. "I still don’t understand how you two managed to stay out of trouble as much as you did. I mean, really." She pointed a fork at James and Sirius in mock disapproval, but Harry could see the affection behind her teasing.

The day continued with laughter, games, and stories shared among friends and family. There were gifts, of course—an enchanted snitch that flew on its own, a set of magical books that would help Harry with his studies, and a new broomstick, a Nimbus 2001, that Harry couldn’t wait to try out. Luna even got him a set of glasses that would allow him to see “Nargles” whatever those were. Harry just appreciated the thought.

As the afternoon wore on, Harry found himself on the porch with Regulus. The older wizard was staring out at the horizon, a thoughtful expression on his face. Harry had always admired Regulus, who had lived through so much and yet seemed so composed. Harry felt like a mess compared to the head of the house of Black.  

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, breaking the silence. Regulus turned to him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I’m just thinking," Regulus replied, "about making you heir, so if something had happened to me or Sirius, things would be taken care of." His voice was quiet, reflective.

Harry nodded, understanding the weight of Regulus’s words. He expected this would be coming at some point but this seems rather soon, most families wait till their heir is sixteen before formally dubbing them… Harry was already heir to the Potter family, the Lupins, adding the Blacks onto that already hefty load bore down on the newly 12-year-old’s shoulders.

"Are you expecting to die anytime soon?” Harry asked, laughing softly.

Regulus gave him a small chuckle though his eyes remained distant. “No, I just want to be prepared. Dark forces are coming, I can feel it.”  

As the evening wore on, everyone gathered in the living room for a celebration. The atmosphere was relaxed and joyful, with music playing softly in the background and food being passed around. Even Luna, with her dreamy expression, had a laugh as she shared one of her peculiar stories about a creature she had discovered in the Forbidden Forest, how she managed to get away with being in the forbidden forest Harry will never know. 

Luna’s father, Xenophilius, was the most eccentric guest of all. He regaled the group with tales of his latest discoveries in the world of magical creatures, his voice growing increasingly animated as he spoke about some of his more bizarre findings. His enthusiasm was contagious, and even Regulus found himself chuckling at Xenophilius’s outlandish theories about the behavior of nargles .

As the night wore on, Harry found himself feeling at peace. His heart was full, not just with the joy of the birthday celebration, but with the knowledge that he had found a place where he truly belonged. Surrounded by friends and family—Sirius, Remus, James, Lily, Regulus, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and even Xenophilius—Harry still felt like something, someone, was missing. It was no surprise that Draco had declined Harry's invitation; the boy had been having issues at home since his father found out about their friendship. Harry just hoped Draco was okay. 

"Happy birthday, Harry," Lily said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder as they stood together, watching the stars twinkle outside. "I’m so proud of you."

Harry smiled up at his mum, feeling a surge of love and gratitude. "Thanks, Mum," 

Chapter Text

The celebration had died down, everyone returning home leaving the potter-black family lounging in the sitting room, when an unexpected sound echoed through the house—a loud crack, followed by the sudden appearance of a small house elf, standing in the middle of the living room. The guests froze, their conversations abruptly halting as they turned toward the creature who was now wringing his hands nervously.

Harry had seen house elfs before, Regulus had his own, Kretcher, who lived in 12 grimmauld place but stayed mostly out of sight and ran whatever errands regulus needed.

"Dobby is sorry for interrupting, but Dobby has urgent news for Mr. Harry Potter!" the house-elf said, his voice trembling with both fear and determination. He looked around the room, his eyes wide and fearful, as though he were standing before a great danger.

James stood up from where he had been seated, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Who sent you?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice. The room fell into an uneasy silence. Harry could see Remus in the corner reaching for his wand.

"Dobby’s young master has sent him to warn Harry Potter," Dobby said urgently. "There is a plot, a dark plot to harm Harry Potter next school year. His life is in great danger, and Dobby says Harry Potter must not return to Hogwarts!" The elf’s words hung in the air like a dark cloud, and everyone in the room reacted with shock and disbelief.

Sirius stood first with his wand raised, his face hardening. "A plot against Harry?" he said. "Who would dare—?"

"It’s true, Mr. Black," Dobby said, his voice desperate. "Dobby’s young master has heard the whispers. It is a terrible plot, and Harry Potter is the target. You must protect him!"

Lily rushed forward, concern etched across her face. "But what do you mean, Dobby? Who is behind this? How do we know it’s real?"

Dobby's large, round eyes darted nervously around the room. "Dobby cannot say who is behind it, that it is dangerous. Harry Potter’s safety is at risk. Dobby fears that the worst may come if Harry Potter returns to that school. Dobby’s master has instructed him to do whatever it takes to stop Harry Potter from going back."

The tension in the room grew thicker as Harry felt the weight of the warning settle upon him. His mind raced with questions. Who would want to hurt him? Who would want to risk everything again after all they had fought for? 

Lily stood up next, her expression grim. "Harry, we need to take this seriously. Someone wouldn’t send this poor elf all this way to bring bad news unless it was important," she added, her eyes locked with Harry’s.

Harry met his Mum’s gaze, his heart heavy with the weight of the decision. Hogwarts was a place of safety, of learning, a place where he could find strength. He didn’t want to be scared into abandoning it.

"You are the one who always says that we can’t live our lives hiding from danger," Harry said, his voice steady, though his insides were twisted with uncertainty. "If I stay away from Hogwarts because of some plot, they’ll have won. I won’t let them make me run away."

"Harry, darling, your safety comes first. We’ll protect you here—"

"That’s not the point, Lily," James interrupted gently, his tone firm. "We all want Harry safe, but hiding here isn’t the answer. The danger might find us anyway, and if it doesn’t, it won’t be over until we’ve faced it. He’s not just a boy anymore. He’s got a role to play, and Hogwarts is where he needs to be."

Regulus, who had been silently watching the exchange, stepped in, his voice calm but resolute. "I agree with James. The safest place for Harry is at Hogwarts, Dumbledore wouldn't let anything happen again, besides we’ll all be there to watch over him right? If there’s a plot to harm him, we should face it head-on, with all of us working together to protect him."

Regulus, looking out the window, spoke up. "Sometimes the greatest danger comes from where we least expect it, but it’s also true that facing what frightens us makes us stronger. Perhaps that’s what this is about—growing stronger by going forward, not hiding."

Harry felt a surge of gratitude for the unwavering support of his family. They had all experienced their own battles, and their own fears, and now, together, they were ready to face whatever challenge lay ahead.

"I’ve made up my mind," Harry said, his voice steady as he turned to face his parents and Sirius. "I’m going back to Hogwarts. And I’ll be ready for whatever happens."

As the room fell into silence after Harry made his decision, Dobby’s wide eyes filled with distress. The tiny elf trembled, his hands twisting together in an anxious wringing motion as if he could hardly contain his worry. The cheerful mood of the celebration shifted slightly, and Harry could feel the weight of Dobby’s emotions, heavy in the air.

"Dobby cannot understand!" the elf cried, his voice shaking with a mixture of frustration and fear. "Harry Potter is being so brave, yes, but he is also being so reckless!" He took a few hurried steps toward Harry, his large eyes locked onto the boy’s face as if trying to make him understand the depth of the danger.

"Dobby is very upset, Harry Potter," the elf continued, his voice growing more urgent. "Dobby’s master has heard of the plot, and it is not just a small danger—it is a great, terrible danger. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he may not survive! Dobby cannot let Harry Potter return to that school—it is too risky, too dangerous!"

Harry’s stomach twisted, guilt creeping in. He didn’t want to upset Dobby, who had always been so loyal and protective. But Harry’s mind was already made up. He knew what he had to do.

"Dobby," Harry said gently, stepping forward to meet the elf’s anxious gaze, "I understand that you’re scared, but I have to go back to Hogwarts. I can’t let fear control my life. We’ve all been through so much, and I trust my friends—my family—and I know that we can face anything together."

"Dobby is not scared!" the elf cried, his voice rising as he shook his head, his ears flopping with the force of his emotion. "Dobby was sent to protect Harry Potter, to stop him from going into danger, but Harry Potter will not listen!" Dobby’s small hands balled into fists, his face flushed with distress.

"I’m not saying I don’t appreciate your warning, Dobby," Harry said, his voice firm but understanding. "I’m just saying that we can’t live our lives hiding from danger. I’ve faced danger before, and I’m still here. And I know that Hogwarts is where I belong."

Dobby’s face crumpled with anguish. "But Harry Potter does not understand! It is too dangerous! Dobby’s master cannot lose Harry Potter!"

Dobby’s large eyes flicked to Harry, and then to the others in the room. He stood motionless for a moment, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lowered his gaze and spoke in a whisper, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"Dobby cannot bear the thought of losing Harry Potter. Dobby will not fail again," the elf murmured, with a crack, the house elf vanished once more.

The room remained unnervingly silent after Dobby’s departure, the weight of the warning still hanging in the air like a dark cloud. No one seemed to know how to respond. The flickering of the fire in the hearth was the only sound breaking the stillness, and even that seemed muted as if the entire house was holding its breath.

It was Remus who finally broke the tension. He stood from his place on the loveseat, stretching out his legs, his gaze still fixed on the spot where Dobby had disappeared. “Well, that was bloody ominous,” he muttered, his voice rough but tinged with a touch of humor. His eyes didn’t leave the empty space Dobby had left. "Besides," he continued, turning toward Regulus, "aren’t the wards supposed to keep people from Apparating in and out of the house? How did he even get in?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Remus’s casual comment didn’t quite match the unease that had settled deep in his chest. Hogwarts was supposed to be a safe haven for him. It was a place where he belonged, a place where he could grow, learn, and make friends. He wasn’t supposed to feel this anxious about returning there. But the thought of a plot against his life—one that could be so dangerous, it could lead Dobby to act the way he had—made the very idea of Hogwarts feel uncertain.

Regulus sighed deeply, his expression unreadable but tense. He sat back slightly in his armchair, eyes flicking to Harry for just a moment before he answered. “They do, for wizards," he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of annoyance. "But I need to let Kreacher travel as he pleases, otherwise, I’m afraid our lovely Lily would wake up with a dead possum on her pillow." Regulus rolled his eyes, clearly irritated by the thought, but Harry noticed the edge of humor in his words. “The old elf is relentless with his methods. I let him do as he pleases for the sake of keeping some semblance of peace.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Regulus's comment about Kreacher. “Dead possums?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

Regulus smirked, though his eyes remained focused on the task at hand. “Kreacher has a particular... attitude towards muggle-borns. You don't want to know what else he’s capable of. The house has seen its fair share of chaos thanks to him, but for all his faults, he’s useful when it matters.”

Remus chuckled quietly, though his tone was still laced with concern. “I’d say ‘that’s lovely’ but I think we’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.”

Regulus’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I’m going to have a chat with the Headmaster," he said with a heavy sigh, the gravity of the situation settling back over him. "If whoever is threatening Harry thinks we know anything, they could get bold. I don’t want to give them any reason to escalate things before we’re ready."

The words struck Harry hard. “You think they might make a move before we even get to school?” he asked, his voice tinged with fear. 

Regulus gave him a hard look, his eyes cool but understanding. “It’s possible," he said, his voice calm but with an unmistakable edge. "We can’t underestimate whoever is behind this. If they know we’re aware of the plot, they may act out of desperation. We need to stay cautious and keep up appearances. Whatever is coming, we need to be ready.”

Lily stood from her place at the table, moving toward Harry and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We’ll keep everything normal, Harry," she said softly. "We’ll get through this together.”

Sirius, who had been unusually quiet, stood up beside Regulus, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. “He’s right. We can’t let them know we’re onto them. If they think we’re not aware, they may hesitate before making a move. We’ll all be vigilant, stay calm, and keep things moving as usual.”

Lily glanced at James, who nodded slightly. “Normalcy is key. The more we show them we’re not shaken, the better. But we’ll also be keeping an eye out for anything strange—no one will slip by unnoticed.”

Harry nodded, although the uncertainty still lingered in the back of his mind. His gaze shifted to Regulus, who was already looking toward the door, his posture alert, ready for whatever task lay ahead.

“I’ll go speak to Dumbledore now," Regulus said. "Keep up appearances, stay sharp. I’ll let you know if I learn anything useful.”

Chapter Text

The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden glow over the busy streets of Diagon Alley, but Harry couldn’t shake the weight of unease that had settled deep within him. It had been a strange summer, the warning from Dobby still fresh in his mind. His family had made their decisions about what to do, and although Harry had agreed to return to Hogwarts, something about the upcoming year felt... wrong. Every flicker of movement, every conversation felt like a potential danger, a new puzzle he couldn’t yet solve. But as Harry wandered through the crowded street, with Remus by his side, trying to complete his school shopping, it was hard not to feel like something sinister was lurking just out of sight.

The shelves in all the stores gleamed with new magical goods, tempting Harry to forget his worries. He’d picked up a new set of robes, a cauldron, and ingredients for Potions class. Everything felt like business as usual, and yet Harry couldn’t quite lose the nagging feeling that he was being watched.

As they passed the apothecary, Harry’s eyes caught a familiar figure standing at the entrance of the shop. Draco Malfoy. At first, Harry wasn’t sure it was him. The Draco he knew was always well put together—his robes pristine, his hair perfectly combed. But this Draco looked different. His face was paler than usual, drawn and tired, his clothes wrinkled as if he hadn’t bothered to put much care into his appearance. His eyes, once sharp and filled with arrogance, seemed distant and weary, and his posture was hunched, like a boy trying to make himself smaller. Harry hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should approach. After everything that had happened last term, Draco’s presence always stirred a mixture of emotions in Harry. Yet, something was off. He had never seen Draco like this before.

“Draco?” Harry called out, his voice a bit uncertain. “Are you alright?”

Draco’s head snapped up, and for a brief moment, Harry could have sworn he saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced with something else—a guarded, wary expression, as if Draco was trying to hide something. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, his eyes darted around quickly, as if checking for something or someone. When he finally spoke, it was quieter than Harry had ever heard him. There was no sneer, no sharp edge to his tone.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. It didn’t have its usual venom or arrogance. Instead, it was almost... fragile. “Did you get my message?”

Harry blinked in confusion. “What message?”

Draco’s eyes flickered with something akin to frustration, like he couldn’t believe Harry didn’t know what he was talking about. But just as Harry opened his mouth to ask for clarification, a voice cut through the air—a voice Harry knew all too well.

“ Draco !”

Harry turned quickly to see Lucius Malfoy approaching. The tall, imposing figure was hard to miss, his silver cane tapping rhythmically against the cobblestone as he strode toward them. His pale face was as cold and disdainful as ever, his gaze moving from Harry to Draco with a mixture of disdain and irritation.

Lucius reached them in no time, his sharp gaze never leaving Harry’s face as he appraised the situation. Without a word, Lucius raised his cane and, with a practiced motion, struck Draco across the back of his legs. The sound of the cane making contact with Draco’s flesh echoed through the alley, and Harry’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

“Father!” Draco gasped, stumbling slightly forward as the force of the blow hit him. He winced and turned his face to the ground, trying to recover his composure, but the pain was evident on his features.

Lucius didn’t seem to care, his face twisted in a sneer as he grabbed Draco by the arm, yanking him back. His voice, low and dangerous, filled the air. “I told you not to speak to that... filthy Half-Blood,” Lucius spat, his eyes narrowing with disgust as he looked down at Harry. “You will learn your place, Draco. Now come along.”

Harry felt a surge of anger rising within him. “Hey!” he started, but Lucius shot him a glance so cold, so full of venom, that Harry’s words faltered.

“Stay out of it, Potter,” Lucius growled, his voice dripping with contempt. “This is a family matter.”

Draco, however, didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes met Harry’s, and in that fleeting moment, there was something Harry had never seen before—a silent plea, a quiet desperation. It was so out of character for Draco, who had always been so proud, so confident.

“I’ll explain at school,” Draco whispered quickly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the alley. His words were rushed, as if he feared his father would stop him from speaking any longer. “Just... don’t forget about it.”

Before Harry could even respond, Lucius had yanked Draco away, dragging him down the alley with a speed that left Harry standing there, rooted to the spot. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

Draco had looked terrified. Worse, it had seemed like he was trying to warn Harry about something. The entire encounter had left Harry feeling cold and confused, a swirl of questions in his mind.

“Harry?” Remus’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Harry turned to see his former professor approaching, his brow furrowed with concern.

Harry opened his mouth to explain, but the words got stuck. Instead, he simply nodded toward the direction Draco and his father had gone, still processing what had just happened.

“Draco,” Harry said, his voice tight. “His father... he hit him, Remus. Right in front of me. I—I don’t know what to think. It was just... wrong.”

Remus’s expression darkened slightly, his lips pressing together as he glanced over to where Draco had vanished. “Lucius Malfoy is cruel,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with an edge of sadness. “And he’s always been that way, but this... this is different. Draco was trying to tell you something. That much is clear.”

Harry swallowed, still trying to make sense of the encounter. “But what? He asked me if I got his message. What message, Remus? He hasn't owled all summer!”

Remus hesitated before answering, his gaze shifting to the ground as if lost in thought. “I’m not sure, Harry. But it’s clear that Draco is in trouble—real trouble. And whatever message he wanted to get across, it’s something that’s important.”

“Important enough for him to risk his father’s wrath?” Harry murmured, still reeling from the sight of Lucius’s attack.

“I think Draco is afraid,” Remus said, his tone soft but firm. “More afraid than he’s let on. But we’ll figure it out. For now, we need to stay focused.”

Harry nodded, though his heart still raced in his chest. He couldn’t shake the image of Draco’s face—the pain, the fear—and the desperate look he had given Harry. It wasn’t just an empty threat or a prank. Something was happening to Draco. Something Harry didn’t fully understand, but knew was important.

“Let’s head to Flourish and Blotts,” Remus suggested, steering Harry toward the bookshop. “The others are waiting. We’ll talk more when we’re back at the house.”

Harry nodded again, though his mind was far from the idea of school books and summer shopping. He couldn’t stop thinking about Draco, the strange message he had been trying to deliver, and the fear in his eyes. Whatever was going on with him, whatever message Draco had wanted to give Harry, it had to be connected to the one Dobby had given him.

As they entered the bookshop, Harry’s friends were already there, chatting about their summer holidays, picking up new editions of textbooks. But Harry’s attention was elsewhere, his thoughts still tangled in the encounter with Draco. There was something about that moment that stuck with him, something important. And Harry knew, deep down, that Draco’s warning couldn’t be ignored. The danger was real. And whatever it was, Harry was going to have to face it—whether he was ready or not.

As the door of Flourish and Blotts closed behind him, Harry’s mind raced. There was still so much he didn’t understand, but one thing was certain—he couldn’t turn his back on Draco now.  

The air in Flourish and Blotts was thick with the scent of ink and parchment as Harry walked through the aisles of the bookshop with Remus, meeting Sirius and his parents in the store. It was a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos of school shopping, but even so, Harry couldn’t shake the weight in his chest.

As they rounded a corner, Harry’s stomach tightened when he spotted a familiar face—a face that made his skin crawl. Gilderoy Lockhart. The famous, self-absorbed wizard who had written countless books about his supposed “adventures” in the magical world. Harry had met him briefly before at something or another, and though Lockhart had been pleasant enough, everything about the man screamed arrogance. He was always smiling, always acting like the center of attention, and Harry hated it.

“Oh, look! It’s Harry Potter!” Lockhart’s loud, overly enthusiastic voice boomed across the shop. Harry froze, his heart dropping to his stomach.

Lily, sensing Harry’s discomfort, placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to stop, Harry,” she said softly, but it was too late.

Lockhart had already spotted them and was making his way over, his blonde hair practically gleaming in the light. He was dressed in his usual flamboyant purple robes, his face wearing a grin that made Harry feel nauseous. The man approached, as if he were the greatest thing in the shop, and Harry could already feel the first wave of discomfort wash over him.

“Well, well, well,” Lockhart said, practically glowing with excitement. “If it isn’t the famous Harry Potter! How absolutely wonderful to see you, young man. The things I’ve heard about you, truly extraordinary!” He paused for a moment, his blue eyes practically sparkling. “You’ve done so much for the wizarding world, haven’t you? The way you vanquished You-Know-Who—such bravery!”

Harry clenched his fists, fighting the surge of irritation that rose within him. “Ah yes, when I, the one year old, sat in my crib while my Mum and uncle did all the work.” Harry said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He hated it when people talked about that day, as though it had been some grand heroic moment. It wasn’t bravery. It had been a bloody fluke on his part. And yet, people insisted on celebrating it like it was the most important thing that had ever happened. But it wasn’t just the attention that bothered him—it was Lockhart himself. The way he looked at Harry, as though Harry were some sort of trophy to be admired and fawned over.

Lockhart, of course, didn’t stop there. “I think we should capture this moment, don’t you?” He reached into his robes and pulled out a shiny, brand-new camera. “It’ll be so good for the fans! The fans will love it—Harry Potter, photographed with me , the great Gilderoy Lockhart!”

Before Harry could protest, Lockhart had already placed an arm around his shoulders and beamed at the camera. The bright flash of the camera went off, momentarily blinding Harry, and his breath hitched in his chest. His heart began to race, the feeling of being trapped, exposed, like every inch of him was on display for the world to see. He could already hear the buzzing of the camera as it captured the moment—he could see the headline in the papers already: Harry Potter and Gilderoy Lockhart Together at Last!

Harry felt the room closing in on him, his hands beginning to shake as his panic swelled. The stifling, constricting feeling of being forced to smile for a picture when he didn’t want to made his chest feel tight. His breath became shallow, his vision blurring around the edges.

“Harry?” Lily’s voice was urgent, but it felt miles away. She was leaning down to him, her hand gently gripping his arm. “Hey, Harry, breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart.”

But Harry could barely hear her over the ringing in his ears, his body frozen in place. The incessant feeling of being trapped under the spotlight was too much. He didn’t want to be in that photo, didn’t want to be in the public eye, didn’t want the attention. The weight of it pressed down on him like a heavy blanket, suffocating him.

“Hey, Harry, look at me,” James said, his voice firm and calming. He stepped forward and gently took Harry’s other arm. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay? Just focus on us, Fawn. Focus on us.”

Remus, who had been standing nearby with Sirius, caught sight of the scene and quickly approached. He placed a hand on Harry’s back, his voice soft yet reassuring. “It’s alright, Harry. We’ve got you. Just keep breathing.”

Lockhart, still oblivious to the growing tension, was now taking another photo, his grin wide and obnoxious. Harry could feel his heart racing faster, the sound of the camera clicking repeatedly ringing in his ears. It felt like the walls were closing in.

“Gilderoy,” James said, his voice firm as he stepped in front of Harry, blocking the next shot. “That’s enough. We appreciate the enthusiasm, but Harry doesn’t like having his picture taken.”

Lockhart raised an eyebrow, clearly put off, but didn’t argue. “Oh, well, of course, of course. Just thought it’d be good for the fans, you know? But no worries, I understand,” he said, still flashing that forced, overdone grin. “Best to keep the young man comfortable.”

Lily gently guided Harry toward the door, her hand never leaving his back. “Let’s get out of here, love. Just a little walk, okay? We’re leaving now. You’re fine.”

Harry barely heard her, his breaths still shallow as he let them lead him away. They exited the shop quickly, Remus staying behind with his husband to finish buying Harry’s books.

Outside, the cool air hit Harry’s face, and he felt the knot in his chest slowly loosen, though his hands were still shaking. He took in a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. The world outside was much calmer than the suffocating atmosphere of the bookshop. The familiar hum of the marketplace outside was quieter, less suffocating, though the overwhelming feeling of exposure was still there, lingering at the edge of his consciousness.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Lily asked, her voice gentle as she kept her hand on his back. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Harry nodded, though his throat was tight, and the tightness in his chest hadn’t completely faded. “Yeah. I’m... sorry. I just—” He hesitated, glancing at his parents. “I just... I can’t handle all that attention. I hate it. I don’t want people taking pictures of me like that.”

James rubbed Harry’s shoulder, his expression soft but understanding. “You don’t have to apologize, Harry. We get it. You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations. We’re with you, no matter what.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Lily added, pulling him into a gentle hug. “We’ll never force you into something like that again. You deserve to feel safe, not like some... spectacle.”

Harry took comfort in their words, though the unease still lingered. He appreciated their support, but it didn’t make the sting of being in the spotlight any easier to bear. All he had wanted was a normal life, one where he could walk down the street without being recognized, where he wasn’t expected to live up to some image of “the Boy Who Lived.”

“I’m okay now,” Harry said, his voice a little steadier. “I just... I wish I didn’t have to deal with stuff like that.”

“You don’t have to,” James said firmly. “We’ll make sure of it. Let’s go back and relax, yeah? We can deal with the rest later.”

Together, the family made their way back through Diagon Alley, Harry leaning into his parents for support. It was a small victory, but for once, Harry felt like he had taken control. He wasn’t going to let anyone push him into being something he wasn’t—not even Gilderoy Lockhart.

And as they walked away from the shop, with its lingering flashes of cameras and the world’s expectations pressing in on him, Harry made a vow to himself: he wouldn’t let fame define him. He would live for himself—on his own terms.

Chapter Text

The candles in the Slytherin common room flickered softly as Harry lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The castle felt different now, and the first night back at Hogwarts was always filled with the weight of anticipation and uncertainty. This year felt heavier, though. There was a palpable tension in the air—both from the news of potential danger and from the strange, odd, feeling Harry was getting from Draco. He still wasn't entirely sure how it had happened, but over the summer, Draco had reached out to him, and their tentative friendship had bloomed into something deeper than either of them had expected.

The room was quiet except for the occasional rustling of parchment as Draco sat at his desk, scribbling something down. Draco finished what he was writing and set his quill down with a sigh, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. He glanced over at Harry, who was still staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“Draco,” Harry began, his voice low. “We need to talk.”

Draco blinked, clearly taken aback. “About what?”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “About that message .”

Draco froze, the color draining from his face as he shifted in his seat. His fingers drummed nervously against the armrest. “What about him?”

Him.

“I knew it was you!” Harry exclaimed, jumping from his seat, and watching Draco’s face tighten. “You sent Dobby. To warn me!”

Draco looked away, not meeting Harry’s gaze, and for a moment, there was a tense silence between them. Harry’s chest tightened. There was no denying it now..

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Draco finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just... I overheard my father talking, and I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I thought if I could warn you, maybe you could... I don’t know, be ready for it. I didn’t mean for it to come off the way it did.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You overheard your father talking about a plot to hurt me? And you thought sending a house elf to warn me was the best way to handle it?”

Draco rubbed his temples, clearly frustrated with himself. “I haven't been allowed to Owl anyone all summer,” He hesitated, his voice softer. “Especially you. But I couldn’t ignore it. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Not you, not anyone.”

Harry felt a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion. While Draco had never been as cruel as people assumed, it wasn't often he was proactive about situations such as these.

“You should’ve come to me directly,” Harry said, the frustration evident in his voice. “Instead of sending Dobby like that, scaring the hell out of me and my folks. You should’ve told me yourself.”

Draco winced at the rebuke but nodded. “Yeah, I know. I was trying to protect you. I thought it might be easier to get the message across if it came from him. I didn’t want anyone to think I was involved, but... I don’t know. It just seemed like the only way.”

Harry let out a sigh, rubbing his eyes. The more Draco spoke, the more Harry realized that he’d never fully understood how torn Draco was between his family’s expectations and what he truly believed in. "It’s not easy, is it?" Harry asked softly. "Being stuck between what your family wants and what you know is right?"

Draco met his gaze, his expression full of conflict. “No, it isn’t. You have no idea what it’s like to be in my shoes, Potter. I don’t want to be my father. I don’t want to follow him down that path, but... sometimes it feels like there’s no other way.”

Harry thought back to everything Draco had said over the last few weeks—the moments when he’d been surprisingly open, his fears for his family, his desire to protect those he cared about.

“So, what now?” Harry asked, his voice steady. “What do we do about this?”

Draco exhaled slowly, as though weighing his options. "I don’t know," he said quietly. "But I can’t pretend like nothing’s happening. This isn’t just about me or you anymore. It’s bigger than that. There is something really bad happening here.”

Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, taking in what Draco had said. His mind raced as he processed the gravity of the situation. He had a thousand questions.

Draco’s gaze faltered, and for a moment, Harry saw something raw in his eyes. "I don’t know who I can trust anymore," Draco admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’m not sure where this is all heading. My father... he’s not the man I thought he was, Harry. And the people he’s involved with? They terrify me."

Harry’s heart sank as he absorbed Draco’s words. He had always known that Draco had a complicated relationship with his family, but hearing him speak so openly about his fear for his father—and the people his father consorted with—was unsettling.

"You don’t have to worry about me," Harry said, trying to reassure Draco. "Dumbledore said that Hogwarts is safe, and I trust him. My parents believe that too. They wouldn’t send me back if they thought it was dangerous."

Draco didn’t respond right away. He seemed to be thinking something over, his eyes fixed on the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with doubt. "I want to believe that too. I do. But you heard what I said. You’ve got to be careful, Harry. If my father and his friends are involved, I don’t know what they’re planning. And I don’t think Dumbledore or your parents can protect you from everything."

Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Draco’s words rang in his ears, and while he wanted to dismiss them, a part of him couldn’t. There was something ominous about the situation. The knowledge that Draco’s father and his associates were involved in something dangerous made it all too real. The doubts that had been growing inside of him were now fully formed. Could he trust that Hogwarts was safe? Could he trust that Dumbledore’s protection would be enough?

Draco stood up and walked over to Harry’s bed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I’m not trying to scare you, Haz. I just want you to be ready. Whatever’s coming, we have to face it together. If you need help, you know where to find me."

Harry looked up at Draco, his mind spinning. Despite the doubts swirling inside him, he felt a sense of resolve. Draco was right. Whatever was coming, they would have to face it together. And maybe, just maybe, they could get through it without becoming pawns in someone else’s game.

"I’ll keep my eyes open," Harry said firmly. "And I’ll make sure my family knows what you told me. Thanks, Draco. I know it wasn’t easy for you to say all of this."

Draco gave him a small nod, his face softening for the first time that evening. "You’re welcome. Just... stay safe, alright? We don’t know what we’re up against."

Chapter Text

The first class of the year was Defense Against the Dark Arts , and Harry could already feel his stomach doing somersaults at the thought of spending an hour with Gilderoy Lockhart. This was not how he had imagined his first day back at Hogwarts. Professor Quirrell... Well, he was still absent after the events of last year, Lockhart had been asked to step in and teach 1st through 4th-year students. Harry couldn’t believe his bad luck.

Stepping into the classroom, Harry was immediately struck by the flamboyant, dazzling figure of Professor Lockhart. Standing at the front, the man seemed to be glowing under the warm classroom lights. His robes were a vibrant purple, embroidered with golden threads that shimmered as if enchanted. His long, silvery hair was perfectly styled, and his beaming smile was wider than Harry had ever seen. The man looked like he had just stepped out of some over-the-top advertisement for some kind of magical beauty product. Harry couldn’t help but feel a wave of dread wash over him. Everything about Lockhart screamed “Look at me!”—and Harry wanted to do anything but.

As the students shuffled in and found their seats, Lockhart greeted them in the loud, booming voice that always seemed to echo through the room, despite how spacious it was. “Ah, yes! Welcome, my dear students! We have so much to learn this year!” He waved his arms in grand, sweeping gestures as he spoke. "This year, we’ll be focusing on the terrible creatures that lurk just beneath the surface of our everyday lives, and how to defend ourselves against them. I’ll take you through each step, slow and steady. After all,” he said with a wink, “I am the expert here!”

Harry’s stomach churned, and he quickly glanced over at Ron. They exchanged an eye-roll; both were painfully aware of Lockhart’s inability to tone down his self-absorption. Harry had always hated being in the spotlight, especially when that spotlight seemed to shine so forcefully on him. And Lockhart was obsessed with that spotlight. Harry didn’t need this right now. He wasn’t interested in hearing about Lockhart’s past accomplishments or his ridiculous stories about his “adventures.” They never seemed to align with reality anyway.

He glanced over at Remus, who was standing near the back of the room. Remus had been assigned as an assistant instructor, a role that seemed more like a babysitter than anything else, considering Lockhart’s well-established incompetence. Remus was trying to stay composed, but Harry could see the subtle tension in his posture as he observed Lockhart’s antics. It was clear that Remus was going to have his hands full this year. Harry was starting to feel sorry for him. It was going to be a long year.

Harry was jolted from his thoughts when Lockhart’s voice boomed again. “Ah, Harry Potter! The Hero of Hogwarts!” He said it like he was unveiling some prized statue, a personal hero of the wizarding world. Lockhart beamed at Harry, as though Harry had just won a massive award. “A few more weeks with me, and you’ll be an expert yourself! Everyone, do take notes—this is important.” Harry felt his face go hot, and he ducked his head slightly, hoping no one would notice him.

Harry’s mother raised him in a kind and caring manner. But at this moment Harry wished death upon Lockhart and was not ashamed to admit it. 

Lockhart’s enthusiasm only made Harry want to sink deeper into his seat. He didn’t want this kind of attention. All he wanted was to be left alone, to learn without all the fanfare. Instead, it was like a weight was placed on his shoulders, and it was hard to breathe beneath it. His fame, something he hadn’t asked for, felt suffocating. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, the tightening of his chest. “Yeah, sure,” Harry muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

The rest of the class proceeded in a painfully typical fashion. Lockhart prattled on about his so-called “great” feats and “heroic” battles with dark creatures, including his supposed “encounters” with Chimaeras, Boggarts, and dark wizards. Harry didn’t need to hear any more of it. He was certain none of Lockhart’s supposed “victories” were real. It was all a self-serving fabrication. Harry had grown used to the idea that people would make up stories about him, but it felt different when it came from someone like Lockhart—someone who was actually pretending to be a hero when he was just a glorified storyteller.

As if to prove Harry’s point, Lockhart dramatically pulled out a cage from beneath the desk. Inside, a dozen tiny, glowing pixies flitted about, laughing in high-pitched, jarring voices. The pixies were as annoying as they were harmless, but Harry knew this would only end in disaster.

“Pixies,” Lockhart announced with a flourish. “Easily one of the most mischievous—but harmless—creatures. Let’s see how you handle them, shall we?” He waved his wand grandly, releasing the pixies into the classroom with another dramatic flourish.

Chaos erupted almost immediately. The pixies darted around, chittering and screeching, their wings a blur of electric blue. One of them immediately tugged at Hermione’s hair, and she squealed, trying to swat it away. Another zipped past Ron’s head, and he nearly fell out of his chair as he ducked to avoid it. The classroom descended into madness, and Harry had to stifle a laugh as he watched Hermione desperately try to control the situation, all while standing on her desk to avoid the raucous creatures.

“Right,” Harry muttered, standing up to join the fray. “Let’s just hope they don’t destroy the classroom, eh?” He glanced around at the other students, all trying and failing to maintain control. “This is ridiculous.”

“Honestly, if they do, I think it’d be an improvement,” Ron grumbled, leaping to his feet and grabbing his wand. “This is bloody mental.” He swiped at a pixie that was flying too close to his face, only to miss it completely.

Despite his growing frustration, Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit of sympathy for Hermione, who was now standing on the desk trying to fend off a particularly stubborn pixie. She had her wand raised and was muttering incantations under her breath, clearly trying to work out a strategy. “Come on, guys! We need to work together!” Hermione called out, her face a mix of annoyance and determination.

Harry grabbed his wand and flicked it at a pixie that was zooming too close. It darted away, only to have another one fly straight into his face. “Ugh, I hate this,” Harry muttered.

Ron shot him a sympathetic glance as he swatted at yet another pixie. “Well, at least it’s not a bloody game of chess.” He narrowly avoided being hit in the face by one of the creatures.

“True,” Harry sighed, though it didn’t make him feel any better.

Lockhart, meanwhile, seemed completely oblivious to the chaos he had just unleashed. He stood back, his arms outstretched as if to present the students with an exciting learning opportunity. “Ah, yes, see how they’re flying, students? It’s all about the correct posture and the right flick of your wand. No need to worry; I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Harry couldn’t stop the groan that slipped out of his mouth. “Yeah, right,” he muttered. “We’re all doomed .”

The whole situation became worse when Draco strolled into the fray, barely batting an eye at the pixies. He crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby desk, watching the others scramble. He didn’t even flinch as one of the pixies darted past his face.

“Don’t you care?” Harry asked in exasperation, stepping around a corner to avoid a pixie that was flying straight toward him.

Draco looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Not particularly. It’s just pixies.”

Ron snorted. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Draco shrugged, his smirk barely noticeable. “It’s not a big deal.”

Harry couldn’t understand it. Maybe it was his Slytherin mentality—he wasn’t afraid of a challenge, but there was a level of carelessness in Draco that made Harry very nervous for the boy’s safety. This wasn’t something to dismiss, not when it was causing mayhem. Still, he couldn’t afford to argue now. The pixies needed dealing with.

Thankfully, after what felt like an eternity, Remus stepped in. Calm, steady, and in control, he flicked his wand twice and brought the pixies back into their cage without so much as breaking a sweat. His intervention was so effortless that Harry couldn’t help but feel relieved.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Remus said, his voice soothing. “Let’s all calm down.” The pixies were now neatly back in their cage, and the classroom was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustling of robes as students tried to collect their scattered thoughts.

Lockhart, however, was still grinning as if he’d won some great victory. “Well, that was a success, wasn’t it? See, students? That’s what happens when you know how to handle your creatures!” He glanced toward Remus. “Good work, Assistant Professor!”

Remus shot him a look. “You could have warned them first,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry gathered his things, ready to get out of the room. “If I have to spend another class with him , I might just jump out the window.”

“I’m with you there,” Ron said, his face bright red from the sheer frustration of the whole ordeal.

Draco’s face remained unreadable, though Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he, too, had enjoyed watching the madness unfold.

As they all filed out of the classroom, Harry couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that the class was over.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with conversation as Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Draco gathered around the Gryffindor table. The group migrated between to keep things fair between houses but with Neville being included in lunch today, they figured the Gryffindor table would be best. The chatter around them rose up softly, casting a warm blanket of noise over the group.

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at Draco with raised eyebrows. "So, you're trying out for Chaser, huh? Didn’t expect that," he said, arms crossed over his chest.

Draco smirked, a glint of determination in his grey eyes. "Well, I do have more talent than you lot give me credit for," he replied coolly, his tone edged with his usual confidence. "I’m just not as showy as some."

Ron snorted, clearly unable to contain his amusement. "Yeah, right. You? Playing Chaser? I’d say you’d be better suited for something where you don’t have to, you know, actually work as a team."

Hermione, sitting beside Ron, rolled her eyes. "Ron, stop being so rude. If Draco wants to try out for Chaser, it’s his choice. Maybe he actually has a good reason for it." She shot Ron a pointed look, but her voice softened with genuine curiosity as she turned back to Draco. "I mean, it’s not like you’re terrible at Quidditch. You’re just... well, you’re usually a bit of a..."

"A prima donna ?" Ron cut in, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Imagining you in a kit covered in mud is a hilarious picture.”

Hermione gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow. "A bit of one," she muttered under her breath before continuing, "But still, if you’re serious about it, Draco, I’m sure you can handle it. Besides you're the best flyer in our year, second to Harry of course."

Neville, who had been quietly listening, nodded nervously. "Yeah, I mean, who knows? Draco might be really good at it. I heard he has good hand-eye coordination." His voice was hopeful, almost shy as if he genuinely believed it was possible.

Luna, who had been sitting cross-legged on the table, looked up from her book with her usual dreamy expression. "I think it’s admirable that Draco’s branching out," she said, her voice as serene as ever. "I once heard the stars align for someone when they try something new. Maybe the Blibbering Humdinger’s flight pattern even matches the way Draco’s going to throw the Quaffle."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What’s a Blibbering Humdinger?" he asked, clearly amused, though the faintest smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "Oh, just a little creature. It’s irrelevant. What matters is that you're open to trying something different, Draco."

"Right," Draco said, looking slightly bewildered but oddly appreciative. "Thanks, I guess."

Harry couldn’t help but grin at the oddness of it all. "I still think you’re being a bit ambitious, Malfoy. Chaser is loads more dangerous than seeker and-"

Draco shot him a sharp look, his usual smirk making an appearance. "I know how to play Quidditch, Harry. Just because I haven’t been on a real team before doesn’t mean I can’t handle it." He leaned forward as if to emphasize his point. "I don’t need your concern, thank you."

Hermione, ever the voice of reason, spoke up again. "You do have the right sort of attitude for it, Draco," she said thoughtfully. "You’ve always been driven. And it’s a great way to prove yourself."

Ron snorted again, but this time, it was more out of disbelief than mockery. "He’s already proven himself as a right pain in the arse," he muttered under his breath.

Neville glanced nervously between them all, unsure how to respond. "Well, maybe... maybe this could be good for Draco. I mean, he’s always been a bit... well, let’s say he’s not the best at getting along with anyone but us, but Quidditch is a team sport. Maybe this will teach him something."

Luna smiled, her gaze distant yet comforting. "Exactly! Quidditch is a magical blend of cooperation and competition. Draco will discover something new about himself."

Draco shifted uncomfortably but didn’t let his usual bravado slip. Instead, he gave a sharp nod. "I’m sure I’ll manage just fine," he said confidently, though his voice betrayed a hint of self-assurance that wasn’t entirely cold. "If I make the team, that is."

Harry chuckled, leaning forward with a sly grin. "Guess we’ll see. You better not let me down, Draco."

Draco met his gaze, the competitive fire in his eyes unmistakable. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Harry," he shot back. "You’re just lucky I’m on your team. Wouldn’t want to face me as an opponent."

Hermione, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless, raised her glass of pumpkin juice. "Well, good luck with your tryouts, Draco," she said. "I’ll be rooting for you... as long as you don’t mess up too badly."

Ron groaned, slumping down in his seat. "Yeah, good luck, mate. Just don’t break anything."

Luna, her eyes twinkling with quiet certainty, added softly, "The stars are in your favor, Draco. Just trust in the Quaffle’s journey."

Draco blinked at her, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips once again. "Thanks, Luna. I’ll be just fine."

Later that week, the Quidditch pitch was alive with energy, the crisp air carrying the sounds of brooms slicing through the wind and the occasional thud of the Quaffle against the posts. The towering stands were filled with students cheering and calling out, their faces a mix of excitement and anticipation. Draco stood at the edge of the pitch, eyes narrowed against the sharp sun as he surveyed the field. His body was tense, his focus unwavering as he observed the players, the way they maneuvered through the air with practiced precision. He was here for one reason: to claim the Chaser position, the most glamorous role on the team. The position that would get him noticed, and—perhaps more importantly—get under his father’s skin. Lucius Malfoy had insisted that Draco should try for Harry’s spot on the team, a thought that churned Draco’s stomach every time it crossed his mind. No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t let his father dictate his every move. The Chaser spot was his own choice, and he would prove it was the right one.

His grip tightened around his new Nimbus 2001, the familiar weight of the broom grounding him. It was sleek, gleaming in the sunlight, and perfect in every way. Draco had always been a natural when it came to flying. His reflexes were sharp, and he could navigate the most complicated aerial maneuvers without sweat. He was fast and precise—he knew he had the skill to back up his claim.  He wasn’t just good—he was better than the rest.

The Quidditch team was his for the taking, and today, he was making it clear that he belonged there. He was going to be the star. His fingers brushed the handle of his broom again, feeling the magic that buzzed just beneath its polished surface. This was it. His moment.

The morning of the tryouts dawned bright and clear, the crisp air of early autumn biting at Harry’s cheeks as he stood with his friends at the edge of the Quidditch pitch. He had been up since sunrise, pacing restlessly in the locker room, getting into the right mindset for his own tryout. Being Seeker was no small responsibility, especially with a new team forming around him. But that was only half the focus of his attention today.

As the rest of the team and the candidates for other positions gathered around, Harry found a spot near the stands with Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Luna. His eyes were locked on Draco as he adjusted his broom, the Nimbus 2001 gleaming in the sunlight. His posture was tense, though his face betrayed no hint of nervousness. In fact, he looked almost too calm—like he was playing a game he had already won.

Hermione, standing beside Harry, was the first to speak. “I honestly didn’t think he’d make it this far,” she said, her voice tight with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “He might be better than Professor Potter,”

Neville, ever the optimist, gave a small, encouraging nod. "He has surprised me, that's for sure"

Luna, on the other hand, looked peaceful, unbothered by the tension in the air. "The stars tell me he’ll be quite good at it," she said, her voice soft but filled with strange confidence. "Sometimes, the Quaffle chooses its Chaser as much as the Chaser chooses the Quaffle."

What does that even mean?

Harry chuckled at her cryptic response but kept his eyes on the pitch. He didn’t know if it was just the early morning chill getting to him or if there was something more to Draco’s decision, but he found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, Draco was about to prove everyone wrong.

The whistle blew, and the tryouts began.

Draco was the first to take to the air, his broomstick swishing beneath him as he soared upward with an almost defiant speed. He shot a quick glance at the other candidates—some from his own house, some from other houses—and then, with an almost imperceptible nod to himself, he dove into the drills.

Harry watched closely as Draco sped across the pitch, dodging bludgers and effortlessly tossing the Quaffle through the rings, his throws precise and swift. At times, it looked almost too easy, like Draco had been practicing for this moment his entire life. His movements were sharp, calculated, and fluid. He could almost hear the sound of his heart pounding in his chest as he observed. Draco was good. In fact, he was better than good.

Ron was watching too, but his expression was less impressed. "Okay, he can throw a Quaffle," he muttered. "Big deal."

Hermione, on the other hand, was staring intently. "It’s not just that," she said, her tone thoughtful. "He’s got great timing. And look at his footwork, Ron. He’s moving with the others, anticipating their passes. He’s thinking like a team player. Maybe if you’d have done that, you’d be on the pitch with Gryffindor."

Draco weaved between the other players, his eyes sharp as he caught the Quaffle out of the air, barely missing a bludger. He made a perfect pass to a fellow Slytherin, who missed the hoop by a hair, but Draco didn't seem to care. He moved in, grabbed the Quaffle again, and took another shot—this one a clean, perfect arc right through the center ring. There was no hesitation. No arrogance. Just pure, precise skill.

Harry could feel the weight of the moment settle in his chest. His own mind, normally quick to pick apart every player on the pitch, was silent. Draco had earned this moment. He’d earned it with each calculated move, with each throw, with each strategic play. Harry had expected Draco to crumble under the pressure, to show his usual arrogance, but instead, Draco had proven something that Harry hadn’t anticipated: he was good at this. 

Really good.

As the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the tryouts, Draco floated down from the pitch with a look of cool satisfaction, his face a mask of control. There was a murmur of approval from the team captains, and Harry could tell the Slytherin team was already considering how they might fit him in.

Luna was the first to speak, her voice light as ever. "I think he did quite well, don’t you?"

Neville smiled, nodding. "Yeah, he’s really... smooth on a broom."

Hermione was quieter now, more contemplative. "He’s not just smooth. He’s calculated. He knows exactly what he’s doing." She looked at Harry. "If he makes it, he’ll be a great asset to the team."

Ron crossed his arms, still skeptical, but even he had to admit there was something impressive about Draco’s performance. "I suppose," he muttered, "but he still thinks he’s the best at everything."

Harry didn’t respond right away. He watched as Draco landed and gave a small, triumphant nod to his teammates. There was no showy celebration, no boasting. Just quiet confidence.

The team captains conferred for a moment, their voices low and indistinct, but Harry knew they had already made up their minds. He could see it in the way they nodded, the way their eyes flicked toward Draco. When they called him over, the look of pride on his face was unmistakable.

"Malfoy," Flint said, "you’re on the team."

Draco’s lips curled into a smile, the kind that only a true Malfoy could pull off—half satisfaction, half superiority. But Harry could sense there was something else there too. Something genuine. For once, Draco Malfoy wasn’t just playing a game to prove something to everyone else. He had proved it to himself.

The others gathered around Draco as he approached, and though Ron still looked like he might burst from frustration, Hermione gave a small, congratulatory nod. Neville’s face was full of quiet admiration, and Luna simply smiled with the serene certainty that had come to define her.

Harry remained silent, but as he watched Draco walk back to the changing rooms, broom and kit in hand, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect. Whether he liked it or not, Draco Malfoy had just earned his place on the team. And he would be a formidable Chaser.

Draco loved watching his friends’ faces as he wowed them

But Harry—Harry was different. His smile, small and almost imperceptible, caught Draco’s eye across the pitch. For a split second, Draco’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in Harry’s expression, something soft and genuine, that caused a strange warmth to pool in Draco’s chest. It wasn’t admiration, but it wasn’t scorn either. It was acknowledgment. And that was enough to make Draco’s pride surge even higher. Yes, this was his moment.

He was finally stepping out of the shadow of his father’s expectations and into a world that was truly his own. No one was going to look at him and see just another bigoted Malfoy. They were going to see Draco Malfoy, the Chaser . And they were going to respect him for it.

Marcus Flint handed him the green and silver Quidditch kit, the fabric cold against his fingertips as he pulled them over his head. The robes were unmistakably Slytherin, emblazoned with the house crest, but this was more than just about the house. It was about identity, about power. The feeling of the robes settling on his shoulders was like armor—heavy, but not oppressive. In that moment, Draco felt invincible.

The fabric clung to his frame, a perfect fit that seemed to confirm what he already knew: this was where he belonged. 

Draco looked out at the pitch again, his eyes scanning the field. It was empty now, the players having retreated into the changing rooms, but for a moment, it was as if he could still feel the adrenaline pulsing through the air, the crackle of competition and the thrill of victory just waiting for him to claim it.

This wasn’t just a game. This was his chance to prove himself—to prove that he didn’t need to rely on his family’s name or his father’s influence to make a mark on the world. He wasn’t going to be just another Malfoy heir. He was going to be something more. The roar of the crowd, the rush of wind as he flew through the air—it would all be for him, and no one else.

As the tryouts ended, Draco had already made a plan. He would find Harry afterward and ask if he wanted to go to the library. They could look up some new plays, new strategies—anything to take their team to the next level. A part of Draco wasn’t sure Harry would say yes after his mishap with Dobby, but the idea of spending time with him, outside of the dorm, sparked a warmth he couldn’t quite shake.

But when Draco stepped off the pitch, lost in thought, the heavy tread of boots stopped him in his tracks.

“Looks like the Quidditch team’s been invaded by Muggles,” Goyle sneered, his towering form casting a shadow over Draco as he loomed. The air between them crackled with the usual tension.

Draco stiffened, fists clenching at his sides. “I’m not a Muggle, you oaf,” he snapped, raising his chin defiantly.

Goyle’s grin only widened. “Sure seems like it. Associating with Mudbloods, half-bloods, and blood traitors now?” His voice was thick with mockery, each word dripping with contempt.

Before Draco could retort, Crabbe spat. The saliva hit the ground just beside Draco’s boot, and the sight made his stomach turn. It was too much. In an instant, Crabbe shoved him hard in the chest. The force of it knocked Draco off balance, and he stumbled backward, landing hard on the ground with a painful thud. His Nimbus 2001 slipped from his grip, the broom skidding away across the grass. His new robes were tangled next to him, the fabric wrinkling slightly as he scrambled to push himself up.

“Oi!” Harry’s voice cut through the tension. He was already moving before Draco could even think to react. His boots thudded against the grass as he charged toward Crabbe, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. “Looks like your nose healed nicely, Crabbe. How about we test how well your jaw does?” His voice was calm, too calm—Draco could hear the undercurrent of danger in Harry’s words, the barely contained rage.

“Harry, don’t get in another fight, please,” Draco begged, his voice strained as he pushed himself to his feet, dusting the dirt off his robes. His hands were shaking, but he forced himself to stand tall. “They’re not worth it.”

Behind Harry, Ron and Hermione were already on their feet, wands drawn, their eyes locked on Crabbe and Goyle, ready to spring into action if things escalated.

“Are you sure, Draco?” Harry asked, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. His voice was calmer now, though still edged with concern. His green eyes locked with Draco’s, searching for any sign of what to do next.

Draco swallowed hard, pushing down the wave of frustration and fear rising in his chest. “Yes, Harry,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We should go before—”

“Potter! Fighting. Again. Really?” The voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a whip. Everyone froze. The students in the stands had fallen silent, watching as Professor Black stormed over to them, his black robes sweeping around his ankles with every angry step.

Regulus stopped in front of them, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene. “Detention, both of you,” he snapped, his voice like ice. “For Merlin’s sake, I thought we were past this.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but before he could say anything, Harry spoke up, his temper flaring. “He was being an arse to Draco! And I didn’t hit him this time!”

That's not an accomplishment…

Regulus’s gaze shifted to Crabbe, who was still standing there with a smug grin plastered across his face. “Mr. Crabbe,” Regulus said, his voice dangerously soft, “if you cannot grasp the concept of keeping your mouth shut, I will happily remove it from your face.”

For a moment, no one moved. Crabbe’s smug expression faltered, his eyes darting nervously between Regulus and Harry, but Regulus didn’t flinch. His presence was commanding, cold, and final.

Draco, heart still racing, looked at Harry. The tension in the air was palpable, but with Regulus intervening, it seemed the moment of physical confrontation had passed—at least for now.

Harry turned to Draco, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Let’s go,” he said softly, his tone much gentler than before.

Draco nodded, still feeling the sting of the altercation, but relieved that it was over. As they walked away, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the grass, Draco’s thoughts returned to the library. Maybe Harry wouldn’t mind looking over new strategies after all. And maybe, just maybe, they could spend some time together without all the trouble that seems to follow him.

For now, though, that was a problem for another day.

Chapter Text

Harry’s detention had been assigned to Professor Snape, who was known for his venomous glare and his potions mastery, he taught fifth-seventh year potions. The idea of spending an entire evening in Snape’s company, made Harry’s stomach twist in a tight knot. But just as Harry made his way toward the dungeons, an unexpected figure appeared in his path.

“Ah, Mr. Potter!” Professor Lockhart’s gleaming smile shone in the dim light of the corridor. “A moment, if I may?”

Harry barely had time to register the man before Lockhart was already speaking. “I must sincerely apologize for our previous encounters. I realize I’ve not been the best role model, and I’d like to make amends.” The professor looked unusually earnest, though Harry couldn’t quite read the sincerity behind his glittering eyes. “Would you consider serving your detention with me instead? A chance to redeem myself, perhaps?”

This may be worse than spending his detention with Snape.

“Yes?” Lockhart assumes “Great let's get going, fan mail won't respond to itself!”

Good lord.

Harry followed Lockhart down the hall, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent castle. The journey led them to the professor’s office, where the smell of overripe flowers mingled with the faint scent of lavender. Lockhart ushered him in, beaming.

“Welcome to my humble abode!” Lockhart’s voice was full of bravado, though Harry could only stomach a few of his exaggerated gestures. “Now, you’ll be assisting me with the important work of answering my fan mail. It’s quite the task, as you might imagine.”

Harry eyed the mountain of letters stacked on Lockhart’s desk. Some were fan letters, others were written by students asking for advice. Lockhart went on, oblivious to Harry’s increasing discomfort as he plopped down on a velvet armchair and began recounting a story.

“Ah, and speaking of family, let me tell you about your uncle Remus,” Lockhart began, leaning forward with an eager gleam in his eye. “We were quite the pair back in the day. I believe it was around his fifth year, my fourth, when the two of us were caught by McGonagall snog-”

“Stop talking,” Harry muttered, half in disbelief that this was his life now. He picked up a letter and stared at it, trying to distract himself from the ridiculousness of Lockhart’s constant chatter.

“But Harry, you don’t understand! It was a time of great adventure,” Lockhart continued, undeterred. “We—”

Harry’s head snapped up. A sound, like a faint hiss, slithered through the room, almost imperceptible but chilling. It was as though the air itself had darkened. His heart quickened. “Did you hear that?” he asked urgently, his eyes scanning the office.

Lockhart didn’t seem to notice. “Hear what?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he smiled at Harry as if everything was completely normal.

Harry stood up, his pulse pounding in his ears. “That voice—” he murmured, his hands twitching with an odd, instinctual need to move. His fingers brushed against his wand pocket. “It’s…” His eyes darted around the room, searching for the source.

Lockhart looked at him, bemused. “Oh, don’t be silly, Harry. It’s just—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, his voice sharp. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He took a step back, his eyes wide. “It’s something else. Something’s wrong.” His breath quickened, and he instinctively felt the pull, the urge to follow. “I have to go.”

Lockhart stood up, but his voice was still filled with that bizarre, unshakable optimism. “Harry, Harry, calm down. Surely it’s just the shadows playing tricks on you, nothing more. I—”

The voice again. Come to me .

Harry’s body tensed. The hiss was louder now, more insistent, more real. There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t in his head. It was from somewhere near—closer than he realized.

“I need to go,” Harry said urgently, his hand gripping his wand. He backed toward the door, his feet moving before he could think about it.

Lockhart, confused and still too calm, stepped toward him. “Harry, wait! We haven’t even finished—”

But Harry was already gone, his feet pounded against the cold stone floor as he tore down the hall, his breath ragged and sharp in his chest. The castle seemed to stretch on forever, each turn and stairway a blur. He didn’t know how long he had been running, only that his legs burned and his pulse was a frantic drumbeat in his ears. The air felt thick, as if the walls themselves were pressing in on him. Every corner he turned, every shadow that flickered, seemed to whisper of something wrong, something twisted in the dark.

He didn’t stop until he reached the dungeons.

The door to Regulus’s office was heavy, but it felt light in Harry’s desperate hands. He threw it open with a force that sent the hinges creaking, startling the quiet of the space.

“Regulus!” Harry gasped, barely able to catch his breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down the side of his face as he leaned against the doorframe. His heart was still racing, pounding in his chest as if he’d been running for hours. “Regulus, I—I heard something.”

Regulus’s chair creaked as he spun to face Harry. His brow furrowed with concern as he set down his quill. “Fawn? What’s going on? Are you alright?”

Harry’s chest heaved as he sank into the chair across from Regulus’s desk. He didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment, his body shaking with the adrenaline of the chase and the terror of the voice in his head. “No, something… something’s wrong.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, though it didn’t help to calm the heat of panic that spread through him. “I heard a voice… it was hissing at me. Lockhart didn’t hear it. He didn’t understand.”

Regulus leaned back in his chair, watching Harry closely. His gaze was intense, calculating, yet his lips remained set in a grim line. “You were right to come to me.” Regulus’s voice was low, almost too quiet, but it had a strange kind of weight to it—like he already knew more than he was saying. He tapped his quill against the desk nervously, the sound sharp and quick in the otherwise still office. “Your father’s been working with Dumbledore on this, and once again, that old fool has allowed something very dark to seep into this place while telling everyone it was safe.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine, but he forced himself to stay focused. “What’s happening?” he asked, his voice tight with a sudden unease.

Regulus exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll inform James, but—” He was cut off, his words faltering as a strange, cold silence filled the room.

Harry felt it, too. Something shifted in the air, a crackling tension that hummed beneath his skin. His head throbbed, his vision blurred for an instant, and then the voice came again—louder, sharper, more insistent than before. It wasn’t just a whisper anymore.

Blood .

The word slithered through his mind like a poison, curling around his thoughts, drowning out everything else. The hiss echoed, louder and more frantic now, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. His body trembled. He could feel the cold, hear the venom in the words.

I need blood.

A scream tore from his throat, raw and unfiltered. “God!” Harry clutched his head in his hands, desperate to block out the sound. It was too much—too loud, too close. His whole body vibrated with the intensity of the hiss, as though it was physically pushing him, crushing him under its weight.

“Harry!” Regulus shot up from his desk, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His face was pale, his expression one of disbelief and concern. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Harry gasped for air, his heart pounding as the world spun around him. “Somethings wrong, Regulus!” His voice was hoarse, frantic. “It’s—it’s going to hurt someone. I can’t—I can’t stop it.”

Regulus moved closer, his hand hovering near Harry’s shoulder, but Harry recoiled, still trapped in the pull of the voice. “What is it you’re hearing?” Regulus demanded, his tone commanding but laced with fear. His gaze flickered toward the door, as if the shadows themselves might spring to life. “Tell me exactly what you heard.”

The voice hissed again, louder now, filling Harry’s entire mind. I need blood. The words swam in his thoughts, drowning out everything else.

“I don’t—” Harry gasped, struggling to speak through the sudden, overwhelming pressure that seemed to claw at his insides. His stomach churned, nausea rising in waves. “It’s—it’s calling for blood, Reggie. It’s hungry.”

Regulus’s eyes darkened. A flash of something—recognition, maybe even dread—flashed across his face. He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle it,” he said, his voice low and firm, but Harry could hear the edge of panic beneath it. “Stay here, don’t move.”

But Harry shook his head, his body trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t—I have to do something. Please—” His words faltered, his mind a tangle of thoughts, each one more frantic than the last. His breath was coming too fast now, his chest tight with anxiety. “Something’s going to happen, I know it. Someone’s in danger. I felt it.”

Regulus hesitated, his jaw clenched as if fighting something inside himself, but then he gave a short nod. “Alright,” he muttered, moving swiftly to the door. “Stay close.” He turned to Harry one last time, his face grim. “This is far worse than I thought.” Then, without another word, Regulus was out the door, vanishing into the twisting corridors of Hogwarts.

Harry remained in the chair, eyes wide, trying to steady his racing heart. The voice still echoed in his mind, the cold, hissing demand reverberating in his thoughts. He could feel the pull, like a dark magnet, tugging him toward something terrible—something he couldn’t yet understand.

But he knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was, it was coming.

The cold, stone walls of the dungeon seemed to pulse as their footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor. Harry wasn’t sure where he was going, but the pull of something, something urgent, was impossible to ignore. Regulus followed quickly behind him, he had sent his patronus, a crow, to his father to alert him of the danger. The air was thick, oppressive, as if the very fabric of the castle had shifted, as though the walls themselves knew something dark was stirring.

Then he saw it.

At first, the sight didn’t register—his eyes locked onto it, then flicked away. It felt too much like a nightmare, something that wasn’t meant to be real. But when he turned back, the truth of it slammed into him, cold and brutal. Along the wall, in deep, sickening red, someone—or something—had written words in a jagged, uneven script.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware. 

The letters gleamed darkly in the dim light of the corridor, the blood still fresh, dripping slightly from the letters as if the wall itself had bled. The crimson streaks pooled beneath the words, pooling like spilled ink across the cold stone. Harry’s stomach turned at the sight.

And then his eyes dropped, settling on something else—a figure, frozen in place just a few feet away from the bloodstained wall.

Mrs. Norris.

Filch’s horrid, watchful cat was suspended in midair, hanging limply from a nearby set of pipes, her eyes wide and unblinking. She looked like a statue, motionless, her body stiff with a dreadful stillness. Harry could see it now: the unmistakable glaze of terror in her wide, glassy eyes. She was staring into nothing, as though she could see something Harry couldn’t, trapped in a world of frozen horror.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The sight of Mrs. Norris’s stiff body held him in place. Something about it felt wrong—unnatural. Her fur was matted, her mouth slightly ajar in a silent scream, but no sound came from her.

It felt like a piece of the world had snapped, and Harry couldn’t make sense of it. Mrs. Norris had been like a fixture of the school, always lurking in the corners, watching students with that sharp, judgmental gaze. But now… now she was nothing more than a broken thing, caught in the grip of something ancient and dark.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight. The desire to look away burned inside him, but he was frozen—rooted to the spot by an invisible force. The blood on the wall, the cat’s frozen body, it all pressed in on him, suffocating.

In that moment, he realized how much he envied Mrs. Norris. She was beyond the chaos, beyond the terror, beyond the world that spun relentlessly around him. Her world had stopped. She didn’t need to worry about where to go, what to do, what anyone thought, or what would happen next. She didn’t need to think at all.

For one small, fleeting moment, Harry wished he could be her. To be frozen in time, to not feel the relentless weight of his pulse racing through him, the crushing pressure of uncertainty pushing in from all sides. He wished he could stop thinking, stop feeling—because all of it, all the terror and the confusion, was eating him alive.

If he were like Mrs. Norris, the world would just… end. No more choices, no more fears, no more impossible decisions. The fear, the weight of it all, would simply stop. And Harry wanted that so badly, so deeply, that he felt like he might explode with the ache of it.

He could almost hear it—the silence—the complete, unyielding stillness of the cat’s world. No more voices echoing in his ears, no more whispers, no more pressure. Nothing. Just silence, and peace, and—

But the moment passed.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye broke his trance. He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching in his chest as he realized—he wasn’t alone.

A shadow stood at the end of the corridor, just beyond the edge of the faint torchlight. It was short and hooded, its form barely visible, shrouded in darkness. It had been watching them, and now it took a slow, deliberate step backward, its presence disappearing as quickly as it’d come.

Harry’s breath hitched. He wanted to run, but his legs felt like lead. The world around him suddenly felt more dangerous than it ever had before. 

“Harry!” Regulus’s voice cut through the cold air, urgent and sharp. He surged forward, pulling Harry into his chest with a force that almost knocked the wind out of him. “You shouldn’t be seeing this,” Regulus muttered under his breath, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders like a lifeline. The bloodstained scene before them—Mrs. Norris, lifeless, her eyes wide and staring—was too much for any of them to process, especially a twelve-year-old boy.

Harry’s breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tight, his mind racing. His heart hammered in his ears, but everything around him felt distant, muffled. His hands were still trembling, and he hadn’t realized how much he was shaking until Regulus wrapped his arms around him, grounding him in a way Harry didn’t fully understand but desperately needed.

“Regulus?” Harry croaked, his voice barely audible. His thoughts were still tangled, spinning, his mind unable to focus for more than a few seconds at a time.

Before Regulus could respond, the sharp sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. The hurried pace, the familiar footfalls, made Harry’s head snap up just in time to see his father, James Potter, rushing toward them. Dumbledore and McGonagall followed close behind, their expressions grave, their movements purposeful.

When James saw the bloody scene, his eyes widened in horror. His gaze shot straight to Harry, and in an instant, he was beside him, kneeling down on the cold stone floor with a speed that left no room for hesitation.

“Harry!” James’s voice cracked as he cupped his son’s face, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed through Harry’s messy hair. His eyes were wide with concern, searching Harry’s face for any sign of injury. “Are you alright?”

Harry nodded, but it was a slow, hesitant movement. His body felt as though it wasn’t quite his own, as though he were floating above the scene, removed from reality. His eyes were wide and unseeing, fixated on something distant, and his breath came in uneven bursts.

Regulus, standing behind them, exhaled sharply and turned to James, his voice tense as he began to recount the events of the night. “He heard something. A voice, I think. I don’t know exactly what happened, but—” His voice trailed off as he looked at Harry, still cradled in his father’s arms. “We need to be careful. This… whatever’s happening, it’s worse than we thought.”

James didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked over to Mrs. Norris, still hanging lifelessly from the pipes, and then back to Harry. His face softened with a quiet grief that Harry couldn’t quite place.

“Did I cause this?” Harry’s voice was small, fragile, like a whisper caught in the wind. His eyes, still wide and glassy, met his father’s. There was something painfully innocent in the question, a rawness to it that made James’s heart tighten.

“What?” James’s voice broke as he shook his head, leaning closer to Harry. “No, god no, sweetie.” He took both of Harry’s trembling hands in his own, squeezing gently. “Someone evil and deranged did this, not you.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Harry whispered, his words heavy with a sorrow he couldn’t name, his guilt too big to fit inside him.

James didn’t know what to say to that. There were no words that could undo the image of Mrs. Norris or the weight of Harry’s innocent worry. So he simply pulled his son closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, smoothing down his messy hair.

“It’s okay,” James murmured, his voice low, soothing. “It’s okay, fawn.”

He stood then, lifting Harry into his arms as if he were a child once again, and turned to Regulus with a brief, silent nod of gratitude. “I’ll take him up to the dorm. He needs rest.”

Regulus watched them go, his expression unreadable, before turning to Dumbledore and McGonagall. Without a word, they followed James, their footsteps soft in the aftermath of the chaos.

When they reached the dorm room, it was quieter than usual. The usual sounds of laughter and chatter were replaced by an eerie silence that made Harry’s chest tighten. Draco was sitting on the floor with Theodore Nott, their replacement roommate for Crabbe and Goyle since the pair were reassigned, their game of cards forgotten as they stared at the scene before them—Harry’s pallid face, his blank expression. Blaise was sitting on his bed, reading a book, though the furrow in his brow suggested he had heard the news.

James gently placed Harry on his bed, smoothing the covers around him. His hands were shaking, but he forced himself to remain calm, trying not to let his son see how deeply shaken he truly was.

“Try to get some sleep, love,” James whispered, brushing a gentle kiss against Harry’s forehead. His words were quiet, tender. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

Harry’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. His body was heavy with the weight of what had happened, and before he could process any more, his head hit the pillow. He didn’t even have time to kick off his robes before sleep claimed him.

James lingered by his side, watching him for a moment—his son, so young and full of questions that no one could answer. But for now, there was nothing more to do than sit and watch him sleep, praying that when Harry woke, the world would make sense again.

Chapter Text

The soft rustle of blankets stirred Draco from his sleep, pulling him out of the fog of his dreams. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, and he immediately noticed the odd, distant quiet in the room. The light filtering through the window was weak, casting long shadows across the floor, but it was enough to make out the figure sitting on the edge of his bed.

Harry was there, his back hunched forward, fingers nervously twisting at the edges of his robes. His glasses were crooked on his nose as if he hadn’t bothered adjusting them when he woke up. For a moment, Draco thought he was still dreaming. 

“Harry?” Draco’s voice was low, still thick with the remnants of sleep. He sat up, pushing the blankets away, trying to make sense of the sight before him. Harry’s expression was blank, his eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away.

“What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry asked, his voice distant and flat as if the words were slipping out without him fully realizing what he was saying.

Draco froze. He wasn’t sure if Harry was still half-dreaming or if something more serious was at play. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Salazar Slytherin left it behind after the whole Muggleborn argument,” Draco began, his voice calm but guarded. He’d heard the story more times than he could count, but now, with Harry sitting there, wide-eyed and trembling, the words felt heavier. “It contains a monster—a creature that only the true heir of Slytherin can control. And that creature… it kills Muggle-borns.” Draco’s voice softened a fraction, the weight of the words settling between them.

Harry blinked slowly, his gaze vacant as he absorbed the information. His hands fell to his lap, fingers brushing against the fabric of his robes, but it was like he wasn’t really feeling anything at all. His mind seemed lost in the abyss of his thoughts.

“It probably attacked Mrs. Norris because Filch is a Squib,” Draco added, a hint of disapproval in his tone as he spoke about the janitor’s unfortunate condition. “The creature knows what it’s doing. It’s not random.”

The words barely seemed to reach Harry. His eyes glazed over as his mind processed the implications of what Draco had said. “Oh God,” Harry whispered, his voice shaky, “Hermione… Mum…” His voice trailed off as his hands lifted to cover his face, the weight of everything crashing down on him. 

His breath hitched, and for a moment, Draco thought Harry might break right there. The fear in his voice was raw, real—too real. “That voice was so loud… Like it was screaming,” Harry mumbled, his voice almost lost under the weight of the memory. The terror from last night still clung to him like a shadow.

Draco watched him carefully, a strange tightness in his chest. He didn’t know how to comfort Harry—not with words, not with anything. But there was a question he needed to ask, something that had been nagging at him ever since Harry first mentioned the voice.

“Who do you think the heir is?” Draco asked, his voice steady, even though part of him feared what the answer might be.

Harry blinked, slowly lifting his head, his eyes vacant as they met Draco’s. For a moment, he seemed like he wasn’t entirely aware of Draco’s presence. But then, his lips quirked upward slightly—a sad, hollow smile.

“Well,” Harry began, his voice dry, almost too tired to carry the weight of his words, “if it’s not you, Mr. ‘My whole pure-blood family has been in Slytherin,’ then I have no clue.”

Draco stiffened slightly, the sharpness of the words cutting through him before he could fully grasp their meaning. He stared at Harry for a long moment, trying to make sense of the mix of disbelief, sarcasm, and exhaustion in his tone. But Harry’s smile faded just as quickly as it appeared, leaving him looking hollow, lost in thought once again.

Draco didn’t respond right away. There was a lump in his throat, a strange tangle of emotions swirling in him that he wasn’t sure how to untangle. He shifted slightly, leaning back against the headboard, still watching Harry closely.

Harry had been through so much already—too much for someone his age. The fear, the confusion, the weight of what was happening to Hogwarts—it was all far too much for anyone to carry. But Harry wasn’t the kind of person to sit idly by, and Draco knew that. Harry would find answers, whether Draco was willing to help or not.

Still, Draco felt a strange urge to say something, to do something. But what could he say? What could anyone say to a boy who was facing down a monster from the past, a voice that would drive him to madness if he wasn’t careful?

“Maybe,” Draco muttered after a long pause, “maybe we’ll find out who it is soon enough. I don’t think it’ll stay hidden for long.”

But Harry didn’t respond. His gaze had shifted to the window, the faint morning light spilling in, painting his face in a soft, pale glow. For a moment, Draco thought Harry might have already fallen asleep again, the exhaustion too much to bear.

But Harry wasn’t asleep. He was just… lost. In a way Draco couldn’t begin to understand.

And as the silence stretched between them, Draco couldn’t help but feel the weight of it too. Whatever was happening at Hogwarts, whatever this was—it was far from over. And no one, not even the heir of Slytherin, was ready for the storm that was coming.

Chapter Text

The wind howled across the Quidditch pitch, carrying with it the unmistakable chill of a late autumn’s evening. Harry gripped his broom tightly, feeling the familiar hum of the Nimbus 2001 beneath him as he hovered just above the ground, eyes scanning the wide expanse of the field. It wasn’t often he had practice with Draco, especially not when Ron was involved, but today was different. With a few hours left before their first match of the season, the team had decided to spend an afternoon honing their skills, though Harry wasn’t sure exactly what this would accomplish. Harry and Draco stayed after practice with Ron so they could muck about on the pitch for a while longer.

Draco was already up in the air, as expected, circling the goalposts with a calculated look in his eye. He’d been working hard lately, trying to earn his place on the team, and Harry couldn’t deny that Draco had improved. The timing, the precision, the way he glided through the air—it was all a little too graceful for harry to focus on anything but.

Ron, on the other hand, was standing on the ground, staring up at Draco with an expression that was equal parts disbelief and annoyance. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly not thrilled to be practicing with the new Chaser. "What’s he doing up there?" Ron muttered to Harry. "He’s hardly even passing the Quaffle, just flying in circles like some kind of..."

"Just leave him to it, Ron," Harry said, keeping his voice low. He knew that practice would go smoother if Ron wasn’t constantly on Draco’s case. "He’s working on his positioning. He’s trying to get a feel for the plays."

Ron snorted but didn’t argue. "Yeah, well, I hope he gets the feel of actually playing with the team at some point. He's more about showing off than actually passing the ball."

Before Harry could respond, Draco zipped down in front of them, his broom cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh. He looked directly at Harry, a smug expression creeping onto his face. "You're supposed to be practicing, Harry, not gossiping," he said, his voice dripping with poorly disguised nervousness.

“Malfoy, we’ll practice when you admit to opening the chamber.” Ron sneered.

The words hung in the air, heavier than the biting wind. Harry froze, his grip on the broom tightening, and Draco’s casual demeanor faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked over to Harry, then to Ron, as if trying to gauge the mood of the conversation.

"Is that what this is about?" Draco’s voice was colder than before, a sharp edge creeping into his words. "The Chamber of Secrets?”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. "You’ve got to admit, your family’s history in that place isn’t exactly spotless, is it? Your dad was a big supporter of the whole idea. And you’ve got a lot of... connections to the Slytherin side of things."

Draco bristled, the blood draining from his face, but he didn’t back down. "Don’t be so naïve, Weasley. You think I had anything to do with that monster showing up? Maybe you’re still thinking like a child, blaming anyone with the slightest connection to Slytherin for things that happened decades ago. My father’s history is none of my business. I don’t even care about that nonsense."

Harry didn’t speak for a moment, feeling the weight of their words settle in his chest. He could feel the coldness in Draco’s words, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether it was defensiveness or something else.

"You didn’t answer the question, Malfoy," Ron pressed, not willing to let it go. "Do you have any idea who could’ve opened the Chamber? Do you think it’s still something to do with the blood purity rubbish? Is that your answer?"

Draco’s eyes hardened. He didn’t flinch, but there was a brief flicker of something—something that might have been fear, or maybe guilt—before he masked it with his usual sneer. "Maybe you should look for answers elsewhere, Weasley. But don’t expect them to come from me. I don’t know anything about the Chamber."

Harry glanced between them, then lowered his broom a little. "Ron, maybe it’s best if we focus on practice. Draco’s right—there’s nothing we can do about it now. The attacks stopped. Let’s just—"

"I’m not letting it go, Harry," Ron cut in, his voice tight. "We don’t know what’s really going on. All I’m saying is, it’s not a coincidence. Malfoy—"

"Don’t start accusing me of something I didn’t do," Draco snapped, his grip on his broom tightening. "I don’t know anything about it. But I’m not going to sit here while you start throwing around accusations like that."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the whistling wind and the faint sound of the Quaffle bouncing against the goalposts. The air felt thick, the unspoken history between them all hanging like a cloud, but Harry could see it now—Draco was trying to put up a front. It wasn’t just that he was hiding something. He was afraid. He was trying to keep his distance from whatever dark mystery still loomed over the school.

Harry took a deep breath, pushing aside the sense of unease that still clung to him. "Look, we’re all on edge because of the Chamber," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But we’ve got a match coming up, and I don’t want to spend the night  arguing." He met Draco’s eyes. "We’ll figure it out, but for now, let’s just focus on the game, yeah?"

Draco didn’t respond immediately. For a brief moment, Harry could have sworn he saw the faintest flicker of something—some kind of acknowledgment, maybe even relief—in Draco’s expression. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Ron, though still clearly frustrated, said nothing more on the matter. He grumbled under his breath but kicked off from the ground, joining the practice drills. The rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of fast-paced passes, dodging bludgers, and the rhythmic thrum of broomsticks slicing through the chilly air.

As Harry focused on the game, the thoughts of the Chamber lingered, but for now, they had to remain in the background. Quidditch was the only thing that mattered at that moment. The rest of the world could wait.

The air was thick with the smell of rain and the buzz of excitement as the first Quidditch match of the season got underway. The stands were packed, the crowd a sea of scarlet and silver, chanting and cheering as the players took their positions. But for Draco, the world seemed distant. His focus was on the game, on the Quidditch pitch below, and most importantly, on winning.

As the whistle blew, Draco shot into the air, the wind whipping against his face, the familiar thrill of the broomstick beneath him grounding him momentarily. His eyes locked onto the Quaffle as it flew toward him, Professor Potter tossing it expertly into the air. Without missing a beat, Draco darted forward, his broom slicing through the air with practiced precision. He snatched the Quaffle out of the air, feeling the sting of adrenaline run through him as his teammates surged behind him in perfect formation.

He could hear the crowd roaring, but the noise faded into a dull hum as he made a sharp turn to avoid a Bludger aimed right at his head. The ball buzzed past him like an angry hornet, but Draco had seen it coming, and with a fluid twist, he narrowly dodged it. He was faster than that, faster than any Bludger, faster than anything, except maybe Harry.

The Quaffle in his grip felt solid, comforting in its familiar weight. He made a quick dash toward the goalposts, eyes scanning for his target. He felt the pressure of the game, but he wasn’t going to let it affect him—not now. Not when it was so important.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Draco sent the Quaffle hurtling through the left goalpost. The crowd’s collective roar thundered in his ears as he raised his fist in a victorious salute, the rush of scoring flooding through him. He spotted his father in the stands, his face tense and lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line. Draco’s stomach churned.

Damn it.

His father’s gaze always had that effect on him—like a weight pressing on his chest. But Draco pushed the thought away. There was no time to dwell on it now. Not when the game was on the line.

The Quaffle was back in play, and Draco was flying at top speed once again, weaving through players, focusing on the ball. He could hear the thud of Bludgers whizzing by, but nothing was going to distract him now. He caught sight of a Gryffindor girl—one of the chasers—darting in with the Quaffle. Draco narrowed his eyes, banked hard to the left, and swooped down to intercept.

With a quick swerve, Draco knocked the ball out of her hands, sending her spinning wildly as he barrel-rolled to avoid clipping her with his broomstick. He caught the Quaffle in midair, the motion smooth and practiced, and in a fluid movement, he tossed it through the center goalpost.

The crowd erupted again, but this time, Draco’s attention wasn’t fully on the cheers. His eyes flicked up, scanning the field for Harry.

Harry was, as always, in his usual perch, high above the pitch, eyes darting like a hawk’s, always watching for the Snitch. But Draco’s gut twisted as he saw Harry’s sharp movements dodge yet another Bludger—his broom swerving violently to the side as the ball zoomed dangerously close. Damn, that’s the third time, Draco thought, tension creeping up his spine.

“Harry!” Draco called, his voice cutting through the wind. “Watch out!”

He didn’t have time to react, though, before another Bludger came hurtling toward Harry, narrowly missing him by inches. The Gryffindor Seeker, a second-year with wild, eager eyes, was chasing the Snitch just ahead, but Draco saw it too—Harry was closing the gap, staying just ahead of the Bludger, narrowly dodging its vicious swings.

Draco’s focus splintered.

What the hell is going on with that Bludger?

It was too persistent, too aggressive. It wasn’t supposed to target one person like this—not with so much precision. Draco’s stomach lurched. There was something off about it, something dangerous.

And then, in a blur of motion, the Bludger followed Harry again, relentlessly. Harry twisted his body, banking hard to the left, but it was right there with him, buzzing ominously. Draco’s heart raced. He couldn’t just let Harry take that risk, but before he could make a move, Harry was already in the air, soaring toward the Snitch.

Draco’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to shake the fear clawing at him. The match was still going on, but the sound of the crowd blurred into the background, his attention entirely on Harry.

He tried to shake off the worry and force himself back into the rhythm of the game. But it was getting harder. Something about the Bludger, the way it was hunting Harry down, gnawed at him. The holes in the viewing tower above them seemed to increase as the match wore on, and Draco’s gaze flicked back to Harry. His teammate—his friend—was still battling the Bludger, the deadly, persistent thing keeping its focus on him.

And then, just as Harry pulled ahead of the Gryffindor Seeker, it happened.

The Bludger hit Harry square in the arm. The sickening sound of impact rang through the air, and Harry’s body jerked with the force, a scream ripping from his throat.

“Harry!” Draco screamed, his heart stalling in his chest.

But Harry didn’t fall. He kept flying, swerving to avoid the other Seeker and reaching out with his good arm. His fingers brushed the Snitch, and in a moment of pure instinct, Harry seized it. But the momentum from the Bludger’s hit was too much. Harry’s broom wobbled, his body jerking uncontrollably as he tried to hold on.

And then, before Draco could do anything, Harry was falling. The Snitch was clutched in his hand, but it didn’t matter. Harry’s broom snapped from beneath him, and with a sickening lurch, he tumbled toward the ground.

Draco’s heart lurched, a breath caught in his throat, and everything else around him went silent. The pitch, the crowd, the bludgers—all of it disappeared as Harry plummeted toward the ground.

Without thinking, Draco shot forward, his broom beneath him like a blur, but the space between them felt like miles. The only sound that reached his ears was the blood roaring in his head as he watched Harry fall.

But it was too late.

With a sickening thud, Harry hit the pitch, the Snitch still grasped tightly in his hand. The crowd gasped in horror, and the game ground to an immediate halt.

“Harry!” Draco shouted, his voice frantic as he swerved to land beside him. His heart thundered in his chest, a cold sweat coating his palms as he hovered just above the pitch, looking down at Harry’s motionless form.

The world around him seemed to stop. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The sound of Harry’s body hitting the ground was sickening—a dull thud that echoed across the pitch. For a moment, everything stood still. The crowd’s roars and cheers dulled to a distant murmur as Draco’s stomach dropped into his shoes. He had seen it all—the way Harry’s broom had buckled beneath him, the wild motion of his fall. He had seen the way Harry’s arm twisted at an unnatural angle as he hit the ground.

Before Draco could move, the Bludger, like an angry beast that had only been waiting for this moment, slammed into the ground beside Harry with a resounding thud, the earth trembling under its force.

Harry, still dazed from the fall, barely rolled out of the way in time, his hand scrambling in the dirt as the Bludger’s vicious arc missed him by inches. A sharp, panicked breath escaped his lips, but he managed to push himself up onto one elbow, face pale and strained in pain.

“Finite Incantatem!” came Professor Potter’s voice, loud and commanding, as he rushed forward with quick, precise steps. His wand was raised, and the Bludger, still sparking with dark magic, crumbled into harmless dust.

“Madam Pomfrey!” Professor Potter called out desperately, his voice raw with panic as he knelt next to Harry. The sight of his son—his beaten, bleeding son—sent a ripple of fear across his features, making his usually composed demeanor crack just slightly.

Draco, still hovering on his broom, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of fear and relief. He quickly dismounted, barely feeling his feet hit the ground before he was running toward Harry, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Harry!” Draco’s voice was strained, thick with urgency as he kneeled beside him, eyes searching frantically for any signs of injury that were more serious than the ones already visible. Harry’s face was pale, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps. Draco swallowed hard, trying to push past the weight of his fear. “Are you okay?”

Harry looked up at him, his expression bleary, eyes flicking between Draco and the chaos surrounding them. “Did we win?” he whined in a half-slurred voice, his breath hitching as he shifted slightly, his injured arm hanging at an odd angle. It was tilted at a grotesque 45-degree angle, his elbow jutting out as if it had no business being attached to his body. He gave a weak, almost humorless laugh. “Well, at least I’m not dead,” he added, his words sluggish but with that familiar, dry humor that Draco had come to recognize as Harry’s coping mechanism.

Lily Potter, rushing down from the stands with Ron and Hermione at her heels, let out a soft, breathy laugh as she crouched beside her son, brushing his hair out of his face. “You’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you?” she said gently, her smile tired but affectionate. Harry gave her a small, crooked grin, his eyes fluttering as he tried to focus.

“Harry,” Mrs. Potter said again, more serious this time, her fingers running lightly over his forehead. Her touch was warm, soothing in contrast to the panic swirling in Draco’s chest. She then turned toward Madam Pomfrey, who was hurrying across the pitch, her face drawn with concern.

Without missing a beat, Madam Pomfrey was at Harry’s side, her wand flicking with practiced precision. “Hold still, dear,” she muttered, her voice firm. She cast a quick, gentle charm, and with a soft click, Harry’s arm snapped back into place. It was a sound that made Draco wince, though he couldn’t stop the sigh of relief that escaped him when Harry’s arm was, once again, properly aligned.

Harry let out a groan as the pain from the realignment hit, but it was short-lived. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, taking a steadying breath. “There,” she said with a small, satisfied nod. “All set.”

Draco exhaled sharply, feeling his tense shoulders finally loosen, though his nerves remained frayed. His gaze lingered on Harry, making sure that the boy was still conscious, still present, despite the ordeal. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his breath evening out, and he seemed to relax just slightly under the soothing presence of his mother and Madam Pomfrey.

“He’ll need to stay in the wing overnight for observation, he got the wind knocked out of him good,” Madam Pomfrey said, her voice more clipped now as she took charge. “But with the charm, his arm should heal quickly. No lasting damage.”

Draco let out a relieved breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to collect himself. His heart was still racing, but now there was a strange sense of calm starting to settle over him. At least Harry was going to be alright. At least this hadn’t turned into something worse.

Mrs. Potter squeezed Harry’s good hand and gave him a smile, though there was a deep crease of concern between her brows. “You’ve got to stop getting yourself into these situations, young man,” she said softly, her voice light but laced with genuine concern. Harry’s eyes opened again, and he gave a tired but lopsided grin.

“I’ll try,” he mumbled, his voice weak but earnest.

Draco stood up, taking a step back to give Madam Pomfrey space as she continued to work her magic, preparing Harry for the short journey to the infirmary. The match had ended in chaos, but all Draco could think about was how close it had all come. He wasn’t sure if Harry had truly realized how lucky he was—how much worse it could have been.

But Harry wasn’t thinking about that. He was already starting to drift again, his exhaustion pulling him under like a wave, the pain dulling just enough for him to rest.

As Draco glanced over at Professor Potter, who stood still, watching his son with a mixture of relief and lingering worry, he couldn’t help but feel that same, all-consuming ache in his chest. This—this was the kind of family bond Draco could never fully understand, yet he felt the echo of it here, in the way they cared, in the way they held onto each other.

For now, Harry would be alright. But Draco couldn’t shake the thought that something darker was coming—something that would pull them all deeper into its grasp.

And he wasn’t sure they were ready.

Chapter Text

Draco leaned against the cold stone wall outside the hospital wing, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn’t shake. His eyes flicked toward the door every few moments, waiting for the moment Harry’s parents would leave so he could slip inside and check on his friend. The tension in his shoulders had only loosened a little since the match; the adrenaline from watching Harry fall was still lodged in his chest like a lump of ice. But at least Harry was safe now. At least he would be alright.

The sound of footsteps drew Draco’s attention, his body going rigid before he could stop himself. He straightened up immediately, lifting his chin and schooling his expression into something cold, something impassive. His father’s shadow fell over him before Lucius even spoke.

“Draco.”

The single word made Draco’s muscles tense, but he didn’t let his posture falter. He turned slowly, face neutral, eyes cool. “Father,” he answered, his voice even, betraying none of the internal churning that had been building since the game.

Lucius Malfoy’s lip curled in disdain. “You made a fool of yourself. Panicking over that Potter boy like some fool.” His father’s voice dropped as if the words themselves were poison. “People already think you’re a… but now? After that display?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, a bitter taste flooding his mouth at his father’s words. “That I’m a what, Dad?” he asked, his voice colder than the air around them, his lips curling into a scowl. “A Faggot?”

Lucius took a step forward, his icy eyes narrowing. And before Draco could even react, a sharp slap rang through the silent hall, loud enough to echo in every corner. The sting of it whipped across Draco’s cheek, his head snapping to the side with the force of it. The metallic taste of blood hit his mouth as his teeth clicked together.

“Fix your behavior, boy,” Lucius hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Before I fix it for you.”

Draco’s cheek burned where his father’s hand had struck, but he bit down on the impulse to retaliate. The cold, calculating part of his mind took over, the part that understood the rules of his world—never provoke.

“Y-yes, Father,” Draco muttered, the words leaving a sour taste on his tongue. His father was still staring down at him with the same, unyielding gaze, and for a moment, Draco almost wished he could just disappear into the stone walls around him.

It was then that the hospital wing doors swung open. Mr. and Mrs. Potter emerged, their eyes scanning the corridor. The moment they saw Draco and Lucius, the expression on Mr. Potter’s face hardened, his mouth tightening into a grim line. Mrs. Potter’s lips parted in disbelief.

“Lucius,” Mr. Potter said, his voice cold as ice, but the undercurrent of anger was unmistakable.

“James,” Father replied, his voice dripping with a feigned politeness. He turned to Draco with an air of condescension. “I was just congratulating Draco on his win,” Father said, his tone oozing insincerity as he adjusted his robes, still radiating a cold superiority.

Mr. Potter raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, I think you’re done with that now. Goodbye, Lucius.” His voice was final, cutting through the air with a quiet authority.

Father’s lip curled in disdain, but before he could make any retort, Mrs. Potter stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “If I see you on this campus again, Lucius Malfoy,” she said in a voice so venomous it could’ve killed a snake, “I’ll turn your eyebrows into caterpillars and have them crawl up your nose.”

That was vivid.

Draco blinked, his mouth falling open as he stared at Mrs. Potter. His father, on the other hand, simply sneered, his face twisting with disdain. 

“Don’t even think of coming near my family again,” she said, her voice steady and cold.

Father’s eyes flickered with something darker—rage, humiliation, but the familiar mask of control returned almost instantly. With one last venomous glare at Draco, he turned on his heel and stalked off, his robes trailing behind him like the tail of a snake retreating into the shadows.

Draco watched his father go, feeling an odd mix of relief and shame settle into his stomach. He didn’t even realize he was still standing there, rooted to the spot, until Mr. Potter’s voice cut through the silence, softer now.

“Draco,” He said gently, his hand falling to his wife’s shoulder. “If you ever need a way out… if you ever want to leave that house—” He hesitated for a moment as if choosing his words carefully. “You will always have a home with us, in Hogsmeade or 12 Grimmauld Place. You’re welcome there. No questions asked.”

Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t just the offer—it was the weight of it, the sincerity. It felt real, like a lifeline thrown out to him when he had been drowning in that suffocating world of his father’s expectations.

“Y-yes, thank you, Mr. Potter,” Draco stammered, unsure of how to navigate the sincerity in Mr. Potter’s voice.

The man smiled softly, but there was an understanding in his gaze. “Please, call me James.”

Draco blinked, feeling an odd warmth settle in his chest at the offer, but still, the walls he had spent years building around himself were too high. “I… don’t feel comfortable,” he said quietly, almost apologetically, his eyes briefly meeting Mrs. Potter’s. She offered him a small, understanding smile as if she knew exactly how it felt to be caught between two worlds.

“That’s okay,” He replied, his voice kind, no hint of pressure in his words. “When you’re ready, Draco. We’ll be here.”

Draco swallowed, nodding slightly, his heart a mixture of gratitude and confusion. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to take that step, to let down his guard. But for the first time in a long while, he felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance at something different. A chance for something better.

As the pair walked away, Draco stood there in the hall for a moment longer, still processing the strange warmth that had blossomed in his chest. He had never been offered anything like that before—a home, free of conditions, free of his father’s oppressive shadow.

The dim light of the hospital wing flickered softly as Harry lay in bed, his arm heavily bandaged and propped up by a pillow. His whole body ached from the wild tumble he’d taken. The rogue bludger that had come out of nowhere had sent him crashing to the ground, and though Madam Pomfrey had healed the worst of it, the break in his arm still kept him here, wrapped in sheets and with the smell of antiseptic in the air.

He had been in here for what felt like hours, though it was likely only a few. Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Neville had come by to check on him earlier, all of them offering their well-wishes and concerned glances. But now, the only sound in the room was the soft rustling of the curtains as they swayed gently in the breeze from the open window.

Harry had nearly drifted off to sleep when the door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. It was Draco.

"You're looking rather pathetic, Harry," Draco said, though the usual sneer was absent from his voice. He looked awkward standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, a bit unsure of himself. His eyes flicked over to Harry’s arm, then back to his face.

Harry blinked up at him, half-surprised. "Draco," he said, his voice a little hoarse from the hours of laying in bed. "Didn’t think you’d come by."

Draco’s eyes flickered momentarily, but he quickly recovered. "And not visit my best friend in the hospital? Merlin, what kind of an arse do you take me for?" he muttered. He moved closer, standing beside the bed and peering down at Harry’s arm, which was tightly wrapped in a sling.

"Right," Harry said, smirking a little despite the ache in his body. "And here I thought you’d be too busy celebrating that victory to bother with a hospital visit."

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "It’s not exactly the sort of victory I’d get excited about. Not when you had to get hurt to win."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So you’re here because you’re worried about me, then?"

Draco shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at the floor for a moment, then back up at Harry. "I just thought I should stop by and make sure you weren’t dying or anything," he muttered, clearly not used to offering this kind of sentiment out loud.

Harry grinned, his mind still processing the oddity of Draco standing in front of him, looking like a combination of reluctant sympathy and slight amusement. "Well, I’m not dead yet, thanks for asking. But next time, maybe send a card instead of coming all the way here, I don’t want to put you out." he teased.

Draco let out a short, surprised laugh—real laughter, not the sarcastic chuckle that Harry was used to hearing from him. It was so unexpected that it caught Harry off guard for a moment. But then Draco, visibly trying to regain his composure, turned slightly pink around the ears.

"Don’t get used to it, Harry," Draco said, clearing his throat. "You’ll survive."

Draco shifted, and for a second, Harry swore he looked… uncomfortable? No, that couldn’t be right. 

Draco rolled his eyes again, but this time, it was less of an insult and more of a small, almost sheepish gesture. "It’s just... odd. Seeing you in a hospital bed like this," he admitted, crossing his arms and looking almost out of place in the quiet room. "I didn’t think it’d be this bad, considering how... well, you always act so tough. Unbreakable."

"Well," Harry said, his voice a bit softer now, "I guess even I’m allowed to have a bad day every now and then. But hey, it could be worse. At least I didn’t lose the match for us."

Draco laughed again, this time with a bit more warmth in it. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get too cocky, Haz, you did almost miss that last catch."

Harry smiled at the easy banter, the light teasing that had somehow come to define their relationship. 

“Wait, Haz?” Harry questioned, smirking slightly.

Draco flushed bright red at the mention of his slip-up, “Um, No, it's just, well your family has those nicknames so I figured…”

"Haz?" Harry repeated, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "You would give me a ridiculous nickname, wouldn’t you?"

Draco chuckled, leaning back into his chair. "Oh, you don’t like it? Well, I suppose you’re going to have to come up with something better, then. I’m waiting."

Harry shot him a sidelong glance, eyes glinting with something that almost looked like fondness—or maybe amusement. "Fine, fine," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "But if I am stuck with Haz , you’re getting a nickname you don’t like."

Draco grinned. "It’s a deal. But I’ll warn you now, if you go for something too weird, I’ll find something worse than Haz."

Draco sighed dramatically, but there was a real smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he shook his head. 

After a long pause, Harry said, "Alright. Dray. That’s your new nickname. Don’t even think about arguing."

Draco raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Dray? Really? I kind of like it, actually."

"Well, Dray," Harry said, testing it out with a grin, "I have to say, I think I’m getting used to this. I see why my uncles and dad liked theirs"

Draco gave him a small nod before turning to leave, his shoulders less stiff than usual. "I’ll be back to check on you, Haz. Don’t go getting too cocky while I’m gone."

As Draco exited the hospital wing, Harry couldn’t help but smile to himself. 

“Bye, Dray!”

Chapter Text

Harry lay awake in the hospital wing, the dim light from the moon casting long shadows on the stone walls. His arm throbbed with a dull, constant ache, a reminder of the Bludger’s forceful impact. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the pain seemed to linger no matter how still he remained. The soft rustling of the night outside only made the silence in the room feel heavier, like a weight pressing down on his chest.

He glanced at the clock—still hours before he could expect any real rest. And yet, the moment the stillness seemed to deepen, something else stirred in the air, sharp and insistent. A whisper, no louder than a hiss, but it pierced the silence like a dagger.

Kill .

Kill .

The words slithered out like venom, curling in the air around him. Harry’s eyes snapped wide open, his heart racing, skin prickling with a sudden, unfathomable dread.

He sat up in bed, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as his mind scrambled to process what had just happened. The voice, that terrible voice—it was back, the same one he’d heard before, only now it was louder, sharper, as though it was speaking directly into his skull.

Suddenly, at the foot of his bed, there was movement. A small figure, hunched over, perched awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. Harry blinked, his mind still fuzzy with confusion, and then he saw it—Dobby, the house-elf from his party, his large, wide eyes fixed intently on Harry.

“Dobby?” Harry croaked, his voice rough from the haze of sleep and panic. He pushed his glasses up his nose, still struggling to make sense of the situation.

“Harry Potter should’ve listened to Dobby,” the elf said in his familiar, anxious tone. His ears twitched nervously, and he perched on the edge of Harry’s bed, as if ready to spring away at any moment. “Harry Potter must go home. Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make Harry Potter see, but…” He trailed off, his eyes wide with a strange, almost desperate intensity.

Harry’s heart lurched in his chest, confusion tightening his throat. “Your Bludger?” he repeated, his mind slow to process. “You made that Bludger chase after me? Did Draco tell you to?” His voice wavered, the accusation hitting harder than he had expected.

Dobby’s large, bat-like eyes widened even further, and he wrung his hands together. “Master Draco does not know Dobby is here, Dobby is trying to finish his mission! Dobby feels most aggrieved, sir. Dobby had to iron his hands!” The elf suddenly pulled out both of his hands, showing the bandages wrapped tightly around them. Harry’s stomach twisted in shock. The house-elf’s hands were raw and scarred, the skin a deep, angry red where he had burned them in the past. Harry knew that house elves often punished themselves when they disobeyed their masters, but seeing the physical evidence of it made his blood run cold.

Harry’s voice caught in his throat. “Why… why are you trying to kill me?” The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, but the truth hung there between them like an unspoken accusation.

Dobby’s expression contorted with distress. “Not kill you, sir! Never kill you!” The elf’s voice cracked, and for a moment, Harry could see something like fear, like regret, flash across his face. “Dobby remembers how things were before Harry triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We house elves were treated like vermin, sir. Vermin, just like we still are!”

Dobby began to sob, his tiny body shaking with the force of his grief. He clung to Harry’s blanket, wrapping his hands around the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. He blew his nose aggressively, the wet, muffled sound filling the room, but Harry barely heard it. The voice was still echoing in his head. 

Kill. Kill.

Suddenly, Dobby pulled back, his eyes wide with alarm. “Harry Potter must not stay here now that history is to repeat itself!” His words came in a panicked rush, his voice sharp with urgency.

“Repeat itself?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, repeat itself?”

Dobby’s hands were wringing together, his entire body trembling with the weight of whatever it was he was trying to say. “I shouldn’t have said that!” he cried out, suddenly banging his head with both fists. “I shouldn’t have—!”

Harry lunged forward to grab the elf’s wrists. “Dobby, stop!” he said frantically, his fingers wrapping gently around the elf’s frail arms to keep him from causing any more harm. “When did this happen before? Who’s doing it now?” Harry’s voice shook as the weight of the elf’s words sank in. There was something more here, something important that Dobby knew.

But Dobby only looked at him, eyes brimming with unshed tears, his expression torn between fear and something deeper—something unspoken. “Dobby cannot say. Dobby only wants Harry Potter to be safe. Please…” He hesitated, looking away as if torn between loyalty and terror. “Please, Harry Potter, go home.”

Before Harry could protest, there was a sudden, sharp snap. The air shifted, and in a heartbeat, Dobby vanished, leaving behind a faint, lingering sense of dread in his wake.

Harry sat there, frozen for a moment, his mind racing. He had to know more. Thoughts were spinning, but before he could go any further, the sound of footsteps approached, breaking his concentration.

The door to the hospital wing creaked open, and Harry quickly shoved himself back under the covers, heart pounding. He barely had time to settle when he heard the soft, familiar sound of Professor McGonagall's voice.

“Put him here,” she said, her tone soft but filled with concern.

“What happened?” came Dumbledore’s voice, equally concerned.

Harry’s stomach churned, a sinking feeling crawling up his spine as he tried to steady his breathing. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“There’s been another attack,” Sirius said, his voice tight with emotion.

Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest. His eyes darted toward the door, and though he couldn’t see them, he could feel the weight of the words in the room. Another attack?

“I think he’s been petrified,” Sirius continued, his voice quiet but heavy with dread.

“Petrified?” Harry whispered to himself, his throat constricting.

Madam Pomfrey’s quick footsteps followed, and Harry could hear her muttering spells under her breath, but it was Dumbledore’s voice that broke through the fog in Harry’s mind.

“Our students are in grave danger,” Dumbledore said gravely, his words slow and heavy. “Hogwarts is no longer safe. The Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened again.”

Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone into a pit. The voice, the Bludger, Draco’s cryptic warning—it was all coming together.

And none of it was good.

Chapter Text

It was late November, and the cold air that had begun to creep through the walls of Hogwarts seemed to settle into the very bones of its inhabitants. Inside their dorm room, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering light on the faces of Harry and his friends. They had gathered around a table, the usual chaos of the castle muted by the late hour. Theo, Ron, Hermione, and Draco were all present, and instead of his usual spot perched against his headboard, even Blaise had taken a seat at the edge of his bed, leaning forward to listen intently.

Harry sat in the middle, holding a crumpled paper in his hands, his brow furrowed as he read its contents. His voice was unusually serious, a low murmur that seemed to demand attention. “This is dire,” he said, his fingers gripping the parchment like it might slip away if he let go. His voice dropped an octave. “We have to sign up for…” He paused dramatically, his eyes shining with barely contained excitement. 

“DUELING CLUB!!”

The room fell silent for a beat, and then Hermione blinked, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. “Dueling club?” she repeated, her voice betraying her skepticism.

“Yes!” Harry cheered, standing up so quickly that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Lockhart and Reggie are heading it!” His voice carried a note of triumph, the kind that made it clear he hadn’t just discovered something—he had uncovered a hidden treasure. His smile was wide and bright, and for the first time in weeks, Harry looked truly alive, like the weight of the world had been temporarily lifted from his shoulders.

“You’re excited about this?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the bedpost, watching Harry’s energy spill over the room.

“Yes! I mean, it’s perfect! We’ve all been so on edge, and this is something we can actually do—it’ll help us get ready for whatever’s coming.” Harry’s eyes darted around the group, catching each of their gazes, his enthusiasm infectious.

Draco couldn’t help but laugh softly. Despite the tension, despite the uncertainty that had been gnawing at them for weeks, Harry’s boundless energy was a welcome change. He immediately signed up, knowing full well that anything to keep that bright smile on his best friend’s face was worth it.

Ron and Hermione exchanged reluctant glances, and though they didn’t seem particularly thrilled about the idea, their own curiosity and loyalty to Harry soon won out. One by one, they signed up, the sound of quills scratching on parchment filling the air.

Blaise, who had been quietly watching the exchange from his spot on the bed, leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ve signed up already,” he said nonchalantly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Really?” Harry’s face lit up with a grin so wide it nearly split his face. He jumped to his feet, his hands clapping together in delight. “Mate! I knew I could count on you!!”

Blaise smirked, leaning back on his elbows. “I thought you knew me better than that, Potter. I’m not one to sit out of a good fight.”

“Great! This is going to be amazing!” Harry practically bounced on his heels, the energy in the room shifting to match his. The atmosphere, once tense and uncertain, now felt lighter, almost as if the weight of the world had been momentarily forgotten.

The next day arrived in a blur, the hours passing too slowly for Harry’s liking as the anticipation grew. The Dueling Club was finally happening. He could hardly contain himself. He barely ate breakfast, his thoughts racing ahead to the moment he’d step into the hall with Draco, Blaise, and the others. Every step felt like it propelled him closer to something exciting, something that might just break the oppressive gloom that had settled over the school.

By the time they entered the Great Hall for the first meeting, Harry was practically vibrating with excitement. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his eyes wide and sparkling, unable to stay still for even a second. Draco watched him with a bemused smile, noting how Harry’s usual energy—always present but often buried under a cloud of worry or exhaustion—seemed to have reached new heights. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, unable to contain his excitement over something that, to anyone else, might have seemed trivial.

Draco couldn’t help but grin. He knew rowdy wizards raised Harry, and he had seen the boy’s energy bubble up when he was passionate about something. But this? This was next level. Harry’s entire being seemed to hum with anticipation. He was almost bouncing off the walls.

The other boys in their group, while not as ecstatic, were still caught up in the energy. Theo’s eyes twinkled with quiet interest, while Ron stood a little off to the side, looking like he was trying to decide whether or not he thought this whole thing was a good idea. Hermione, too, was filled with trepidation, but even she couldn’t suppress the slight curve of her lips as Harry’s enthusiasm reached them all.

They walked into the hall together, the sound of their footsteps almost drowned out by the buzz of students already gathered in the large room. Harry couldn’t help but take in the sight with awe: rows of students, all excited for the first real lesson in defense since the start of the school year. The long tables had been cleared, and at the front of the room, Professors Lockhart and Regulus stood, looking as equally excited—though in very different ways.

Lockhart was beaming in his usual overly enthusiastic manner, his smile wide enough to be blinding. “Welcome, welcome!” he called out, clapping his hands together. “Today, we’ll learn the fine art of dueling. Professor Black and I have prepared some exercises for you!” He gestured to Regulus, who gave a curt nod, his face a picture of quiet focus.

Draco exchanged a look with Harry, who was now almost vibrating with energy. This was exactly what they needed, Draco thought. A distraction, a bit of fun amidst the storm brewing outside. And with the way Harry was practically glowing, Draco knew this would be something they wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

As the students found their places, Harry’s excitement only seemed to intensify, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a burst of warmth. It wasn’t just about learning dueling spells—it was about being able to do something, take action, push back against the darkness that was creeping into their lives. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry was smiling again. And that, Draco thought, was worth everything.

The atmosphere in the Dueling Club was electric, a buzz of energy pulsing through the room as students shuffled into place. Harry could barely contain his excitement as he took his seat with the others. It was finally happening—Dueling Club! And, perhaps best of all, Lockhart was about to make a complete fool of himself.

Regulus and Lockhart stood at the front of the room, facing each other across the clearing. Lockhart looked absurdly confident, flashing his usual dazzling smile as he adjusted his robe, while Regulus stood composed, his expression cool and detached, almost as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

“This is going to be good,” Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes gleaming. Draco, sitting beside him, shot him a knowing look, but even he couldn’t hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He, too, had his bets on Regulus.

The demonstration was about to begin. The two professors bowed sharply to one another, then stepped away in opposite directions, pacing out their ten steps before turning to face each other once more. Harry was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Expelliarmus!” Regulus shouted, flicking his wand with a sharp motion. Instantly, Lockhart was sent flying backward, his arms flailing as he landed hard on his arse with a loud thud. The crowd gasped, and Harry couldn’t help but snort in delight.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Hermione exclaimed, her hands flying to her mouth in concern.

“Who cares?” Ron and Harry said in unison, exchanging a fist bump, both of them grinning ear to ear. Draco rolled his eyes beside them.

Lockhart stood tall, trying to seem unruffled by the display. “Excellent! It was pretty obvious what you were about to do, and if I wanted to stop you, I could’ve easily—”

“Perhaps it would be best to teach the students to block first?” Regulus interrupted, his tone flat and unamused, his gaze fixed firmly on Lockhart. Harry could feel the sharpness of Regulus’ irritation—he clearly wasn’t impressed by Lockhart’s antics.

“An excellent suggestion!” Lockhart exclaimed, flashing his usual, if somewhat strained, grin. “Now, let’s have a volunteer pair! Potter! Malfoy!”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and before anyone could blink, he was already on his feet, practically leaping over the table in his excitement. Draco was right behind him, the two exchanging quick, sly smiles as they made their way to the center of the room.

Lockhart made a big show of stepping back, hands spread wide. “Remember, only disarming, gentlemen!” His voice rang out with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Let’s keep it friendly, shall we?”

The boys stood facing each other, wands raised and poised. Harry couldn’t suppress his grin, though his eyes were sharp, focused. “Try not to be a sore loser,” he teased, his smirk growing.

Draco’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Bold of you to assume I’ll lose, Haz.” His voice was low and confident, and Harry could see the challenge in his eyes. He was ready for this.

The two turned their backs to one another, counting ten paces, just like the professors had done moments ago. Harry’s boots scraped across the stone floor, his breath steady as he moved, but his mind was already racing. This is it. No holding back. At the end of their ten paces, both turned sharply to face each other, wands raised, eyes locked.

Lockhart’s voice rang out, “One, two, three!”

“Expelliarmus!” Harry cried, his wand sweeping forward with practiced precision.

The force of the spell hit Draco squarely in the chest, and he was thrown backward, arms flailing, his wand flying out of his hand as he crashed onto the ground. The crowd gasped, some of them cheering, but Harry’s heart skipped—he hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.

But Draco was already rolling to his feet, a grin tugging at his lips, his eyes flashing with determination. “Serpensortia!” Draco bellowed, his wand flicking downward.

From the tip of his wand, a large, coiling snake shot out, landing with a hiss on the ground between them. It was long and sleek, its eyes gleaming with malice as it turned toward Harry, its tongue flicking in and out, ready to strike.

For a moment, Harry just stood there, stunned by the sudden appearance of the creature. His mind raced—Draco had always been clever with his spells, but this? This was something different.

The snake slithered towards Harry, its body undulating with terrifying speed. He could feel the coldness of the air shift as the serpent drew nearer, its eyes locking onto his.

“Don’t move, Harry,” Regulus called, his voice calm but firm. He pulled out his wand, ready to act, but Harry didn’t move. His eyes never left the snake.

But before Regulus could take action, Lockhart, ever the dramatist, shouted, “Allow me! Fliate Ascendile!” His wand thrust upward, and with a loud crack, the snake shot straight into the air, twisting violently as it soared, before landing heavily on the floor with a loud thud.

It hissed viciously, its eyes now fixed on a nearby Hufflepuff student, who was frozen in place, wide-eyed and trembling. The snake coiled, its fangs bared, ready to strike.

“Stop! Don’t hurt him!” Harry shouted, his heart pounding in his chest. The snake’s head tilted slightly, its eyes narrowing as it turned to face him. The hiss it emitted was sharp and menacing, but Harry stood his ground, his heart racing in his chest. “Don’t hurt him,” he pleaded again, his voice desperate.

Regulus’ face had darkened. His eyes flashed with sudden intensity. With a flick of his wand, the snake vanished in a puff of smoke. The Hufflepuff student, a boy Harry didn’t recognize, blinked in confusion, his body shaking as he looked up at Harry.

“What are you playing at?” the boy demanded, his voice harsh, his fists clenched at his sides. “Trying to get me killed?”

Harry was taken aback, his mind scrambling for an explanation. “What? I didn’t—” He looked to Regulus for help, but Regulus’ gaze was locked onto him with something that resembled shock—or perhaps disbelief.

Even Draco stood frozen, staring at Harry with wide eyes, his face a mix of awe and confusion.

The room had gone silent, the only sound the soft rustling of robes as students shifted uncomfortably. Harry’s stomach churned as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. What had just happened? Why had the snake responded to him like that? He glanced back at Regulus, but the older wizard’s face was unreadable. Even Lockhart, for once, had gone quiet.

It was a moment before Regulus spoke again, his voice low, almost imperceptible. “What did you say to it, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked back at the Hufflepuff boy, who was still glaring at him with wide, fearful eyes, and felt his heart sink.

What did I do?

Chapter Text

Regulus led Harry into his office, the door clicking shut behind them with a quiet finality. The weight of what had just happened in the Dueling Club pressed heavily on Harry’s shoulders. His mind was racing, thoughts tangled in confusion and disbelief.

“I told it to stop,” Harry muttered, his voice small, almost plaintive. “Why was everyone acting like that?”

Regulus placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder, guiding him to a chair near the desk. His gaze was thoughtful, almost hesitant. “We should wait for your parents to get here before we talk about this in detail,” Regulus said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “You did nothing wrong, Harry. But… this is strange. Even for you.”

Before Harry could respond, the office door creaked open, and James Potter poked his head inside. “Fawn?” he called, his voice warm with concern. “Reg? What’s going on?”

Harry looked up at his father, feeling a mix of relief and dread. He opened his mouth, but it was Regulus who spoke first.

“Well,” Regulus began, choosing his words carefully, “how do I put this? Your son, Harry, is….” He glanced at Harry, who felt his stomach twist at the man’s nervousness. “Well… he may have just talked to a snake in a way that made it look like he was trying to hurt a student. In front of the entire Dueling Club.”

There was a long, stunned silence.

Lily blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?” she looked at Regulus as though she hadn’t quite processed the words. “He’s a parselmouth?”

Harry’s head spun, and he suddenly wished the floor would swallow him up. “What… What's a parselmouth?” he asked, looking from Regulus to his parents.

James, ever the one to jump to conclusions, nodded. “Yes, that.”

“Oh my god, James, do you never pay attention?” Lily muttered, rolling her eyes. James shrugged, grinning with a sheepishness that made Harry feel even more out of place.

“Nope,” James said casually, popping the “p” as he flopped onto Regulus’s desk, looking at Harry with an amused yet puzzled expression. “I just live my life.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a headache. “A parselmouth,” he began, his voice slower now, “is a wizard who can speak to snakes. The catch is, almost all known parselmouths are descended from Salazar Slytherin himself.” He sighed, his exhaustion suddenly evident. “It’s… a rare trait. And the problem is, it doesn’t usually show up unless there’s a direct connection to Salazar Slytherin.”

James’s face scrunched in confusion, clearly trying to piece it together. “But the Potter line isn’t connected to the Sacred 28,” he said slowly. “We’re not purebloods, and I know for a fact we’re not related to Slytherin, or the Gaunt family, either.” He looked at Regulus, a frown tugging at his lips. “if it runs in the Gaunt line… I don’t know any connection to the Potters.”

Regulus met James’s gaze, his expression a mixture of bemusement and concern. “Yes, exactly. But Harry seems to be an exception. It’s very strange. We’ve never seen anything like it.” He eyed Harry carefully, then flicked his wand toward the corner of the room.

A small garden snake appeared in a puff of smoke, coiling lazily on the desk in front of James. It was harmless, its scales a soft shade of brown, but the way it flicked its tongue in and out as it slithered around was unsettling.

James looked at it, intrigued, but also a little cautious. “Oh, hello there,” he said, his voice warming as he reached out to gently pet the snake’s head. “Nice to meet you, little guy.”

Harry watched, his stomach in knots, as Regulus turned toward him. “Harry, I want you to say something to the snake,” he said quietly, as he scribbled something on a piece of parchment and passed it over to Harry. “Read this aloud.”

Harry looked at the note in his hands. The words were simple but chilling: Bite James Potter.

His heart skipped a beat. “Why?” Harry asked, his voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to hurt his father, but confused by the request.

“Experiment,” Lily said, a small smirk playing on her lips as she glanced at Regulus. Harry’s stomach churned. She looked amused, but he didn’t share her sense of ease.

“Just say it,” Regulus urged, giving Harry a steady, reassuring look. “It’s for understanding the full scope of what’s happening. Besides, it's just a garden snake.”

“Okay,” Harry muttered, still feeling incredibly strange about this whole thing. He turned to the snake, which was now winding itself more actively around the desk. “Bite James Potter.”

The snake flicked its tongue one last time and, almost as if understanding the command, turned toward James. It slithered quickly across the desk, darting forward with surprising speed. Before anyone could react, it gently nipped at James’s hand, its small teeth making contact and breaking the skin slightly.

James blinked, his hand jerking back in shock, and the snake hung from his finger, still attached but not with any real aggression.

“Holy shit,” James exclaimed, his eyes wide as he stared at the snake still clinging to his finger. “That’s… freaky!”

Lily’s expression softened in recognition, but there was still an air of disbelief hanging around her. “It’s true, parselmouth,” Regulus confirmed, his voice flat with finality.

Harry looked at his father, whose face was a mixture of astonishment and something deeper—concern? Worry?

James blinked a few more times, still processing. “So… what does this mean for him? For us?”

Harry felt his throat tighten. This was real. The snake had obeyed him. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that he could command snakes, or the fact that he’d nearly hurt his dad in front of everyone. “I didn’t want it to bite him,” Harry said quickly, his voice tinged with guilt. “I just… I wanted it to stop. I didn’t think it would… it just listened.”

Lily moved closer to Harry, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know, love. But… this is big. Do you understand that? This is a part of you—part of your magic. And we need to figure out why it’s happening now.”

James nodded, a slight frown on his face. “This is… strange, Reg. But Harry’s right, he didn’t do anything wrong.” He reached over and gently pried the snake off his finger, setting it back on the desk. “But we need to understand more about this. It’s not something we can ignore.”

Regulus met Harry’s eyes again, a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “We’ll figure this out, Harry. But you’re not alone in this, alright?”

Harry nodded, though he still felt a weight pressing on him. The words “Slytherin heir” echoed in the back of his mind, and for the first time, the reality of what that could mean felt more like a curse than a gift.

Chapter Text

Harry sat on the edge of the couch in the common room, his heart pounding as he looked around at his friends. He had barely found the courage to explain what had happened with the snake, let alone his new ability to speak Parseltongue. Now, as they all stared at him, eyes wide and mouths slightly agape, he couldn’t help but feel a tightening in his chest.

“You’re not the one petrifying everyone, right?” Blaise asked, his voice flat, but his gaze sharp.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise at the accusation. “No!” he answered, his tone more defensive than he’d intended. His hands clenched at his sides, and he shook his head, trying to steady his racing thoughts. “My mum is a Muggle-born!” He paused, looking directly at Blaise. “And so is one of my best friends!”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the others. “I’m pretty sure Harry isn’t the one attacking people, Blaise,” he said, his voice a little too loud, as if to drown out the tension. “It’s just… well, this whole Parseltongue thing is a bit… strange, yeah?”

Hermione, ever the voice of reason, leaned forward, her brows furrowed in thought. “We don’t even know who the heir is. What we should be worried about is what is behind this, and why it’s petrifying people.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus, but he couldn’t shake the image of the snake in the Dueling Club, the way it had obeyed him. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but the looks he’d gotten from the other students had made him feel like he was something dangerous, something untouchable.

“Exactly,” Draco added, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes darting between Harry and the others. He leaned back in his seat, tapping his fingers on his knee as if gathering his thoughts. “Um, I looked into some of this already. The last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened… was in 1943. They say it killed someone, not just petrified them.”

Harry blinked, his pulse quickening. “What? Killed someone?”

Draco nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, but not just any student—a Muggle-born student. My father… he knew about it. He asked me about it once. He said the heir is waiting for another Muggle-born to die, just like last time.” Draco’s voice dropped, and he leaned forward, his fingers curling into a fist. 

Theo, who had been unusually quiet up until now, spoke up, his voice tinged with disbelief. “A student died? At Hogwarts?” His eyes widened as he glanced around at the group. “But… but that’s… insane.”

“Yeah, and whoever did it… they were expelled,” Draco continued, his eyes flicking to the others, his expression unreadable. “But their name’s… erased. It’s been completely wiped from the records. Because they were a student.”

The room fell into silence, the weight of Draco’s words settling over them like a thick fog. Harry’s thoughts were spinning. If a Muggle-born student had been killed in the past, and the heir to Slytherin was waiting for it to happen again… What did that mean for Hermione? For his mother? For everyone?

“You think… is it happening again?” Ron asked, his voice a little shaky.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied, his tone quieter now, almost reluctant. “But what I do know is that it’s getting worse. People are getting petrified, and if what my father said is true, it’s only a matter of time before someone… dies.”

Hermione bit her lip, her brow furrowed as she glanced at Harry. “We need to figure out who the heir is. Who’s behind all of this? But we can’t do it alone.”

Blaise, who had been unusually silent, finally spoke, his tone dry. “No one can do this alone, especially if the heir has this much power.”

Harry felt the weight of the room pressing in on him, but he couldn’t shake the thought that this wasn’t just about the Chamber anymore. This was something much bigger. It was about power, control, and something ancient—something Harry was now connected to, in ways he didn’t understand.

“The Sacred 28,” Harry murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. The words hung in the air, a faint whisper that carried with them a sense of weight—of something ancient and long buried.

Hermione, who had been skimming through her notes, looked up, her brows furrowing in curiosity. “Hm? What’s that?” she asked her voice light but intrigued.

Draco, ever the source of pureblood knowledge, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of discussing family history. “It’s a list of the pureblood wizarding families from the 1930s,” he explained, his voice smooth as he ticked off a few names with his fingers. “The Malfoys, the Blacks, the Weasleys… just to name a few.”

Harry nodded, turning the words over in his mind. “But that list is very out of date,” Draco continued, his voice tinged with disdain, “because families like the Blacks have mixed with Muggles and other bloodlines over the years. It’s not as… pure as it used to be.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her interest piqued. “So what, the list is just a bunch of old pureblood families then?”

“Not just any pureblood families,” Harry interjected, his voice low and serious. He looked at Draco and then back at the others, his gaze intense. “The Gaunt line is on that list. The Gaunts are descended from Salazar Slytherin himself.”

A shiver ran through the group at the mention of Slytherin’s name. They had all heard of him, of course, the founder of Slytherin House, the man whose obsession with pureblood supremacy had cast a dark shadow over Hogwarts’ history.

“And the sacred 28,” Harry continued, his voice growing quieter, more measured, “they’re known for inbreeding, for keeping their bloodlines… pure.” He grimaced, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “The Sacred 28 was a way of encouraging that. It wasn’t just about family pride, it was about… control. Power.”

Draco nodded gravely, his fingers tightening around his wand as he traced the edge of his sleeve. “It’s how these families kept their power, kept their purity, even if it meant marrying cousins or… worse.”

Hermione shuddered at the implication, but Harry wasn’t finished yet. “The thing is,” he said, his voice thick with realization, “if the Gaunt family was still… around, still at Hogwarts under a different family… we could have a descendant of Salazar Slytherin walking these halls.”

Theo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around as though the walls might be listening. “You think someone from the Gaunt line is the heir?” he asked, his voice low.

Harry bit his lip, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. “I don’t know. But it’s a possibility. If this is anything like the last time, they’ll be trying to purge Muggle-borns again.” His gaze hardened, a sense of urgency building in his chest. “And that means the Chamber is only going to get worse.”

Blaise, who had been silent until now, gave Harry a sidelong glance. “So, we’re looking for a Slytherin. A pureblood Slytherin.”

“Not just a Slytherin,” Harry said, his voice firm. “Someone who’s connected to Salazar himself. Someone with the power to control the Chamber.”

The group was silent for a moment, each of them absorbing the weight of Harry’s words. It wasn’t just about the Chamber anymore. This was something far more dangerous, something that had been brewing for decades—perhaps longer.

Draco, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke. “You know… someone might be hiding it. Someone who doesn’t want the rest of us to know. They could be sitting right under our noses.”

Harry nodded slowly, feeling the sting of those words. The idea of a traitor, hidden in plain sight, made his blood run cold. The puzzle was getting bigger—and more dangerous by the second.

The conversation hung heavy in the air, the room filled with more questions than answers. But one thing was certain: they were running out of time.

Chapter Text

Over the holiday break, Hogwarts seemed almost… abandoned. The festive cheer of Christmas had faded into the past, and most of the students had returned home to be with their families. The castle, usually buzzing with energy, now stood still—its stone walls heavy with silence. Even the portraits on the walls, usually so full of chatter, had grown quieter. Harry didn’t mind. After spending Christmas Day at Hogsmeade House, he had come back to the castle’s cool embrace, finding a strange comfort in the solitude. The bustling chaos of school life, the endless chatter of friends, and the weight of recent events—so much seemed to swirl around him. But here, in the empty corridors of Hogwarts, it was just him. And, for now, that was enough.

One afternoon, he found himself wandering through the dim, cavernous hallways, aimlessly tracing the same steps he had walked so many times before. The chill of winter had lingered in the air, cold enough to freeze the moisture in his breath, sending clouds of mist trailing behind him. His footsteps were the only sound, echoing off the stone walls in a rhythmic cadence that felt oddly comforting in its predictability. But as he turned a corner, something in the atmosphere shifted.

He stopped, his brow furrowing, as the sound of rushing water suddenly filled his ears—a loud, almost frantic rush of liquid, distant yet unmistakable. It was out of place. Where was the water coming from? His pulse quickened as he walked toward the sound, his curiosity now fully piqued. The hallway ahead was flooded. Not just a trickle, but an entire surge of water, thick and sluggish, lapping at the stone floor. It was knee-high, pushing against the walls, swirling as though it had a mind of its own. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes darted over the scene, looking for an explanation, but the source of the flood remained a mystery.

His breath caught in his throat as he stepped cautiously into the water, the chill of it seeping through his shoes. The surface rippled under his feet, and the eerie sound of splashing echoed around him. This shouldn’t be happening. Hogwarts wasn’t the sort of place to flood like this, especially not so unexpectedly. Harry’s instincts tingled with unease.

As he ventured farther down the hall, he noticed a door slightly ajar at the end. The sound of faint sobbing, soft and broken, tugged at him. It was the kind of sound that felt wrong in the otherwise silent castle. Harry’s curiosity and the strange sensation that something was amiss pushed him forward. With a deep breath, he reached the door and pushed it open.

The room was thick with steam, fogging the mirrors on the walls, and distorting the shapes within it. At the center, hovering in mid-air was Moaning Myrtle. She was curled up in a sad, desolate ball, her pale arms crossed tightly around herself as she wept into her hands, her sobs small and pitiful.

Harry blinked in surprise. “Myrtle?” he asked softly, stepping into the misty room. "What’s going on?"

She looked up, her large, round eyes puffy and red from crying, her gaze full of both irritation and sadness. “Oh, it’s you, Harry Potter,” she sniffed dramatically, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Someone threw a book at my head, and now I’m crying, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for her, despite the absurdity of the situation. He’d never seen Myrtle so vulnerable, so broken before. “A book?” he repeated, frowning. "Who would do that?"

Myrtle’s lips trembled as she floated a little closer to the sink. “I don’t know! I was just… minding my own business! And then—wham!—this book hits me! Out of nowhere! It hurt, you know?” She sniffled again, her translucent body sagging as though the weight of her sorrow was too much to bear.

Harry’s gaze swept over the bathroom, scanning the cluttered space for any signs of who might have thrown the book. But there was no one. No movement. Just Myrtle, floating in her cloud of misery.

And then, Harry saw it. Half-submerged in the murky water on the floor was a book. It was old, the leather cover cracked and warped from moisture. It looked out of place in the middle of a flooded bathroom, as if it had been tossed carelessly aside. The edges of the pages curled, and the book was unmistakably ancient.

Harry’s fingers hovered over it for a moment before he picked it up. The moment his hands touched the cover, something in the air seemed to shift. A chill ran through him. The name etched on the cover sent a shiver down his spine.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry muttered aloud, the name a strange echo in his mind. He felt something stir deep within him, an unsettling sense of recognition—like a distant memory, half-formed, trying to claw its way into his consciousness.

Myrtle’s eyes widened as she stopped sobbing, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. “Tom Riddle?” she repeated, her voice tinged with confusion. “I think I’ve seen that name before… but I don’t remember where.”

Harry’s grip tightened on the book as he studied the engraving. It wasn’t the book that felt heavy, but something deeper. The name on the cover weighed on him, pressing into his chest as if it were alive, pulling at his thoughts in a way he couldn’t understand. This wasn’t just a random, forgotten relic. This was something important—something dangerous.

“Where did you find this?” Harry asked, his voice low. The feeling of unease was growing, gnawing at him from the inside. There was something more to this book, something dark , and Myrtle’s odd behavior made him think it wasn’t by accident.

Myrtle floated up a little, her gaze still narrowed at him. “I didn’t find it! It just—” She paused, looking at the spot where the book had lain before he picked it up. “It appeared ,” she added, her voice almost conspiratorial. “It wasn’t floating in the water. It just landed there. Out of nowhere.”

Harry’s mind raced, but the answer didn’t come. Why here? Why now? The name “Tom Riddle” was familiar, but there was no clear connection. Yet Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that it mattered . That this book was more than a forgotten text; it was part of something bigger, something sinister.

He looked back at Myrtle, whose sad, vacant expression seemed to shift slightly with his intense focus. “Are you sure no one else has been in here?” he asked, still not quite ready to accept that the answer lay with her.

“Of course, I’m sure!” Myrtle snapped a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m the only one who ever comes in here, Harry Potter! Don’t pretend you don’t know that!”

But Harry wasn’t listening. His thoughts were already elsewhere, racing ahead of him. The name, the book, the flooding hallway—all of it was connected , he was certain of it. He just didn’t know how. Not yet.

“I need to find out more,” he muttered, mostly to himself, though his words seemed to settle in the room like a curse.

Myrtle rolled her eyes, uninterested in his determination. “Go ahead, but don’t expect me to help. I’ve had enough of being a ghost, Potter.”

Harry barely heard her. His mind was spinning, the weight of the book still pressing on him. The moment he’d touched it, something had shifted, something ancient and dark had been stirred. And now, there was no going back.

He tucked the book into his bag, his movements quick and sharp. As he turned to leave, his heart began to race. The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor outside, and Harry’s pulse quickened. He had to go. He had to get away— now .

He waded back through the flooded hallway, the water brushing his ankles as he left the bathroom behind. He didn’t know what was happening at Hogwarts, but he knew one thing: it was only just beginning. And for the first time, he felt as though the walls of the castle were closing in on him. There were so many questions, and he didn’t have a single answer. Yet.

“I’ll figure this out later,” Harry whispered to himself. But as he walked through the murky water, every step felt like a decision that would change everything.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts library, bathed in the quiet hum of solitude, enveloped Harry like an old, familiar cloak. The air was thick with the scent of ancient parchment and dust, a scent that always seemed to comfort him, to remind him of how much he relied on this space—its stillness, its sanctuary. With most students gone, the usual bustle of laughter and chatter had fallen into eerie silence. For Harry, this absence of noise was both a relief and an unsettling void. He sat alone at one of the long oak tables, staring down at a pile of thick tomes about wizarding bloodlines, the Sacred 28, and Salazar Slytherin, though his mind was far from the pages.

His thoughts were fractured, trailing off into places he didn’t want to visit—the strange happenings at Hogwarts, the creeping suspicion that something dark was simmering beneath the surface. But even so, the quiet was a welcome break, a respite from the constant noise of his thoughts. He pulled open his bag, reaching for a dusty tome on wizarding ancestry to distract himself—but his fingers brushed against the journal.

A chill washed over him as he turned the journal over, feeling an unspoken weight in his chest, as if the very name had summoned some dark part of his mind. His breath hitched. “Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry whispered, the name falling from his lips like a curse. The words felt wrong, heavy.

With trembling hands, he flipped the cover open, half-expecting something to leap off the pages. But no—there was only blankness. Just the faintest rustling of paper as he turned the pages, the journal empty, save for the soft texture of the delicate, almost too-perfect paper.

Confusion lanced through Harry’s mind. What was this? He flipped through more pages, searching for something—anything—but there was nothing. The quiet of the library wrapped around him again, and he felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders. Then, an impulse gripped him, irrational yet irresistible. He reached for his quill and dipped it in ink, his fingers trembling with something that felt dangerously close to fear.

Testing the journal, Harry pressed the quill to the first blank page. A single drop of ink splashed onto the paper.

It vanished.

His breath caught, his pulse quickening. He stared at the page in disbelief. He dabbed the quill again, writing: My name is Harry Potter.

The ink flowed smoothly at first, as if nothing unusual had happened. But as the last letter of "Potter" finished forming, the words began to fade. To melt away, as if they were nothing more than smoke. Harry leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He blinked rapidly. What was happening?

Suddenly, new words began to take shape in the exact spot where his own had disappeared.

Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.

Harry’s breath caught, a sharp chill sweeping over him as his fingers went cold around the quill. His hands shook as he read the words again, the name sending a deep ripple of unease through him. How was this possible?

His mind raced. This wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. And yet, there it was—Riddle’s name staring back at him from the pages. He had to know more. Without thinking, he scribbled the next question, urgency creeping into his voice as he whispered it aloud:

Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?

For a long, nerve-wracking moment, there was no response. Harry felt a tightening in his chest, a gnawing uncertainty clawing at him. Had he imagined it? Was this some trick of the light?

Then—slowly, deliberately—another word appeared.

Yes.

Harry’s heart leaped in his chest. The ink seemed to pulse with an eerie life of its own, as if the journal was alive, feeding on his curiosity. He didn’t stop to think. He couldn’t. The question that burned at the tip of his tongue erupted before he could stop it:

Can you tell me?

The response was brief, almost taunting. The letters appeared on the page as though they had been there all along:

No. But I can show you.

The air around Harry seemed to grow thicker, colder. His breath hitched, and the silence of the library, which had once felt comforting, now seemed stifling, pressing in on him from all sides. His eyes darted around the empty room, but he could see no one. It was just him, alone with the journal, with Tom Riddle.

For a heartbeat, Harry hesitated. A flicker of doubt crept into his mind. But curiosity, sharper than any fear, drove him forward. His hand trembling, he wrote:

Show me.

The library around him seemed to hold its breath, and the quiet grew so thick it was almost suffocating. Harry waited, but the pages didn’t respond right away. He felt a shiver run down his spine as a faint, oppressive pressure began to build, until it felt as though the very walls were closing in on him.

Then, the paper began to shift. It rippled, like water disturbed by a stone, and before Harry’s eyes, the words rearranged themselves into something new. The air grew heavier, a strange tension curling around his chest.

He gasped, blinking rapidly. The world around him seemed to blur and shift, as if the ground beneath him had given way. His vision darkened, swirling into a haze of gray, and then—he was no longer in the library. He was standing in a dim, narrow corridor, the stones of Hogwarts ancient and worn. The torchlight flickered weakly along the walls, casting long, distorted shadows. Everything felt cold, lifeless—wrong.

A figure stood at the top of a staircase. A boy, his back turned, staring at something Harry couldn’t yet see. His posture was stiff, his face obscured by shadow. Harry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he instinctively stepped forward.

“Excuse me?” Harry called, his voice harsh in the silence. It echoed down the hall, but the figure didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

“Are you Tom Riddle?” Harry asked, his voice almost trembling with the weight of the question.

The boy didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring ahead.

Then, a chill shot through Harry’s spine as he saw something else—something worse. A group of men appeared at the bottom of the stairs, carrying a stretcher. A girl lay lifeless, her arm hanging off the side, limp and unnatural. Her face was covered, but the sight of her empty, dangling arm made Harry’s stomach turn.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

The boy, Riddle, didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all. He just watched. Cold, detached.

“Riddle!” A voice cut through the air—sharp, commanding.

Harry turned to see Professor Dumbledore, standing at the end of the corridor, his eyes narrowed with intent.

Riddle’s gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. The tension between them was thick enough to slice. Harry watched as Riddle slowly descended the stairs, his footsteps deliberate, cold.

“Come,” Dumbledore said, his tone firm but calm.

Riddle nodded, but there was an edge to his voice as he responded. “Professor,” he said, though Harry could sense an undercurrent of something darker in his words.

“It is not wise to be wandering around at this hour, Tom,” Dumbledore said softly.

Riddle’s voice lowered, almost a whisper. “Is it true, sir? That Hogwarts may close?”

Dumbledore’s expression hardened. “If the attacks do not stop, yes. Headmaster Dippet may have no choice in the matter.”

Riddle’s eyes flickered with something like fear before he spoke again, his voice shaking with urgency. “Would the school be saved if the culprit is caught?”

Dumbledore’s gaze locked on him. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

For a moment, Harry could feel the suffocating tension in the air, the weight of something unsaid hanging between them. But then, Riddle spoke, his voice cold and distant. “No, sir. Nothing.”

The conversation ended there. Dumbledore nodded, then turned away, disappearing into the dark hallway. Riddle stood still for a moment before he walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he instinctively followed.

He couldn’t stop himself.

The world seemed to blur again, shifting around him, and Harry stumbled to keep pace, barely able to focus on the darkened corridors twisting around him. Riddle didn’t look back. He moved with purpose, his eyes locked ahead, while Harry’s breath quickened, and his heart thudded louder with each step.

And then, they reached a familiar sight. Hagrid. The giant man stood hunched over, his hands trembling as he held the frame of a crate.

“Evening,” Riddle’s voice was cold, almost bored. He raised his wand. “I’m going to have to turn you in.”

Hagrid’s eyes widened with panic. “No! You don’t understand! It wasn’t me!” His voice cracked, pleading.

Riddle didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed. “The dead girl’s parents will be here tomorrow. The least we can do is make sure the thing that killed her is dealt with.”

Hagrid staggered backward, his face paling. “It wasn’t him! Aragog didn’t do it!”

Riddle’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Monsters don’t make good pets, Hagrid.” He flicked his wand, and with a screech, the crate flew open, revealing a huge, monstrous spider.

Harry recoiled, a shiver of disgust running through him as the spider scuttled out, its legs moving in a blur of speed.

“Get it!” Riddle shouted, casting curses at the creature, but it was too quick, vanishing into the shadows.

Hagrid was still crying out, desperate. “Aragog’s innocent!”

Riddle didn’t respond, just turned and stalked away, leaving Hagrid frozen, his eyes wide and pleading.

The world around Harry seemed to spin, the air growing thick again. The gray mist wrapped itself around him once more, pulling him back into the present.

When Harry’s eyes snapped open again, he was sitting alone at the library table, his heart still racing, the journal heavy in his hands. His mind was a whirl of confusion and fear. He had seen something. Something dark. Something dangerous.

He knew one thing for certain now—he was tangled in something much bigger than he could have imagined. Something terrifying.

And he didn’t know if he could escape it.