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Chapter Text

Harry's really glad that Sirius is free and he's glad that Sirius is staying in Malfoy Manor for the time being, but he gets the odd feeling that Sirius doesn't like him.

The man is staying in one of the guest rooms on the West side of the Manor, and he joins them for breakfast and dinner, and Harry sees him in the garden loads of times talking with Remus who, although isn't staying at the Manor like Sirius is, is there so often and for so long that he may as well be. Sirius is also out of the manor a lot, too. Mrs. Malfoy says that he's sorting things out with being the head of the family and everything.

Still, Harry thinks Sirius doesn't like him. He'd welcomed him with open arms just a few days prior, when he'd gotten off the Hogwarts Express, and he'd been nice and had talked with Harry when they got back to the Manor. He had to leave eventually, though, because he had a meeting at the Ministry, and when he got back, he'd gone straight to his room for the time being and not come out until breakfast the next day.

Sirius doesn't talk to him much, and Harry's not sure why. When he does talk to him, it's about small little things, such as how Harry's doing in school or about Quidditch. Harry can count on two hands how many times they've talked in the past three days with four fingers to spare.

Sirius doesn't talk to Mr. Malfoy, and he barely speaks to Mrs. Malfoy. Sometimes, from the corner of his eye, Harry catches Sirius staring at him with an odd look, but when he turns to him the expression is gone and he's looking somewhere else.

On the fifth day of being at Malfoy Manor, Draco finds Harry wallowing alone in his room. Esa has been trying to coax him out of bed for the past hour, but he won't hear it.

“What's going on, Harry?” Draco asks. Harry feels the bed sink, and he hears Draco crawling over until he's sitting against the headboard next to Harry.

Harry turns over and faces the portrait on the wall that opens into a secret passageway. Draco had used it last year when the Minister and Dumbledore were talking to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, and Merlin, that feels like it was so long ago.

“I don't wanna talk about it, Draco,” Harry mumbles.

“Fine,” Draco says. “Let me talk, then. I'm reading this book on dark healing, and I was wondering if I could try a spell on you.”

“You are not cutting into my skin,” he says sternly.

“I'm not gonna cut into your skin,” Draco says indignantly. “It's a spell to temporarily cure bad eyesight rather than spending hours making a potion. I figured if it works, we can use it in Quidditch.”

Harry sighs, but he turns over and pushes the covers off of him. He thinks Draco is grinning, but he really can't tell without his glasses. His eyesight is absolutely horrid, after all.

“Is this really a dark spell?” Harry asks as Draco settles his open book between them.

“No, but it's technically a healing spell and I figured I could try it before I move onto bigger stuff,” Draco shrugs his shoulders. “I really want to just get to fifth year already so I can begin to intern with Madam Pomfrey.”

“Well, I wanna get to fifth year to take History of Potions.”

“So you're actually gonna take it then?” Draco asks, and his excitement is clear in his voice.

It's Harry's turn to shrug. “I like potions,” he tells Draco. “Besides, if my Nana shows up in it, I definitely want to take it. I wanna learn more about them.”

“That's very sweet,” Draco says with a light laugh. “Alright, stay still and close your eyes.”

Harry does as he's told, and only seconds later, he feels a cold hand being placed over his eyes. A shiver runs down his spine at the frigid feeling of it, but he resists the urge to pull away. After a moment, Draco begins to speak. “Sānāre vīsus.” The hand is pulled away. “Okay, open your eyes.”

Harry slowly blinks his eyes open, and for a moment all he can see is black spots in his vision, but then it begins to clear up and in full clarity, Harry can see Draco sitting eagerly on his bed in front of him, his wand clutched tight between one of his hands.

“Did it work?” Draco asks.

“I'm not sure, you'll have to–”

“Oh, shut up!” Draco scuffs him upside the head, and Harry laughs and ducks his head even though it's too late. “I know it worked, you idiot. You started grinning the moment your eyes opened.”

“Oh, you never know, I could've been grinning because I was planning to make fun of you for failing.”

Draco tries to scuff him again, but Harry moves to the side before he can, and before they know it, they're wrestling on top of the bed until Draco pins him down near the end of it.

“Alright, now that I've done my spell, tell me what's going on with you,” Draco demands.

Harry stares up at him, and he can feel his face heating up immensely. Draco's lying on top of him, his legs on either side of Harry's thighs and one of his hands holding down Harry's arms. Harry's about to stammer out something incredibly stupid, but then Draco is rolling off of him and moving back to the headboard and closing his book back up.

“Um… what?” Harry sits up, using his elbows to prop himself up. He then turns on his side to look over at Draco's, who's settling himself under Harry's blanket.

“Come on, Harry, we're friends,” Draco settles him with a rather obvious look. “If you can't talk to me about what's bothering you, who can you talk to about it?”

“Well, um…” Harry mumbles something incoherently, and Draco fixes him with a glare. “It's Sirius,” Harry finally admits after a moment of wilting under Draco's glare. He turns over and then moves to lean against the headboard next to Draco. He fights him for a moment to get himself under the blanket as well, but Draco eventually relents and allows him to make himself comfortable under it. “I just don't think he likes me very much.”

“What?” Draco asks with a shocked laugh. “Harry, that's absolute rubbish! He spent a year as a wanted criminal running around Hogwarts trying to kill some stupid rat animagus just to protect you! I mean, he didn't even think about what would happen after, about the possibility of proving his innocence in all of it. Then he went up against the Ministry, and most importantly, Dumbledore, to get you out of the Dursleys' care. I mean, I know you weren't there for that, but I was talking to Mother about it and she was telling me that he fought like hell to prove himself a worthy–”

“I killed his best friend,” Harry mumbles.

Draco freezes all at once. His hands that were gesturing wildly in the air stop moving suddenly, and Harry hears him suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry…”

“Don't even try to deny it,” Harry whispers in a sad sort of voice. “I killed them. It's my fault they're dead.”

“Harry, it is not your fault that they–”

“It is,” Harry interrupts him, because he doesn't think he can deal with Draco saying anything else. He doesn't think he can deal with Draco lying to him. “When the dementors get close to me, I–I hear them. I hear Voldemort killing them, and I've been having nightmares of… of that night.”

“You remember it?” Draco asks, looking horrified.

“Not at first,” Harry shakes his head. “Not until the Quidditch match where they showed up did I hear her more clearly. Then, during the Patronus lessons with Remus, I–I started to hear my dad, too. They were trying to protect me.”

“Yes, because you are their child,” Draco says sternly. “Harry, any parent would try to protect their child, especially from the likes of the Dark Lord.”

“But he gave her an option!” Harry exclaims, anger rising up in him because Draco just doesn't get it. “He told her to step aside, that she'd spare her if she just–if she just let him kill me.”

“And where would that have left her?” Draco snaps angrily. “A widow and without a child, that's where. Would you wish that life upon her? Would you want her to live that kind of life?”

“I don't even want to–”

Harry cuts himself off with a choked sort of noise, but he knows what he was going to say. Draco does too, it seems, if the way he sighs and scoots closer to Harry is anything to go by. Draco wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders and pulls him closer to his body.

“Look, Harry, your mother was a Muggleborn,” Draco says. “I know you likely don't want to hear it, but the Dark Lord would have killed her the moment he killed you. You didn't kill your parents, Harry. They sacrificed themselves for you, and I know that doesn't do a thing to make yourself feel better, but you didn't kill them, Harry.”

Harry sighs and looks down, but Draco doesn't have it. He grabs Harry's face between his hands and forces Harry to look up at him. “Listen to me, Harry. You did not kill your parents. You did nothing of the sort.”

“But they–”

“Don't, Harry, okay? Don't.” Draco shakes him a bit, and Harry feels tears begin to fall onto his face.

“But… look at me,” Harry sobs. “What have I done to–to repay their sac– their sacrifice?” Harry motions around with his arms. “I mean, I'm a Slytherin, I–I'm a Parselmouth, I have a dark affinity, I'm all these things that they–that they would have hated.”

“Come on, you don't know that,” Draco says, and he's wrong. Harry knows that he's wrong.

“I'm not wrong,” Harry whines. “I'm not, okay? It's my fault that they're dead, and I haven't done a thing they would've been proud of.”

“So defeating Quirrell in first year, that didn't mean anything?” Draco fires back. “Hell, getting on the Quidditch team as a first year, that meant nothing? Defeating stupid Tom Riddle and solving the petrifications in second year, it was all pointless? Do you regret doing it all because you think your parents wouldn't be proud of you?” Draco spits out the word proud like it's poison, like it's personally offended him in every way possible.

“Of course I don't regret doing it–”

“Then why the hell should it matter what they think?” Draco asks. “Yeah, they were your parents, and anybody wants their parents to be proud of them, but they weren't able to raise you, so why should they have any say in how you turned out? You were abused all throughout your childhood, Harry. I–I know you don't like talking about it and I know you've never outright said it, but it's pretty damn obvious to me what you've been through.”

Harry wants to say “You don't know the half of it,” but he thinks that will perhaps set off a conversation he doesn't think he's ready to have now or ever.

“I obviously never knew your parents, Harry, but they were good people,” Draco continues in a much softer voice. “I know they were, and I know that they would be proud of who you've become. You're smart, you're great at magic, you love flying. You're a good person, Harry, and you're alive and I think that's enough to repay their sacrifice.”

Harry stares up at Draco, and he's still crying, and he still thinks Sirius fucking hates him, but he finds that although Draco's tone has been scathingly rude throughout this entire conversation, he feels a bit better.

—

“Talk to him,” Draco had said.

So, here Harry finds himself, standing in the garden of Malfoy Manor. Sirius is sitting on one of the benches, feeding the peacocks strawberries. He's not wearing his expensive robes anymore. Instead, he's wearing an old, beaten muggle t-shirt that Harry thinks is an artist he's seen in record shops before, as well as baggy black jeans and old combat boots Harry's seen some muggle teen's wear before.

Harry slowly sits down next to Sirius on the bench. Sirius continues throwing strawberries at the peacocks in the garden. Harry wants to speak, to say something, but he's not sure what to say, how to even start this conversation. What conversation is he even trying to start? What does he want to know?

Does he want to know if his parents would be proud of him? Does he want to know why Sirius has been avoiding him? Does he want to know what his parents were like?

Harry doesn't know.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to worry for long, because Sirius is the one who speaks first.

“I don't think it's a good idea that you come to live with me,” he says at last, and it's like a knife to Harry's heart.

“Wha… what?” Harry stammers.

Sirius chuckles as he throws another strawberry. “I'm not exactly the best role model, Harry, and I'm not in the best state… mentally. The past few days, I… I haven't been attending to affairs regarding being head of the family like Cissy told you I was. Well, I–I am, kind of, but for the most part, I'm visiting a Mind Healer. The Ministry mandated that I begin to see one after such a long stay in Azkaban, and it was good that they did. There's large portions of my life from… from before that I can't remember. It's why Moony's been coming over so often, he's helping me remember. I mean, everytime I remember the smallest thing, I have to call him over so he can confirm if it's real or not. Then there's the fact that while Remus was one of my best friends, he wasn't there for everything, so there's memories that I have that I've no idea if they're real or not because Moony wasn't in it.

“Like… there's this memory I have of when I was… fourteen, I think, and it was after a full moon, so Moony was in the hospital wing, and I'd just gotten back from home so I was… pretty bad and your father, he dragged me out of bed and all the way to the grounds, and he buried me in snow.” Sirius chuckles, then says, “I was still sleeping for fuck's sake. No idea how he got me up, put me in winter clothes, and then brought me all the way from Gryffindor Tower to outside the school, and then succeeded in burying me in snow without me waking up, but he did. At least… he did in the memory, but I've no idea if it happened and neither does Moony. But I–I don't think it did because we would've told Moony if James succeeded in doing all that, wouldn't we have?”

Sirius sighs and throws the last of his strawberries to the peacocks.

“I just don't think I'm guardian material at the moment, Harry,” he admits, but it goes right over Harry's head, because he swears he's seen the exact scene Sirius is describing before.

“Wait here,” he demands before standing up and sprinting back to the manor. He hears Sirius yell something behind him, but he doesn't care. He bursts right through the greenhouse, scaring the hell out of Mrs. Malfoy, who's drinking tea with a woman Harry thinks may be Pansy's mother. That's confirmed when he gets to the stairs and sees Pansy sitting there with Draco.

“Oh, Harry–”

“No time, sorry!” he yells as he takes the steps three at a time. He passes Bonnie and Dobby in the hallway, both of them holding a few boxes. “Hi! Bye!”

Harry finally skids into his room, nearly missing it with how fast he's going. He goes right over to his bookshelf and begins shoving stuff aside until he finds exactly what he's looking for.

The photo album Hagrid had gotten together before Harry left in his first year. He begins to flip frantically through the pages and finally, finally, his eyes land on the picture he's looking for.

There's two people in the photo: the boy not buried in the snow looks exactly like Harry, and his head is thrown back in a laugh. You can only see the head of the boy buried in snow, but Harry knows who it is. He looks royally pissed as well as incredibly confused, but his eyes are trained on James Potter, and Harry thinks the photo may have been taken seconds before he found a way out and then attacked his father.

Harry grins, shoves his fingers over the page, then closes it and holds it tight to his chest.

He takes off running out of his room again. Bonnie and Dobby are both gone. Pansy and Draco are still on the stairs, and Pansy tries to call to him again, but she's ignored once more. When he passes through the greenhouse again, he pauses a moment.

“So sorry for startling you!” he exclaims as he slows himself down. “Hi, Mrs. Parkinson, it's nice to meet you. Sorry, I have to go!” Harry runs out of the greenhouse again, sprinting through the garden and finally making it back to the bench.

Sirius, thankfully, is still there. He looks a little confused. Well, no, scratch that, he looks incredibly confused.

“Harry, why'd you run off like that?” he asks.

“Sorry–” Harry pants, “–had–to–get–this–book.”

“Well, what is it?” Sirius asks.

Harry grins, then sits back down next to Sirius. He places the photo album on his knee, then opens it so the other side rests on Sirius' right leg. Harry points at the photo with a proud look on his face.

“There, it happened. Photo proof right here,” Harry says proudly.

Sirius stares down at the photo with wide eyes and a parted mouth.

Gingerly, Sirius peels the photo out of the spot it's in. He flips it over. Harry hadn't thought of doing that before, but he was smart to do so, because there's words on the back: January 28th. James dragged Siri out of bed this morning. Note to self; never sleep with James around.

Sirius laughs wetly, and when Harry looks up, he finds that Sirius is crying. His other hand is over his mouth.

“Where– where did you find this?” he croaks.

“Hagrid,” Harry says. “In my first year, he went around to some of mum and dad's old school friends and got photos from them to create a photo album for me, since I never knew them. I must've looked through it a thousand times since he gave it to me. Whose writing is on the back?”

Sirius laughs again, but there's even more tears this time. “M–Marlene McKinnon. She was a beater on the Quidditch team. Her and James were best friends. Second only to me and him, of course. But I… I've no clue how he found this, she… she died back in 1980.”

“Did she have any surviving family?” Harry asks.

“Maybe… maybe a few cousins?” Sirius shrugs. “Voldemort killed her, her parents, and her brother all at once. We never did find out why…”

Harry, noticing that this is bad territory, takes the photo and places it back into the album. He flips the page a few more times, finally making it to the photo of his parents' wedding.

“That's you, right?” he asks, pointing to the man standing behind his father.

Sirius cracks a small smile.

“Yeah, it is,” he says. “James and I made a pact when we were twelve to be the best man at each other's wedding. After he and Lils got married, he used to keep asking me when it'd be his turn.”

“Were you dating anyone?” Harry asks.

A light flush spreads over Sirius' pale face, and with a hesitant finger, he points at the man standing next to him in the photo. The man has scars all over his face, and Harry's never noticed it before, but occasionally he'll lean over and take photo Sirius' hand.

“Oh,” Harry whispers.

“Um, you… don't have a problem with it, right?” Sirius asks, and it's so weird to see an adult nervous that Harry actually laughs. Sirius looks startled, so Harry's quick to assure him that he doesn't have a problem with it.

“No, of course not,” he tells him. “Are you two… still together?”

Sirius' face grows bitter for a moment before he pushes the expression away. He leans back against the bench and stares up at the summer sky.

“Not sure,” he mumbles. “I mean, I love him with all my heart and always will, but he's spent twelve years mourning everyone, mourning me and thinking I was a traitor. He's been great in helping me and everything these past few weeks, but I… I think that ship has sailed for him. Think it sailed a long time ago.”

Sirius sighs and looks back down at the photo album. “Enough of that, okay? Show me another picture.”

Harry smiles and begins to flip through the album to one of his favorite pictures, second only to the picture of his parents' wedding.

His father is lying like a starfish in the picture on the floor of what Harry thinks might be the boys dorm in the Gryffindor common room. He'd shown it to Ron and Ron had said that it definitely looked like a version of their dorms. There's a scarred boy standing over him with both legs on either side of James—a scarred boy Harry now knows to be Remus—with a paintbrush in his hands. James is shirtless in the photo, and Remus is leaning down fully and painting something on his chest. The photo is taken at an angle, so Harry can really see the concentrated expression on Remus' face as he runs a thick red line of paint down James' skin.

“Oh! Oh! I remember this!” Sirius exclaims, like an excited child that's received their favorite toy. “James was injured and had to sit out for a Quidditch match, but he wanted to show his spirit, so he got Remus to…”

—

“So…”

“Shut up, Draco.”

“I saw you in the garden earlier.”

“Draco, I swear to god–”

“Do you know who you were talking to?”

“Kinda wishing I didn't at the moment.”

“The very same guy that you were telling me hated you yesterday,” Draco finishes with a mocking sort of laugh, as if it's shocking even to him that Harry was talking to Sirius in the garden. Draco begins to shake his head. “Couldn't believe it. I really couldn't.”

“I hate you.”

Draco cackles, then flops onto Harry's bed. He's spending more time on Harry's bed than his own, honestly. He'd stayed the night in Harry's room the night before when Harry had admitted that he was scared of having nightmares of the night his parents died.

“How was it?” Draco plants his elbows on the covers, then drops his chin onto his palms. He raises his legs and begins kicking them back and forth like a little girl, and it just makes Harry roll his eyes.

“We went through the photo album Hagrid gave me at the end of first year,” Harry says. “He said that Remus was trying to track down some of their old albums, but that he threw them all in an old storage unit he can't remember anymore. He said he thinks Remus is going through his bank statements at the moment, since he set up an automatic pay for the unit.”

“Sooooo… he doesn't hate you?” Draco asks.

Harry sighs and sits down onto what Draco has called his side of the bed. Draco favors the right side of the bed, and Harry has only ever just been happy to have a bed, so he'll take whatever side is offered to him.

“No, he doesn't,” Harry says, “but he says that he doesn't think I should live with him.” At this, Draco stops kicking his feet and hauls himself up to sit crisscrossed. “He says he's not role model material, and that he's been seeing a Mind Healer and stuff and that he doesn't remember a lot of his life from before Azkaban, so he doesn't think he'd be able to give me a good home to stay in.”

“What do you think?” Draco asks, as if Harry's opinion matters. To him, though, Harry thinks that it does.

“I think it's a load of rubbish,” Harry says. He kicks his shoe off, then works on untying the other one. “I think any place would be better than the Dursleys. I think Sirius could give me a great home, cause he's great and he knew my parents. Who cares if he doesn't remember a lot? I don't. I really don't. I just… I just care that he's there, you know?”

“Then tell him that,” Draco says. “Tell him what you just told me and knock some sense into him.”

“I don't want to… to pressure him into taking me in if he doesn't want to, though,” Harry admits, even though he really wants to live with Sirius. “If he's having second thoughts, let him. I–I don't want to saddle him with me and all my… my problems when he's got his own problems to deal with.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Draco snaps.

Harry turns sharply, shoe halfway off of his foot. Draco sounds angry.

“You're not a fucking burden, Harry. Don't think for one second more that you are. You're fucking amazing, you are. Sure, you've got problems, but haven't we fucking all?” Draco throws his arms in the air. “My parents deal with all sorts of problems and shit at work, but they still take time out of their busy damn days to talk to me about my problems and help me deal with them. I mean, some days I can't even get out of bed, and when that happens, Father will come over and force me on his back. I used to find it super embarrassing, but he would walk around the garden and point out plants and ask me what they're used for. Mother makes me soup on my bad days and reads to me. Why? Because they're my parents and it's basically their job to take care of me. Sirius is your guardian, and despite all of his other problems, he'll help with yours as well because that's what he's supposed to do. What?” Draco snaps hotly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry turns back to his shoe and begins to tie it back up simply so he has something to do with his hands. “Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “Just, uh… never seen you so passionate before, I don't think.”

A pillow hits the back of Harry's head.

“Shut up, Potter.”

Chapter Text

Sirius is feeding the peacocks in the garden again.

Harry's not sure what to do with it. He approaches him slowly and sits down, the photo album clutched in his arms. They talk about Harry's parents again and about the context of some of the pictures. Sirius can't remember some of them, but Remus shows up around noon and sits on Harry's other side. He tells the stories behind the photos that Sirius can't remember. He points out the ones he'd given to Hagrid when the man showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

One of them was the wedding photo, and Harry cries at that.

They do the same thing the next day and the next and the next. Sirius begins to talk more during breakfast and dinner. Remus joins dinner on the fifth day, and Harry smiles at how close he's sitting to Sirius.

They finally get their exam scores back the next morning.

“How many?” Draco asks him.

“Looks like I passed everything…” Harry mumbles as his eyes scan over the paper. “YES!” he cheers suddenly, jumping up out of his chair. “I got an O in Potions!”

“What!? Congratulations!” Draco raises his hand, and Harry claps it, then winds their fingers together to squeeze Draco's hand before letting go.

“O in DADA, thank you, Professor–” Remus, who's sitting with Sirius again, smiles and waves his hand, “–I got an O in Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, History of Magic, and Herbology. An E in Transfiguration and Latin, and an A in Divination.”

“Told you you shouldn't have taken that class,” Draco tells him.

“Oh, do not worry, I am not taking it again this year,” Harry says.

“What're you taking instead?”

“Think I can weasel my way into a free period?”

“As a fourth year? Not likely…”

“Well, hey, I've been through a lot of traumatic experiences lately,” Harry says with a sly smirk. “I can totally play on that.”

Draco snorts into his morning cup of coffee.

“What!? I can!” Harry stands up and places his hands on his table. “You know, I can say that I deserve some freakin' down time! Don't laugh, Draco, I totally can! I have been through a lot! Even Madam Pomfrey thinks I'm fragile or whatever.”

“Well, if your traumatic experiences get you downtime, you should rope Blaise in as well,” Draco says. “Goddess knows he needs it.”

“Yeah, but do you really think he would take it?” Harry hums. “What were your grades?”

“O's in Potions—obviously—Defense, Transfiguration, History of Magic, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures—I don't think anyone got lower than an O on Hagrid's exam—and Herbology. E's in Charms and Study of Ancient Runes,” Draco frowns down at his paper. “I thought I did better in Ancient Runes.”

“You probably got just under an O, knowing you,” Harry rolls his eyes affectionately. “When do you think we can expect Hermione's owl about her grades?”

Draco snickers, then says in a bad impersonation of Hermione, “Oh, no, I got an E in–in– uh, Charms or something!”

“She does not sound like that!” Harry laughs, “and do you seriously think that Hermione “I know everything about everything” Granger can fail anything?”

“Eh, you never know,” Draco shrugs.

“Hermione, that's the uh… the Muggleborn girl in Gryffindor, right?” Sirius asks from a few seats over. “The one who found out about Moony before everyone else?”

“Yeah, that's her,” Draco nods his head. “She is the smartest witch you will ever meet.”

“Is she now?” Sirius cocks an eyebrow, then looks over to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. “You two are okay with this, then? Your uh… heir being friends with a Muggleborn?”

Harry frowns and looks over to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, confused as to what Sirius is insinuating. He knows, of course, that their families weren't the best when it came to Muggles and stuff, but they had said themselves that they personally were fine with it.

“Draco can make his own decisions, Black,” Mr. Malfoy says coldly, “and he is correct when he says that Miss Granger is a very smart witch. She found out what Lupin was before anyone else, did she not?”

Sirius scowls. “I'm surprised she hasn't found out what you are, you pompous, blood purist little–”

“Sirius!” Mrs. Malfoy and Remus both snap at the same exact time.

“We have talked about this, cousin,” Mrs. Malfoy says.

“No, you talked, I listened,” Sirius growls. “I don't even want to fucking be here, but the Ministry thought it was an acceptable fucking placement since your family and all. Well, you're fucking not. You're not my family. My family is fucking dead, has been for twelve and a half fucking years! And you wanna know who's fault that fucking is? Voldemort and all his goddamn followers!”

Silence reigns over Sirius' outburst. He had stood up at one point, hands placed firmly on the table in front of him as he glares intensely at Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.

“You don't even want to be here?” Harry whispers in a sad sort of voice.

Sirius snaps his head to him, and Harry watches as a plethora of emotions cross over the man's face before finally settling on stone indifference. He doesn't say anything. It's all the confirmation that Harry needs.

“Right, yeah, no, of course,” Harry nods his head and pushes his plate away. He turns to the head of the table and murmurs, “Thanks for breakfast, it was great,” then he stands up and hurries out of the dining room, rubbing furiously at his eyes. He goes up to the second floor and then to his room, slamming the door behind him and then flopping face first down onto the bed.

Harry curls onto his bed, wrapping his arms around one of his many pillows.

He's not sure how long he lies there and cries into the expensive pillow, but eventually, the door to his room creaks open.

“Go away!” he yells without sitting up.

“'Fraid I can't, cub,” Remus' voice says.

Harry groans and sits up in the bed, legs criss crossed and the pillow still held tightly in his arms. Remus crosses over to him, cane making soft noises on the carpet in his room. He sits down at the edge of the bed, resting his cane against the bedpost.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whispers.

“For what?” Remus asks.

“I–I don't know,” Harry cries.

Remus scoots closer to Harry and then places his hand on Harry's back. He begins to rub circles onto his back.

“What Sirius said back there, he didn't mean it like that,” Remus begins. “He's spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, and now he's locked up again in this house.”

“Wha… what do you mean?” Harry asks.

Remus sighs, then says, “The Ministry basically put him on house arrest here. He's only allowed to leave to see his Mind Healer or to deal with affairs in regards to his accounts and the transfer of giving him the Lord title.”

“What!?” Harry exclaims. “But he was declared innocent!”

“Yeah, he was,” Remus laughs derisively. “He never got a trial back then, though, and it was a gross abuse of the Ministry's power in not doing so. I think they're afraid that if they give him too much power, too much freedom, he'll use it to raise hell for what they did to him twelve and a half years ago.”

“You mean the public doesn't know?”

Remus laughs again. “Oh, no, no, of course not,” he answers. “It's why people are hesitant to believe his innocence, because they're all wondering why this didn't happen back in 1981.”

“Well… what if they did know?” Harry ventures.

“What do you mean?” Remus asks rather absentmindedly.

“What if we told them?” Harry clarifies. “Told them that the Ministry didn't give him a trial back then and that now they're continuing to punish him because they're afraid of their secret getting out?”

“Harry, that's… you'd be painting a target on your back if you did that. The Ministry doesn't like it when people share their secrets,” Remus says hesitantly.

“Well I don't like it when people hurt those I love,” Harry snaps right back, “and it's not like I'm planning to walk into the Daily Prophet and just start spouting off the story to any old reporter. It needs to be someone who can get it out there but also actually cares. Do you know anyone like that?”

“Y'know, can't say that I do,” Remus says with an odd grin Harry doesn't recognize. He dismisses it, though, and instead stands up and begins pacing back and forth.

“I have to be careful with what I say, of course, can't reveal too much stuff,” he begins mumbling, “and I can't just say “fuck the Ministry” or whatever, that's probably counterproductive, I'm trying to get them to lift Sirius' house arrest, not crack down on it. I should ask Draco for help, he's better with words than I am. I just need to bring myself across as a kid who just wants to live with his only connection to his dead parents and bring Sirius across as a guy who just wants his freedom back. Can't bring him, obviously, but I can work around that, I think…”

Harry stops his pacing and looks over at Remus, who's sitting on the bed with an awed sort of expression on his face. He's staring at Harry, his eyes wide and his lips parted just slightly.

“What is it?” Harry tilts his head.

“You… are so much like your mother,” Remus whispers. “You have her eyes, Merlin, you have her eyes, but it doesn't stop there. I mean, you just act so much like her sometimes. She told me once in fifth year that the hat wanted to place her in Slytherin, and I think I'm beginning to understand where you got it from.”

“The hat wanted to place her in Slytherin?” Harry asks, because that's the only part of what Remus just said that he actually focused on.

“Yeah,” Remus nods his head. “It decided on Gryffindor in the end, but she told me that it said she'd do good there, that she had a… a nice… what was it?”

“A nice thirst to prove herself?” Harry guesses, and he smiles when Remus snaps his head up to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“It said the same thing about me,” Harry slowly crosses back to the bed and sits down next to Remus. “Can you… tell me about her? Anything you can remember, anything you can?”

“She… she wrote her g's with a funny little swirl,” Remus says slowly. “You do the same thing, I noticed, and she could… Merlin, she could get angry. She was fiercely protective of her friends. People were rather… intimidated by me at Hogwarts, and they…” Remus laughs, then says, “They used to call me 'Loony Lupin'. It wasn't funny back then, but now I just kind of think it's stupid. Getting mad over schoolyard nicknames at my age is rather stupid, after all. The first time someone called me that with her around, though, she turned around and got all up in this guy's face. He was a sixth year when we were third years, and he was about three times her size, but she was yelling and cursing at him. I mean, I genuinely thought she was about to start fist fighting the guy, but she ripped him apart with her words alone. It was amazing. Honestly, I think that's why the hat wanted to put her in Slytherin, you guys have a way with words.”

Harry laughs at the idea of a third-year Lily Evans fist fighting a guy three times her size.

“What else?” he urges.

“She uh… she hated you father for years, y'know.”

“She what?” Harry laughs.

“Yeah, she used to tell him, “James Potter, I have no intention of ever marrying you,” but of course that went out the window at one point. She tracked me down in the library one day, pulled me into the little nook we'd found and started just ranting about how she thinks she was starting to fall for James. She didn't think to check who was in the nook before we went in, though, and when she was done she finally turned and saw Sirius sitting there with one of our friends, Marlene McKinnon. She and I both had to tackle Sirius before he was able to run off and tell James. He and James were best friends, but Lily, she was my best friend and I would've protected her secrets with my life.”

“Did you… did you and my mom ever, like…” Harry trails off, unsure how to phrase this.

Remus slowly turns his head to stare at Harry, and when his eyes catch on Harry's flustered face, he laughs and begins to shake his head. “Oh, Merlin, no. No, no, no. Lily and I never did anything like that. My interests were… well, they just didn't lie with her.”

“Because of Sirius?”

Somebody shoot him. Somebody please fucking shoot him. Screw the Wizard way of doing things, somebody please take a gun to Harry's head right this very moment.

“Now, how do you know about that?” Remus asks with a humorous lilt to his voice. He doesn't look angry, at least, though there's still time for that with Harry's track record.

“Sirius was telling me about how he and my dad agreed to be each other's best man at each other's weddings, and I asked if he was dating anyone when they got married and, well…” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Every couple seconds, you from their wedding photo will lean over and grab his hand.”

Remus chuckles. “I remember that day,” he tells him. “As for Sirius and I, yeah, I'd been in love with him since fourth year. We didn't start actually dating until sixth year, and it was…” A sorrowful expression crosses Remus' face.

“It's not my business,” Harry starts hesitantly, “but he… well, he told me that he'll always love you. Do you… do you not love him anymore?”

Remus frowns a sad sort of thing down at Harry, then looks away, and Harry thinks he may be crossing several lines at the moment. “I'll always love him, but there are some things that I can't quite get past,” Remus sniffs, rubs at his eyes, then turns back to Harry. “You don't need to worry about that, though, Harry.”

Harry sighs, but says, “If you say so.”

Chapter Text

Harry's had a lot of bad ideas in his short life. Using words he's heard Uncle Vernon use and calling Dudley a “fuckin' idiot” was one of the first ones. Trying to sneak past a three-headed dog in his first year was already bad idea #13. By the time they got to going down to the Chamber of Secrets to save Ginny at the end of second year, they'd reached the hundreds when it came to 'Harry's list of bad ideas'.

By third year, it was the norm amongst his friends that when Harry had an idea, you followed because it was probably a supremely bad and possibly even dangerous idea that he was going to carry out no matter what you said to try to discourage him from it.

Harry knows when he has bad ideas.

Harry does not think that this is a bad idea.

Draco does.

“You're painting a target on your back,” Draco says even as he works on the buttons of Harry's robes that he can't quite reach himself.

“There's been a target on my back since I was born,” Harry says in response.

“You know I don't like it when you're sarcastic,” Draco snaps.

“Oh, I love it when I'm sarcastic, I think it's funny,” Harry grins at Draco in the mirror, but the blond only sort of glares at him before rolling his eyes and buttons up the last clasp on Harry's robes.

“Alright, you look acceptable enough,” Draco says after a moment of studying Harry in the mirror. “Now, going into this, you need to understand one thing and one thing only: Reporters are selfish, power-hungry vultures that will do anything to get what they want. They will not hesitate to stoop to dirty tactics to get what they want out of you.”

“Isn't… isn't this reporter a friend of your parents?” Harry asks as he chokes out a startled laugh.

“Yes, and?” Draco cocks a single brow. “My parents would tell you the same thing. Mother will bring you to the Daily Prophet in Diagon Alley, but she won't walk you in. You have to hold yourself alone. Just… call upon every single etiquette tip any of us have ever given you, okay?”

“Don't worry, Draco, I'll be fine,” Harry places his hand over Draco's, which is resting on Harry's shoulder. “I know how to play the part of a rich, pureblood heir.”

Draco scoffs. “You're not an heir, Harry. You're a Lord,” he tells him. “Sure, it's not your official title because you haven't moved the right pieces to claim it, but as the last Potter, you are Lord to everything they own.”

“I thought I had to wait until I was of-age to do any of that stuff?” Harry asks. Sure, he'd never actually asked but he figured that the Gringotts Goblin telling him he'd get full access to all Potter vaults once he turned 17 meant that he couldn't do any of the important stuff such as claiming his title.

“Well, yes, but even though you can't take the title at the moment, you're still Lord of the House of Potter. The Potter estate, their valuables, their… well, everything, it becomes property of the Ministry until you can claim your title as Lord Potter. They can't do anything with it, of course, but they do own it until then. Now, of course, if or when you do claim your title, you should probably look over the books and everything from before your father died and compare it to the copies the Ministry gives you of after you take over. If there's anything missing or anything that looks abnormal, you can take action against the Ministry for the possibility of them mucking about with what's rightfully yours.”

Harry stares at him.

“Did nobody tell you this?” he asks after a moment.

“Nobody tells me anything, Draco!” Harry yells, throwing his arms in the air. “You're a wizard! Oh, you're really rich! Oh, you're fucking Hindu! Oh, you have a manor! Nobody tells me these things!”

Draco jumps when Harry starts yelling, then just stares at him with wide eyes until he stops.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes when his eyes settle on Draco's expression, “I'm just… very annoyed that nobody bothers to tell me these things. I mean, they're pretty fucking important. Sorry, sorry, excuse my language.” Harry sighs heavily, then turns back to the mirror and begins to run his hand through his hair. “I should get going. Thanks for helping me get ready, Draco, and for helping me with what to say.”

“Yes, well, I'm not going to let you go see the vultures unprepared,” Draco smirks. “Now go, go. Do not let me keep you.”

Harry smiles and walks out of the room. Mrs. Malfoy is waiting for him in the foyer downstairs with Sirius and Remus.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Sirius tells him when Harry stops in front of the man, “but you have your mind set on it, and I learned a long time ago not to get in the way of Potter men and things they have their minds on. So be safe, don't give them anything they can use against you, and don't cuss them out.”

Harry gives him a quizzical look.

Sirius waves his hand dismissively, then says, “I'll explain later. Cissy, bring my godson back in one piece, okay?”

“I will, no need to worry,” Mrs. Malfoy says. “Come, Harry, let's go.”

Together, the two of them walk to the front gate. It's a long walk, but once they get there, Mrs. Malfoy places her hand on Harry's shoulder and the uncomfortable lurch of apparition washes over his body. He feels as if his insides are being torn apart, then placed back together again.

Finally, the world rights itself once more and he and Mrs. Malfoy are standing in an otherwise empty alley. Harry can hear the sounds of Muggle London beyond the alley. Mrs. Malfoy and him walk out, then pass a few shops before stopping before the Leaky Cauldron. They would have apparated to the apparition point in Diagon Alley, but Mrs. Malfoy said that it would be less noticeable if they went through the Leaky Cauldron entrance.

Nobody pays them any mind as they walk through, and soon enough, they're entering the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. It's not as crowded as it's been the past few times Harry's been, so he and Mrs. Malfoy get to High Street fairly quickly. This street of Diagon Alley hosts more upmarket shops, one of which is Twilfiit and Tattings, a clothing shop. It's also host to the Diagon Alley branch of The Daily Prophet.

The two of them stop outside the shop next to The Daily Prophet. Mrs. Malfoy turns to Harry and places her hands on his shoulders.

“Now, Harry, you need to be careful when speaking to these people,” she tells him seriously. “The moment you walk through those doors, everything you say is fair game. Don't ever trust them when they say that they'd like to speak off the record. The reporter you are seeing today, Mr. Carneirus, he's not one to use what you'd request to be off-record, but you can never be too sure. When you are done–” Mrs. Malfoy produces a thin bracelet from her robes that has a black stone in the middle of it, “–press your finger to the stone on this bracelet, then go to the Leaky Cauldron entrance. I have an identical bracelet that will alert me when you press it, and I will meet you there at the Leaky Cauldron.” Mrs. Malfoy pushes the sleeves of Harry's robes up and clasps the bracelet to his wrist, then pulls the sleeves down once more. “Be safe. Choose your words carefully, Harry.”

Harry nods his head. “I will, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Good,” Mrs. Malfoy looks around—there's not really anyone on the street this time of the day—and then leans in and places a quick kiss on Harry's forehead. “Stay safe.” With that, she turns and walks away.

Harry watches her go, and even after she's out of sight, he stays standing there. The bracelet weighs heavy on his wrist.

He can do this, though. He's faced Voldemort three times, a basilisk, a traitorous bastard, and even an annoyed Pansy Parkinson. He can face a reporter.

Considering himself thoroughly pep talked, Harry goes over to the Daily Prophet and walks inside. There's a hallway to his right and a hallway to his left. He can see a door further down the right hallway, and can hear the furious sounds of several typewriters. Right in front of him is a front desk with a busy-looking witch sitting at it. She's sorting through some papers, and there's a sort of blue see-through screen floating in front of her that looks like a schedule of sorts. Behind her is a wall that has two hallways on either side of it. He thinks the one on the right might lead to the typewriter room he's hearing, but he can also see a spiral staircase down that hallway. The one on the left seems to break down into two separate hallways on the left wall, and he thinks he can see a door or perhaps a window on the right wall in the left hallway.

Gulping down any hesitance, Harry steps up to the desk.

“Name?” she asks without even looking down at him.

“Harry Potter, ma'am,” he tells her. “I'm here to see Mr. Carneirus. We have a meeting scheduled for 11:30.”

The woman looks away from her papers, now peering past her spectacle glasses at Harry. After a moment, she pushes out away from the desk, and Harry hears her chain spin—it's on wheels—so that she can reach the wall of labeled bells and string behind her. She pulls on one of them, then rolls her chair back to her desk.

“Mr. Carneirus will be here momentarily,” she says in a bored sort of drawl. “You can sit down over there.” She points one of her long nails to the row of chairs off to the left. Harry nods his head at her, then walks over and sits down on the one third from the door.

Harry only waits a couple minutes before a tall, fit older man walks over from the halfway on the right. He's wearing well-tailored dark blue robes and he has short, grey hair. It's not grey like the Malfoy's; it's grey with age. It doesn't make him look any sort of bad, though. He flashes Harry a blinding smile before approaching him.

“Mr. Potter,” the man—who Harry assumes to be Mr. Carneirus—holds out his hand, “Mauricio Carneirus, pleasure to meet you.” Harry stands up and takes the man's hand. He has a rather firm grip. “I was surprised to receive your letter. Reporters have been trying to get you at their desks for more than a few years now.”

“You come highly recommended,” Harry tells him with his own Slytherin sort of smirk.

“Oh, do I?” Mr. Carneirus chuckles. “Let's go to my office, hm?” he suggests.

Harry nods his head and follows Mr. Carneirus down the hallway on the right. He leads Harry up the stairs. The second floor to the Daily Prophet has more of an open floor plan. Harry sees a few offices scattered about, but there's mostly desks that have people sitting at them. Mr. Carneirus leads him to an office near the back corner, and Harry notes that several people stare at him along the way.

Carneirus leads him into an office with the covers on the window pulled shut. There's a few floating balls of lights near the ceiling, and it illuminates the walls covered in glass frames holding several newspaper front pages. The one right behind Carneirus' desk is in a gold frame, the title reading:

'Wizarding Community Ultimatum: Get Gellert Grindelwald Now!'

Carneirus sits down behind his desk, motioning for Harry to sit on the other side. Harry pulls out one of the two chairs and settles into it.

Carneirus flicks out his wand and waves it in the air. A quill and parchment fly from his desk and hover in midair. He doesn't make a move to grab them.

“So, Harry,” Carneirus starts.

Harry watches, rather amazed, when the quill begins to write on the parchment of its own volition. It stops very quickly, though, so Harry looks back to Carneirus, who's watching him with a slightly amused expression.

“Never seen a dictograph?” he asks, and the quill begins to move again before stopping.

“Wicked,” Harry whispers, then flushes red and turns back to Carneirus. “Sorry. Any way I can ask you not to mention that?”

Carneirus laughs, then waves his wand again. The parchment shreds in midair, then sets on fire before dispersing into ash. “Mention what?” Carneirus asks with a sly grin.

Harry grins right back.

With another wave of his wand, Carneirus produces what Harry now knows to be a dictograph.

“So, Harry,” he begins again, and Harry doesn't pay any mind to the self-writing quill this time, “many reporters have been eager to sit down and speak with you for the past three years now. May I ask why you decided to reach out to me?”

“As I said earlier, you come highly recommended,” Harry says with what he hopes is an easy smile. “The people I've spoken to say that you are a respectable reporter who truly cares for the truth, and one who doesn't mind going toe-to-toe with… shall I say the less than respectable?”

“Ah, yes,” Carneirus nods his head sagely, “you mentioned in your initial letter to me that you had news regarding the Ministry that you believed the public should know about?”

“It's about Sirius Black,” Harry says.

Carneirus readjusts in his seat, clearly surprised at the mention of Sirius.

“And his supposed innocence?” the reporter prompts, and Harry understands why Draco had called them vultures; he's choosing words carefully, trying to get Harry to say something he likely shouldn't.

“Well, it was proved, was it not?” Harry says.

“Yet it has happened thirteen years too late, it seems,” Carneirus says. “Many of the Wizarding public are left wondering why his innocence was not found in 1981 after the downfall of You-Know-Who.” Carneirus studies Harry for a moment, then tilts his head. “Do you know why it wasn't, Harry?”

Harry grins and leans forward, urging Carneirus to lean forward as well. Carneirus arches his brow, but he does as instructed and leans over his desk. In a low whisper, Harry says, “He wasn't given a trial.”

Carneirus rears back, eyes wide and his hands bracing himself on his desk.

“Excuse me?” he splutters.

“Sirius Black was not given a proper trial by the Ministry of Magic after he was arrested,” Harry repeats, albeit in much more descriptive terms this time. “The Ministry wanted to sweep the betrayal as far under the rug as possible. The fact that my parents were betrayed wasn't even released to the public. All they said was that he went mad after Voldemort's defeat and killed twelve muggles in the broad daylight of London.”

“Which we now know not to be true,” Carneirus says, having recovered his bearings. “Those acts were committed by Peter Pettigrew, another friend of your parents.”

Harry scowls at the mention of Pettigrew. Oh how he wishes the rat bastard hadn't gotten away and Harry had been able to hand him over to the dementors. If that had happened, then he would be able to sleep peacefully to his imagination of Pettigrew's tortured screams. Granted, that happens even with the man free, but his dreams—or perhaps they're nightmares—are always clouded by the fact that Pettigrew is still out there.

“Yes, it was,” Harry nods his head. “The point of me reaching out to you, Mr. Carneirus, was to tell the Wizarding public of the gross injustice in which they dealt with Sirius Black all those years ago.”

“Why is it so imperative that the Wizarding public know of the injustices faced by one man?”

“Well, you must ask yourself, 'Has the Ministry done this before? Have they gotten away with this before?' It certainly leaves you wondering if those we believe are guilty are innocent people condemned by a government who cut corners in order to push the war as far behind them as possible. It also has you wondering, what was different about Sirius? Why did people like… say, Rasmus Nott get a fair trial but not Sirius Black?”

“Well, I believe the answer is very pressing–”

“Because of his name, yes, but he'd been loyal to the side of the light for years at that point. Maybe they… cut corners because his arrest was so closely related to the downfall of Voldemort, but that does not make it okay and it certainly does not excuse what they did.”

Carneirus studies him carefully, as if he can't believe a thirteen year old boy has such a firm understanding of what's going on. Harry is with him on that, at least. Draco had helped him a lot in preparing what he wanted to bring up, and even Sirius and Mr. Malfoy, in a rare moment of clarity together, had helped him in stringing together his thoughts.

“You seem awfully defensive of Sirius Black,” Carneirus says carefully. “I'm aware he was a friend of your parents, but to come all the way out here to defend him so vehemently…”

Here's the part everyone had told him to be careful around.

Harry widens his eyes, bites his bottom lip, and looks away.

“He's my godfather,” he whispers in a small voice. Satisfaction brims up inside him when Carneirus lets out the smallest of gasps. “The Ministry is still punishing him, even though he's been proven innocent.”

“How so?” Carneirus asks, and from the corner of Harry's eye, he sees the man pull out his own notepad from his desk. Oh, he's definitely getting into scoop territory now if Carneirus is taking his own notes on top of the dictograph.

“They've placed him on house arrest.” Harry tells Carneirus hesitantly. “I can't say where, but he's not allowed to leave unless given explicit permission from the Ministry and only with the accompaniment of an Auror. They're treating him as if he's a guilty man even though he's been proven innocent.” The scratching of two quills on two separate parchments is basically music to Harry's ears. “I came here today just… to get this story across. Not solely for my benefit, though I won't lie and say it doesn't play a large part. I'm doing it because it's an unfair abuse of power. I–I just want to live with my godfather, y'know? He's the only connection I have to my parents because a majority of their other school friends are… well, dead.

“And I know I got heated before about the whole thing, but I just wanna… live somewhere in the countryside where you can see the sun rise and set everyday and can live peacefully, because I haven't gotten that before. After my parents died, I was… placed with my Muggle relatives on my mum's side, and they were… not good people. I'm out now, of course. The moment Sirius was declared innocent, he started the process of fighting for my guardianship, but now we're… trapped in this house where Auror's are showing up every single day to make sure he's still in his spot like a good dog, and it's not fair.”

Carneirus pauses in his note taking.

“You said you wanted to get the story out for your own benefit, but you mentioned that there were others?” he asks after a moment.

“Well, yes, it's as I said earlier,” Harry nods his head, and Carneirus begins scribbling on his parchment again, “you don't know if the Ministry has done this before. If they've thrown cases aside because they just wanted it out of the way.”

“You, of course, are talking about the innocent being claimed guilty, but you must understand that with these concerns, it is true for the opposite,” Carneirus says slowly. “That it's possible the Ministry threw aside cases where the accused party was surely guilty, but they dismissed it because they wanted it out of the way.”

“Of course I know that,” Harry responds. “I'm not ignorant nor young enough to believe that everybody is intricately innocent. I know, probably better than most, that those that are guilty get off easily because of power or money or a thousand other things that factor in, but right now, I–I just… I just wanna live with the only real, good family I have left.”

—

“Have a lovely day, Harry,” Carneirus says as he is finally led back to the front door of the Daily Prophet. “I daresay we'll make the front page with everything you've told me today.”

Harry grins at Carneirus from the glass door. “That was my plan,” and then he's gone.

The street is busier now, and the sun has passed its highest point in the sky. He passes a shop with a clock in the window and sees that the time is 2:56.

He pushes his hand up his sleeve and presses his thumb into the stone on the bracelet Mrs. Malfoy had given him, then sets off towards the Leaky Cauldron. As he's passing one of the shops, the door swings open, and he barrels right into a young boy.

“Oh, Merlin, that was totally my fault–” Harry rushes to say, but pauses just as quickly when he sees who he's run into. “Theo?” he asks, face breaking into a grin. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

Theo lifts his gaze from the ground, his own grin forming on his face when he sees Harry.

“Hello, my Heir,” Theo says with a lavishly dramatic bow. “How has summer been treating you?”

Harry giggles (actually giggles, he thinks of killing himself at this very moment) at Theo's bow. “I've been well so far. I'm just coming from Gringotts. I had to sort some things out. What about you? What're you doing here so early in the summer?”

“Father dragged me along for business in Knockturn,” Theo juts his thumb over to an alley Harry recognizes from before second year. It's the same one Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had led him through to get him out of Knockturn when he showed up there after his first attempt using the Floo. “There's an Ogre terrorizing the village our estate is in and Father needs to catch it.”

“Do you live in a Wizarding village?”

“Yeah. Our family's been Lord over it for… 734 years.”

“What about Muggles?”

“The land's protected from Muggles. It's like a massive illusion spell. Muggles can walk right on through and just see mountains and whatever, but they can't camp there. The magic doesn't allow them. My mom used to explain it like it was something in the back of their mind telling them that it would be dangerous at night. She used to–”

A hand suddenly clamps down on Theo's shoulder, and Harry lifts his head just a bit to stare up at Rasmus Nott. The man looks the same as he did at the Malfoy's Yule gala, though his hair does have a few more gray strands in it this time around. When Harry looks back down at Theo, the boy's eyes are wide and his entire body is held stiffly.

“Mr. Potter,” the older man drawls, “I'm surprised to see you here.” Nott lifts his head and scans the crowd around them. “Are you here with anyone?”

Harry's not sure why, but he suddenly feels as if he's in dangerous territory. Nott was fine with him during the Yule gala a year and a half ago, but it seems that now he's smartened up a bit.

“Oh, Rasmus, hello!” Mrs. Malfoy's voice sounds suddenly from behind Harry. He turns his head sharply to see the woman approaching them swiftly. She's not running, far from it, but Harry can tell that she's hurrying to get to him and the Nott's. “What brings you to Diagon Alley?”

“Oh, just some business,” Nott waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing too important. What about you? Are you accompanying Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, we were just at Gringotts,” Mrs. Malfoy responds. She places her hand on Harry's shoulder and pulls him a centimeter closer to her. “We had to sort some things out. Nothing too important.”

“Oh, well, I shan't keep you,” Nott says. “Have a lovely day, Narcissa.”

Mrs. Malfoy's manicured nails dig a little deeper into Harry's robes, then loosen.

“Of course. Come alone, Harry,” she says. She begins to steer them past the Nott's, and as Harry turns his head over his shoulder, he sees the panicked expression Theo is sending him.

“Mrs. Malfoy–”

“Keep walking, Harry,” she says sternly. “Don't turn back.”

Harry does as she's said.

He doesn't speak as they cross through Diagon Alley; he doesn't speak as they walk through the Leaky Cauldron; he doesn't speak as they duck back into the alley they arrived in a few hours ago; he doesn't even speak once they apparate back to Malfoy Manor and go up the walkway to the manor itself.

Harry only speaks once they're inside the foyer once more, where Sirius, Remus, Draco, and even Mr. Malfoy are waiting.

“Mrs. Malfoy, what was that?” he asks.

Mrs. Malfoy doesn't answer him. She sends a scathing glare towards Sirius, who straightens up once it's directed at him.

“Harry ran into Rasmus Nott,” she tells him.

“What?” Sirius looks worried, which is a weird thing to see on his face. “Why weren't you with him?”

“I was heading towards the Leaky Cauldron after he called me with the bracelet when I saw them,” she says. “I told you that you should not have done what you did, cousin.”

“What did he do?” Harry asks, feeling severely out of loop. Draco, at least, looks just as confused as he does.

“Your idiot godfather called Rasmus Nott a Death Eater in front of the entire Wizengamot,” Remus says.

Harry stares blankly at Sirius.

“What!?” Sirius throws his arms in the air. “He is a fucking Death Eater! I fought him in the war! Multiple times!”

“Lord Nott is on the Wizengamot,” Remus continues, “and he spoke up about there being no physical evidence—such as Peter Pettigrew. Pads proceeded to say, 'Oh, I bet you're real glad that rat bastard got away, as he would have surely turned traitor to You-Know-Who and called out your name.' Lord Nott was… upset about it, and now he's got a vendetta against Sirius, and therefore, you.”

“But he doesn't know Sirius is my godfather, barely anybody does,” Harry says. “I mean, they will know in a few days, but right now, they don't.”

“Yes, but everybody knows that Black was friends with your parents,” Mr. Malfoy pipes up. “It's understandable to assume that you are in touch with him. Possibly even living with him. All of which are true assumptions.”

Harry frowns, then turns to Draco. “What about Theo?” he asks. “Is Lord Nott gonna forbid him from speaking to me or something?”

“He's not stupid enough for that,” Draco says. He ignores Mrs. Malfoy's scolding at his choice of words. “You're a powerful ally to have, even if he may dislike Lord Black at the moment.”

“Ew, Merlin, no,” Sirius says, disgust clear in his voice. “Please just call me Sirius.”

“That is…”

“If you say bad manners, I swear to Merlin, I will… well, I'm not sure what I'll do, but it'll be something, okay?”

“Alright then… Siiiiiiiriuuus,” Draco says, dragging out Sirius' name uncomfortably. It almost looks like it physically pains Draco to call Sirius by his first name, which has Harry stifling a chuckle behind the palm of his hand.

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco snaps in a scathing voice.

“You two ought to go get ready for dinner, okay?” Mrs. Malfoy suggests. “Bonnie will come get you when it's ready, okay?”

“Okay, Mother,” Draco nods his head and then grabs Harry's hand. The two of them ascend up the stairwell, heading to Harry's room.

“So, how did it go?” Draco asks once they're safely inside.

“I think it went well,” Harry tells him. “Didn't even curse.”

He then goes on to explain the conversation. Draco grins through the whole thing, listening eagerly.

“What is it?” Harry asks when he sees Draco's smirk.

“We might just make a Slytherin of you yet, Harry,” Draco says.

Harry hits him with a pillow.

“I've been a Slytherin for three years, you git!”

Draco only laughs.

Chapter Text

'MINISTRY CORRUPTION REVEALED'

'For weeks now, the Wizarding public has had one thought on their mind: If Sirius Black was innocent all this time, why was it not revealed when he was first arrested?

The answer to this question was recently revealed when I sat down with Harry Potter this past weekend. Mr. Potter reached out to me via owl and asked if I would consider speaking to him. I, of course, jumped at this opportunity. While speaking with Mr. Potter, he revealed to me that Sirius Black, now Lord of the Black House, was not given a fair trial when he was arrested November 2nd of 1981.

Mr. Potter told me that, “The Ministry wanted to sweep the betrayal as far under the rug as possible,” and that we must ask ourselves, “'Has the Ministry done this before? Have they gotten away with this before?' It certainly leaves you wondering if those we believe are guilty are innocent people condemned by a government who cut corners in order to push the war as far behind them as possible.”

Mr. Potter certainly brings up a good point in regards to this. We must ask ourselves these questions about the Ministry and what, exactly, they have been doing for the past thirteen years.

Mr. Potter also trusted me with other important news that the Ministry has been keeping from us. Lord Black is Harry Potter's godfather, having been named so by the previous Lord of the Potter House, James Potter. While Lord Black has moved Mr. Potter's guardianship to himself, the Ministry continues to punish him still. Mr. Potter indulged to me that Lord Black has been placed under house arrest in a home that does not even belong to him.

They continue to punish Lord Black despite his declaration of innocence by their own hands. Are they afraid of what he could do? After all, he spent 12 consecutive years in Azkaban due to their incompetence and refusal to give him the fair trial he should have been entitled to.'

“Oh, Mr. Carneirus tore them apart,” Draco says.

He's leaning against the back of Harry's chair at the dining table, reading the Daily Prophet over Harry's shoulder.

“Wow,” Harry whispers. “I know you guys said he was ruthless, but… Merlin.”

“Did he seriously call them incompetent?” Sirius asks through his laughs. He's sharing his own newspaper with Remus.

“Well, they are,” Harry says. Draco nods behind him.

“Do you think it'll work?” Draco asks to the room.

“It should,” Mr. Malfoy says. “The Ministry does not like to be called out, and this isn't the 19th century. They can't just kill us all.”

“THAT WAS AN OPTION!?” Harry yells, horrified.

“The Ministry's always been corrupt, cub,” Remus says, “but as Malfoy said, it's not that time anymore. They can't kill us. They certainly won't like being called out on their wrongdoings, but depending on the way the public reacts to this, I think Sirius will be pulled off house arrest.”

“Then we can go to the house in the countryside,” Sirius grins over at Harry.

“You found a home?” he asks, excitement clear in his voice.

“Moony did,” Sirius nods over at Remus, who blushes a bit and ducks his head. “Three bedroom, two story, nice little cottage in the Orkney Islands. Payment went through a few days ago. I was waiting for the article to be published to tell you. But… if you don't want to go, Harry, if you've changed your mind–”

“No, of course not!” Harry yells suddenly. “No, I want to go! I want to live with you!”

Sirius beams at him, and Harry feels happy.

—

Aurors come to Malfoy Manor early the next day with news that Sirius is being pulled off house arrest and that from this point onwards, he can go anywhere he wants, do whatever he wants, and the Ministry can not stop him unless he does something illegal.

Harry comes down the stairs as they're trying to convince the man to go to the Ministry with them so that Minister Fudge could apologize to him in person.

“Come on, dear cousin,” one of the younger Auror's urges. She looks extremely out of place next to the stern, professional looking Auror's standing beside her. She has bright pink hair, for one, and for two, she keeps making a grab for Sirius, who continually dodges out of her way.

“You are as annoying now as you were as a child!” Sirius snaps at her when she tries to grab his arm again. Remus is standing off to the side, laughing into his hand, so Harry goes over to join him.

“Does Sirius know her?” Harry whispers to Remus.

“She's the daughter of his cousin, Andromeda,” Remus tells him.

“Cousin? Does that make her–”

“Narcissa's older sister, yeah,” Remus nods his head. “Andromeda was disowned a long time ago, though, for marrying a Muggleborn named Ted.”

“They disowned her for marrying someone?” Harry asks, incredulous.

“Well, she was disowned for dating him while she was at Hogwarts,” Remus amends. “She went on to marry him, though, and Nymphadora was born near the end of our fifth year at Hogwarts. Sirius ran away that winter break, straight to the Potter's.”

“If he was disowned, how come he's able to take the title of Lord Black?”

“His mother, Walburga Black, renamed him as the heir after he was arrested,” Remus shakes his head. “It's a bunch of politics you don't want to get into, Harry. And… please don't ask Sirius about it.”

Harry frowns, but he nods his head. It seems to be a sensitive topic, so he'll leave it be.

“Cousin, why in Morgana's name are you being accosted by my niece in my doorway?” Mrs. Malfoy asks as she walks into the foyer from the corridor off to the side.

“I don't know!” Sirius exclaims as he shoves Nymphadora off again. “Tell her to stop!”

“Auror Tonks,” one of the older Auror's says, “stop being so unprofessional.”

Nymphadora scoffs and rolls her eyes, but she backs away with her arms crossed. “Mum wants to meet with you,” she says to Sirius before walking away.

“You won't come to the Ministry, then?” the same Auror asks.

“Over my dead body,” Sirius scowls.

The Auror narrows his eyes down at Sirius, then they flick over to where Harry and Remus are standing. Sirius notices and steps in the man's line of sight.

“I think you've overstayed your welcome,” he says, voice holding a sinister tone Harry's never heard before. The Auror scowls right back, but he turns on his heel a moment later and leaves with the other two Auror's.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks cautiously.

Sirius turns around, a wide smile on his face. Harry thinks it may not have been there a moment ago.

“Of course, prongslet,” he beams. “Now, if you're sure about coming to live with me–”

“I am!” Harry exclaims. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“I just want to make sure,” Sirius sighs.

“I am sure,” Harry says. “So, when are we leaving?”

—

“You hate me.”

“You are quite literally coming with us.”

“Yeah, but only for a few hours,” Draco complains. He slumps his body weight against Harry, who laughs, but doesn't push him off. “I have to come back here eventually.”

“Your fireplace is connected to ours, you can come visit every day,” Harry says, then bites his lip and turns to Sirius and Remus. “He can come visit everyday, right?”

“Unless you wanna visit here,” Sirius shrugs.

“See? You can visit everyday, promise,” Harry says, “or I can come here.”

“I'm being betrayed,” Draco moans. He pulls away from Harry suddenly and throws a hand over his forehead dramatically.

“I'm going to explode you.”

“What– that's– where the fuck did that threat come from!?” Draco exclaims, freezing.

Harry shrugs.

“Merlin, just get into the fireplace already,” Sirius groans. “I'll go first.”

After Sirius goes Remus, then Harry, then Draco, then Mrs. Malfoy, then Mr. Malfoy.

When Harry falls out from the fireplace, more steady than he had been two years ago, he's met with a quaint little living room. There's a brown, L shaped sofa right across from the fireplace. It's pushed into the corner, taking up space on two walls. There's an armchair to the sofa's right—Harry's left with the way he's standing. To the fireplace's right there's a doorway, and to the left there's another doorway on the adjacent wall. Harry can see a stairwell on the far wall of the other room.

“Ah, home sweet home,” Sirius moans as he flops back-first onto the sofa, but he sits up quickly a moment later. “Moons, is this our old sofa?” he asks.

When Harry turns to Remus, he sees a range of emotions crossing over his face before he nods. “Our old place was still paid for. Never had the heart to give it up. Mary helped me pack a lot of stuff up after the war, before she…” Remus shakes his head as he trails off, and just then, the fireplace flares to life once more and Draco steps out from it.

Harry narrows his eyes at the boy. Honestly, he doesn't get how Draco doesn't stumble out like a fool every time he uses the Floo, especially considering he's more hindered than Harry is.

Mrs. Malfoy comes out next, followed by Mr. Malfoy.

“I hate Floo travel,” the man mutters as he rights himself and brushes off his robes. He winces suddenly and brings his hand to his left forearm. “Black, Lupin, whichever one of you is in charge of the wards here, may you please make an exception?” he grits out, his teeth clenched tightly and his face pinched in a painful expression.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Remus goes over to Mr. Malfoy, but he casts a glance at Harry before he does anything.

“He's seen it already,” Mr. Malfoy says, catching Remus' odd expression.

“Has he?” Remus asks.

Harry tilts his head, confused, but as Mr. Malfoy begins to unclip his cufflinks, Harry realizes what he's talking about. The dark mark. The symbol of Voldemort's followers. It's darker than the last time Harry had seen it, and he's not sure what that means. For the first time in over a month, he thinks of Professor Trelawney's strange prophecy. He'd meant to ask Pansy about it, as she knew the most about Seer's of all his friends, but with everything that happened that night, he never got around to it.

Perhaps he could owl her. He doesn't want anyone to get their hands on the letter though, and he doesn't know any coding spells. He makes a mental note to ask Draco if he knows any that he can use.

“There,” Remus says, and Harry focuses back on the two men, “you're added to the wards. You're the only person with a dark mark who can get through.” Remus suddenly digs his nails into Mr. Malfoy's forearm, the man wincing at the pressure. “If you ever betray this trust, Malfoy, I will tear you limb from limb, and I won't even need to be transformed to do so.”

“Understood, Lupin,” Mr. Malfoy says.

“Good,” Remus nods his head, then turns to Harry with a wide smile. “Harry, Sirius, come, let me give you a tour of the house.”

Sirius stands awkwardly, a sort of complicated expression on his face, but he follows Remus through the doorway next to the fireplace. They come into a standard looking kitchen. There's a kitchen island in the middle of the kitchen, a few tall black chairs on one side of it. On the wall with the doorway is a cabinet filled with black fine china that reminds Harry of Aunt Petunia's china sets. It's always locked in a cabinet, but this one doesn't have a lock on it.

Mrs. Malfoy walks over to the cabinet and opens it, hands gingerly taking out one of the plates. “Cousin, where did you get this?” she asks. “This china has been missing for years, we thought…”

She trails off when she sees the guilty expression on Sirius' face.

“You did not,” she says disbelievingly.

“I didn't think anyone would miss it,” he says with a mild shrug.

“Your mother threatened to Crucio whoever stole it to insanity!” Mrs. Malfoy yells, more than a little manic.

“It disappeared the night I left, how did she not realize?” Sirius asks, still completely unfazed.

“She had more pressing matters, like blasting you off the family portrait,” Mrs. Malfoy says with a grin. Sirius grins back, though, so Harry assumes that he's not offended. “Speaking of, how is the family magic treating you, dear cousin?”

“It's getting easier to control,” Sirius shrugs. “I felt it, in Azkaban, when she added me back as the heir, but… well, it was Azkaban. There wasn't much I could do to explore it. I tried after I broke out, but my magic was too volatile during that time. Since I claimed my rightful title and stuff, it's been easier.”

“It's… nice,” Mrs. Malfoy says slowly, an almost sorrowful expression crossing her face, “to feel it again. I'm attuned with the Malfoy magic, of course, but I can still feel the magic of the… Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I knew before anyone when you broke out. I just felt this… surge of magic. It was never home. Before everything, I mean, but I think it's beginning to feel that way.”

Sirius smiles warmly. The two of them had moved closer while they spoke, and they're now standing right in front of each other.

“If you'd like to hug me–”

Mrs. Malfoy falls into his arms quickly, her arms wrapping around his waist. Sirius' smile grows wider as he wraps his own arms around her shoulders. They stay like that, hugging, for a while, nobody in the kitchen willing to interrupt them.

Eventually, though, Sirius pulls away. Mrs. Malfoy's pale face is flushed red in embarrassment.

“Alright, love, where to next?” Sirius asks Remus.

Remus smiles and leads them through the doorway to the right. He leads them into a dining room. There's a rectangular table in the room, with a seat at the head and the end, as well as three seats each on the longer sides of the table. There's a door across from the kitchen doorway with a glass window in it, a pale blue curtain tied up over the window. It looks out into a garden, and beyond it, Harry can see what looks like a village in the distance. The house doesn't seem to be too far from it. Maybe a twenty minute walk.

Remus leads them through the doorway right next to the kitchen one but on the adjacent wall. There's a door on the left that he says is the downstairs bathroom. The front door is right in front of them, and to their left is a staircase.

Remus goes up it, and the group all follow him. It goes off to the left for two steps before getting to a large landing that goes into a hallway above the one downstairs. There's a chandelier on the angled ceiling above them.

“The Master bedroom is through here,” Remus says, pointing at the closed door on the right. “There's a cupboard right there, and Harry, your bedroom is through that doorway at the end of the hall. The bathroom is right there, and the guest bedroom is around the corner.”

Harry grins widely and goes down the hall to his room. The room is much smaller than his at Malfoy Manor, but he doesn't care about all that. There's two windows in the room, one in the opposite corner of the door, and the other right next to the door. There's a standing mirror in the corner by the window. In the corner across from the door is a bed, and there's a wardrobe up against the wall the door is on, then a desk adjacent to it. There's a few shelves hung on the wall above his desk, as well as a few on the wall above his bed, none so low that he's at risk of banging his head against it if he sits up too sharply from laying down. Other than that, the room is bare of any sort of decorations.

“I figured you'd want to decorate it yourself,” Remus says from behind him. “Besides, I'm not sure what the younger kids like these days.”

“Goddess, Moony, way to reveal your age,” Sirius snorts, also coming up and standing on Harry's other side.

“We're the same age, Siri,” Remus rolls his eyes.

“And which of us is going grey so young?” Sirius asks with a grin.

Remus scoffs and shoves Sirius' shoulder.

Harry watches the interaction with a fond smile. He wonders if this is what his life would have looked like in another universe, one where his parents never died and Sirius never went to Azkaban. If he would have grown up with loving bickering between his two Uncles.

“I've never actually had a room to decorate before,” Harry admits quietly. “I mean, there's the room Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy gave me at the Manor, and that means a lot to me, of course, but it was already decorated. I've never had my… my own room.”

Sirius and Remus share a private look, then turn back to Harry, who's looking into the empty room again.

“Well you can decorate it however you want,” Sirius tells him. He places a warm hand on Harry's shoulder. “Even if you decide to put it in…” Sirius fakes a gagging noise. “Slytherin green.”

“My love, no need to be so rude,” Remus says fondly. He reaches over and grabs Sirius' hand.

“I'm just joking, pup,” Sirius ruffles up Harry's hair, and Harry grins and ducks his head. “Your parents, they'd… they'd be proud of you and all that you've done. I won't lie and say James might have been a little put off about the Slytherin part at first, but… when you were born, I'd never seen him so happy and nervous at the same time. He would be proud of you, Harry.”

Harry furiously attempts to blink away the fogginess growing on his glasses.

When it doesn't work, he simply turns and wraps his arms around Sirius' middle, burying his face into the man's chest. Sirius startles at first, but his arms wrap around Harry only a moment later.

“Hey, don't worry, prongslet,” Sirius whispers into Harry's ear as the boy cries. “Don't worry, I've got you.”

And loads of adults have lied to Harry before, told him things he eventually learned not to believe, but here, now, crying in his godfather's arms, he thinks he can believe it.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up on August 1st like it's any old day. It is, as far as he's aware, after all. The Dursley's never celebrated his birthday. Never even acknowledged it when it came around. He hadn't even known when his birthday was until he saw it on some of his paperwork when Aunt Petunia enrolled him in primary school. Hell, he hadn't even known his name until he was five.

He trudges downstairs in his only pair of silk pajamas. The rest of his pajamas are all normal cotton, but he has one single pair of silk pajamas Draco had thrown in his face a few months ago. The boy had claimed that his mother got him a size too big and that he didn't have the heart to tell her.

Harry got the impression he was lying, but he wasn't about to call him out on it.

He doesn't see anyone in the foyer, and there's no noise coming from the other three rooms. When he crosses into the dining room, though, something moves behind him and hands come to cover his eyes. He doesn't scream or anything, though. Partly because he knows that the little cottage is warded to hell and back, but also because he can hear the growing familiar sound of Remus' cane against the hardwood floor.

“Walk forward just a bit, pup,” Sirius' voice says.

Harry takes a few steps forward, stopping when Sirius pulls him back.

“Okay, close your eyes.”

Harry does so, and he feels Sirius' hands leaving his face. After a few tense moments of silence—filled with Sirius quietly cursing as he moves something or another— he says, “You can open them.”

Harry opens his eyes.

Sirius and Remus are standing side by side under a banner hanging across one of the windows that reads:

'HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!'

“Happy birthday!” Sirius says with a wide grin, hands splayed out. There's a lavish set of breakfast on the table: pancakes, scrambled, fried, and hard-boiled eggs, cinnamon rolls, french toast, muffins, yogurt, and toast, as well as bowls of avocado, grape jelly, nutella, and butter. He thinks they're meant for the toast and anything else he wants to add them to.

“We uh… weren't sure what all you like,” Remus says slowly, “so we made everything. Is that alright?”

“It's perfect,” Harry breathes.

Both men's grins grow wider.

“Draco and his parents should be coming at around noon,” Sirius begins, “as well as Ron and his family and Hermione and hers. We also invited the Patil twins, we know you're friends with them, and also Pansy Parkinson, um, Blaise Zabini, basically just all your Slytherin friends. Their parents aren't coming, though, which is…” Sirius chuckles dryly. “For the best, if I'm being honest.”

“But, for now, we have the morning to ourselves,” Remus says. “Honestly, we weren't gonna invite so many people at first, but we figured you'd want to spend time with your friends, since we know you haven't before. If it gets too overwhelming at any point, though, just say the word. We'll kick everyone out in a heartbeat.”

That probably shouldn't be as endearing as it sounds, but Harry smiles and nods, willing back any tears.

Breakfast is a lot of fun. There's so much food, Harry's not sure where to start, but when Remus and Sirius both begin piling their plates, Harry follows eagerly. He asks them loads of questions, as he has been doing since they arrived in the house. Remus was more hesitant, more melancholy about it at first, but Sirius' excitement in talking about James and Lily seemed to have been rubbing off on the man.

They're still sitting at the table three hours later, Harry now telling them about his own Hogwarts adventures, when there's a knock on the front door. Remus rises to get it, but Sirius pushes him back into the chair and walks away.

Remus smiles fondly, then focuses back on Harry as he tells them about Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback.

“What's this I hear about dragons?” Mrs. Malfoy asks as she walks into the dining room.

“Nothing!” Harry snaps far too quickly.

Behind her, Draco facepalms.

“So, um, anyway, hi!” Harry stands up and hugs Mrs. Malfoy, then Mr. Malfoy.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Mr. Malfoy says when he pulls away.

They move to the living room while Remus and Sirius put away what's left of breakfast. On the table in the foyer, Harry sees a bright blue bag with wrapping paper spilling over, as well as a box wrapped in striped green and white with a dark green bow at the top.

“Happy birthday!” Draco says as he pulls Harry down onto the corner of the couch with him. The boy hugs him tightly, as if he hadn't seen Harry just a few days ago.

Ron shows up about ten minutes later, his parents, the twins, and Ginny all in tow.

“Oh, it's lovely to see you, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley beams as she wraps him in a motherly hug.

Hermione's right behind them with her parents. The girl looks a lot less frazzled than she was during the school year, and she happily tells him that she'd decided to settle on Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures as her elective subjects.

Behind him, Ron and Draco both let out dramatic sighs of appreciation at her words. They all love the girl to death, but even they were getting tired of how much work she was doing.

“Oh, Harry, you have to show us your room before everyone else gets here!” Ron urges.

Harry laughs, but after greeting everyone, he tells them that they're heading upstairs for a moment. Sirius waves them off with a smile, so Harry leads the three of them up the stairs. Draco has been in his room already, but Harry had just gotten done the day prior with his final decorating.

“Woah,” Hermione whispers when he opens the door for them.

On the wall above his bed is a light fixture in the shape of the Draco constellation, and right next to it is a Slytherin banner and then the small cottage window with dark green curtains opened on either side of it. In the opposite corner of the door is his wardrobe, then right adjacent to that is his desk that has a few open books on it. In the corner diagonal from the door is a standing mirror, his Firebolt propped up against it, then another window that allows Harry to see the cliffs and bits of the sea. There's a single shelf adjacent to the constellation light, holding a Wizarding Wireless on one end and a plant on the other. He hasn't found anything to put in the middle yet. Under the shelf, above the side of his bed, is a framed picture of his first and last Yule with his parents.

His mum and dad are sitting in front of a large fire, baby Harry sitting on Lily's lap wearing a deer onesie. The hood is up on his head, giving him giant brown antlers. His mum is fixing the antlers every few seconds, and along with that, his dad leans over and pecks her on the cheek every few seconds. He's laughing, clapping his hands together and showing off his mostly toothless mouth.

The photo hadn't come in Hagrid's album. Instead, Remus and Sirius had given it to him a few days prior and he'd immediately hung it right above his bed so that he'd be able to see it every morning when he woke up.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione flings herself forward suddenly and wraps him up in her arms. He yelps, but settles into the hug quickly.

“What's this for, 'Mione?” he asks.

Hermione pulls away, but keeps her hands on his shoulders. “I'm just really happy for you, Harry. You deserve this. A good, proper family that'll take care of you.”

“She's right, mate,” Ron says as he sits down at the edge of Harry's bed, feeling the soft green blanket. “I know you don't really talk about it, and we don't pry, but those Muggle relatives of yours are the worst example of Muggles I've ever seen. You deserve this.”

Harry juts his bottom lip out and begins blinking furiously.

“Come on, guys, I've cried more in the past month than I have in my entire life,” he says in a crackly voice. “You can't make me cry on my birthday, okay? That's against the rules.”

All three of them laugh. They're saved from saying anything else, though, by Remus calling from downstairs, “Kids! Get down here! Others are showing up!”

The four of them get downstairs in time to see Remus opening the door to the Patil twins and who Harry assumes are their parents.

“Parvati! Padma!” Harry goes up and hugs them both immediately. The girls both squeal at being pulled into the same hug, but they hug him back. He lets go quickly, though, when his brain catches up to the fact that their parents are both here.

“Ah, uh, Aunty, Uncle,” he says as he bows his head, palms placed together.

“Ah, such manners!” the twins mother says with a grin. She then turns to Parvati and says something in a language Harry thinks may be Hindu.

“Ay, mami, go home!” Parvati waves her hand, dark skin flushing red just a bit.

Sirius walks into the room, then, and to Harry's immense surprise, he responds in the same language as he approaches Mr. and Mrs. Patil. When he reaches them, he gingerly takes Mrs. Patil's hand and places a kiss to the back of it, then bows to Mr. Patil.

“Ah, Sirius, lovely to see you looking well,” Mr. Patil says. “Take care of our girls, okay? We'll be back before sundown.”

“Bye, mata, pitaji,” Padma says as she hugs her parents, Parvati echoing it.

Once they're gone, Harry turns to Sirius. “I didn't know you knew Mr. and Mrs. Patil. Or that you spoke Hindu.”

“Oh, believe me, I didn't think I still could,” Sirius laughs, “and they knew Monty and Effie. They were always there for Yule galas the Potter's hosted, and they were there for James' coming-of-age.”

“Okay, Harry, we know presents are later, but as a little housewarming gift, Parvati and I got you something along with our gift,” Padma tells him as they go into the growing crowd in the living room.

“Oh?” Harry asks with an amusing glint in his eyes.

Padma grins, then turns to her sister. “Vati, if you'll do the honors.”

Parvati grins and looks into the bag she has slung over her shoulder, and Harry watches as she pales.

“Shit,” she curses.

“Parvati?” Padma asks, watching her sister with a slightly concerned expression.

“She's not in here.”

“What!?” Padma exclaims. “Vati, I told you to watch her!”

“I did! I swear, I did! She was there when we were walking up, when we got inside! I swear!”

“Okay, this is the last time I ever trust you with anything,” Padma swears.

“Do I even want to know what you two are talking about?” Harry asks with an amused grin.

Parvati sighs and begins to look up at him. “Oh, Harry, we got you a– oh!” Parvati cuts herself off with a gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Right, why are you–” Harry cuts himself off, too, but not to gasp, rather to desperately try to catch his breath. There's something tightening around his neck, he's only just now noticing. He already knows what it is, so he gasps out, “If you– ah, continue to choke me, I will throw you off the cliff outside.”

The snake immediately lets up, sliding onto Harry's hand which he has brought to his neck.

“Ah, you speak?” she asks.

“Parseltongue, maybe, but not murderer,” Harry snarks.

“My apologies, my kin,” she bows her head to him.

“You know, trying to kill someone when you first meet them? Not a very good introduction. You're lucky I have a soft spot for snakes.”

“I was not trying to kill you. I was… tactfully hugging you.”

“Oh, oh. That makes loads of a difference,” Harry says, then turns to Parvati and Padma, who are both watching the interaction, as is everyone else in the living room. “You two got a cheeky fucking snake. Where'd you find her?”

“Ah, dad found her in the garden last week,” Padma explains. “He was gonna throw her out, but we knew your birthday was coming up, and, well… we know you have Esa, but what's one more snake?”

“Well, Esa has abandoned me,” Harry shrugs. “He decided to spend the summer at Hogwarts because he hates me.”

“He does not hate you,” Draco cuts in. “You yourself said he was staying to help Runeit with the eggs she hatched because, and I quote, 'The father's a deadbeat.' I didn't even know snakes could have that kind of emotional intelligence.”

Harry laughs, allowing the Adder to wind further up his arms.

“Parvati, Padma, thank you,” he says. “Even if this one is cheeky. Hey! Don't you bite me, asshole.” The Adder freezes, jaw open and about to clamp down on Harry's wrist. “Do you have a name or do I just call you cheeky bitch?”

“The girls called me Zar,” she answers. “I did not have a name before then.”

Harry looks up at the twins. “Zar?” he questions.

“Salazar,” Parvati says with a grin. “Shortened version, though. Do you hate it?”

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “I think it's hilarious, don't worry.”

“Oh, Merlin, who gave him another snake?” a voice asks from the doorway.

Harry looks up to see Blaise standing there with Tracey and Pansy. He hadn't even realized that Sirius had stood up to open the door for new guests.

“That would be our doing,” Padma says with a lavish bow.

“Well, Harry, you should be glad we coordinated with each other on what to get you,” Pansy says as she enters the room and sits down on the couch where Draco, Hermione, and Ron are sitting. “Several of us, I will not name who, wanted to get you a snake.”

“Is that all I am to you guys? A Parselmouth?” he asks with mock offense.

“Oh, don't worry, we see you as the Heir of Slytherin as well,” Daphne says from the doorway. Vincent's right behind her.

“That's the same thing,” Harry deadpans.

“Will you hex us if we say Boy-Who-Lived instead?” Tracey asks.

Harry sucks his teeth, pretending to think it over a moment before saying, “No, I think I'd just have to kick you out at that point.”

“What, after we just arrived?”

And there's Millicent and Greg.

“It's okay, you two weren't here for the conversation. You're the only ones allowed to stay.”

“Uh! Rude!” Hermione gasps.

“Oh, hey, a snake!” Vincent points at Zar, who's moved back to 'tactfully hugging' Harry.

“Alright, alright, why don't you guys go find something to do while we adults talk about boring things like taxes?” Sirius suggests with a wry grin.

“What are taxes?” Blaise asks.

“Oh, Merlin, you guys are rich,” Hermione says.

Ron raises his pointer finger in the air. “Um, I don't know what taxes are either,” he supplies.

Harry sees the twins and Ginny shaking their heads as well.

Hermione snorts and turns to Harry. “Are we the only ones who know what taxes are?”

“Wizards,” Harry says with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

Laughing, they all go out to the garden. While the twins corral Vince, Greg, and Millicent into a mock wrestling match, Harry grabs Blaise's hand and pulls him to the back. The boy cocks his head at Harry, waiting for him to say whatever it is he wants to say.

“Is Theo not coming?” Harry asks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Blaise sighs and looks away, answering the question without even needing to say something. Harry lets go of his hand, more than a little hurt.

“His father wouldn't let him,” Blaise says, then doesn't go any further. Harry's glad for it, honestly. “He sends his best, though, he just… couldn't make it.”

“Is he… okay?” Harry ventures cautiously.

“Yeah, yeah, of course he is,” Blaise nods his head. “He wanted to come, Harry, he did.”

“Yeah…” Harry frowns, staring down at the grass.

“Okay, come on, no being sad on your birthday,” Blaise tells him. The boy gently grabs Harry's chin and lifts his head. “Let's go see if we can convince them to play a ground Quidditch game, hm?”

Harry grins and nods his head.

They spend the next hour outside in the garden, throwing back and forth a Quaffle from the shed. At least until Pansy comes up and tells them she's found some old Cleansweeps in the shed and they all climb onto those. Well, not all of them. Harry, Draco, Vince, Greg, Tracey, Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny all go into the air. It's not enough to play a real Quidditch game, so they decide to play a mock game of catch between the Slytherin's and the Gryffindor's and Hermione and Daphne referee's as the impartial judges.

“Hey, if one of you wants to play Seeker, I have a Snitch we can throw up,” Harry suggests.

“Hey! Don't let him do that!” Blaise yells from the ground. “He just wants to show off his moves!”

“Fuck off, Zabini!” Harry yells.

“Sorry, little brother, but we're playing Quaffle only!” Fred yells.

“Oi! Real little brother right here!” Ron yells.

“Zabini, get your ass on a broom! Let me beat you!” Harry challenges.

Blaise grins and grabs his own Cleansweep. Harry had been forbidden from pulling out his Firebolt so that they could all play a fair game. “Go get that Snitch of yours, Potter! I'll show you!”

Harry grins and lands back onto the ground, handing the Cleansweep to Parvati before bolting inside. The adults are still in the living room, so he at least doesn't have to go by them to get upstairs to his room. There's a good pile of presents, though, on and around the table by the staircase.

Harry slows down his run until he stops fully in front of it, staring at the pile.

“You okay, pup?” Sirius asks, suddenly appearing behind Harry, his hand resting between Harry's shoulder blades.

“I've just, uh… never had a proper birthday before,” he says slowly, willing his voice not to crack. He's so emotional lately, crying at every little nice thing Sirius or Remus do for him. It means a lot, really, that he's allowed to cry so freely now. Back at the Dursleys, crying just meant a slap upside the head and getting locked inside his cupboard and told to shut up before they gave him something to cry about.

“If it's too much–”

“No! No! It's perfect!” Harry rushes to say, turning to grab Sirius' arms. “I'm really happy! I'm glad my friends are here, and I'm even more glad that you and Moony are here! So…” Harry surges forward and wraps his arms around Sirius' waist, burying his face in the man's chest. He's crying a lot, he's hugging a lot. He's nearly unrecognizable to himself from a year ago, when he was nervous about Aunt Marge's upcoming visit and having to deal with how Uncle Vernon always got a touch more violent with her around.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Sirius hugs him back. “Of course, pup,” he whispers as he presses a kiss to Harry's temple.

Harry comes back outside a few minutes later with the Snitch he'd gotten from Marcus, Adrian, and Mira after they won the Quidditch Cup a couple months ago.

“What took you so long? We've been waiting forever!” Padma complains when he finally comes back to collect his Cleansweep from her sister.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes as he approaches Blaise, who's waiting expectantly on the Gryffindor side of the game.

“Okay, here's how we're doing this!” Hermione calls as she and Daphne step up between the two teams. “Gryffindors, your goal is over there!” Hermione points to a set of trees, where two of them are wound together just perfect enough to create a mock goalpost.

“Slytherins, your goal is over there!” Daphne points to a set of rocks, where, just like the trees, there's a big enough hole in them for the Quaffle to go through. “Vince, Greg, Tracey, you're the Chasers! Draco, you are, of course, the Keeper, and Harry's your Seeker!”

“Gryffindors, Fred, George, and Ginny, you're the Chasers! Ron, you're the Keeper! Blaise, since you've volunteered yourself as an honorary Gryffindor today,” Hermione says with a cheeky grin. Blaise pulls a face about her choice of wording, but he doesn't say anything about it. “You're the Seeker!”

“Traitor!” Pansy yells, hands cupped on either side of her mouth.

Across from Harry, Blaise rolls his eyes and childishly sticks his tongue out at the girl.

“Alright, everyone ready!?” Hermione calls. She gets raucous confirmation from all of them, so she raises her wand in the air and begins to count down. “Three! Two! One! Go!” Hermione arcs her wand down, and they're off.

Being up in the air again is amazing. He hasn't been able to fly all summer, though Remus and Sirius said he totally could because the village nearby was a Wizarding village, so none of them would question a kid flying around on a broom. Harry just hoped they didn't question a lot of kids flying around on brooms.

Daphne lets go of the Snitch as well, and despite his best efforts, Harry loses track of it. It seems, at least, that Blaise does as well, if the way he curses and looks around wildly for a moment is anything to go by.

The two of them decide to float off to the side of the game, keeping an eye on the team as they do so. Hermione and Daphne are on the ground, watching the game with intense eyes so as to keep score.

“So, Harry, since we're on the subject of Quidditch, are you going to the World Cup?” Blaise asks after a few moments.

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “Ron's dad is still trying to get tickets, I think, but Sirius and Remus promised to take me, and I know Draco and his parents are going. What about you? Will you be there?”

Blaise shakes his head. “Nah. Mother isn't much of a Quidditch fan. Theo will be, though, and so will his older brothers and dad. His dad tends to be pretty, ah… neglectful of his sons, Theo especially, so if you were to tell me where you were camping…” Blaise trails off, but Harry gets the point.

“Yeah, totally,” he says with a grin.

“Great!” Blaise grins, and in a blink of an eye, he's gone.

“Oh! Zabini, you cheater!” Harry yells, turning his broom to focus on Blaise and where he's headed. He sees the Snitch hovering near Ron at the trees, but as if sensing that two Seekers are after it, it darts up. Blaise and Harry both twist their brooms so they can fly after it, Harry pushing his body closer and closer against the broom as he does so.

He catches up to Blaise, but he can't seem to stay ahead of him, surpassing him for a second before Blaise surpasses him, then doing it again. The Snitch flies off behind their backs, and Harry leans back, doing a Sloth Grip Roll before twisting himself back up again. He resists the urge to look back and see what kind of move Blaise had made, but he can see the boy from the corner of his eye.

Honestly, he had no idea Blaise even liked Quidditch, let alone that he could play.

The Snitch is still in front of them, zooming along, and Harry stretches his arm out to try to catch it, Blaise doing the same thing. The Snitch darts down, and if Harry had enough breath left in his lungs, he would curse about how much he hates this stupid, semi-sentient ball with sprouted wings.

The cursing, of course, leaves his mind the moment his fist encloses around the fast-flying Snitch and he rises up quite a bit before he can slow himself down. Once he does, he raises his hand in the air, the Snitch's wings having folded back into the ball.

“Yes! Congrats, Harry!” Tracey yells as she comes up to him, Quaffle in her hands.

Harry grins and follows the girl to the ground.

“Okay, before Harry caught the Snitch, Gryffindor was in the lead,” Daphne says once they all gather round the two referees. “So the scoring goes to Gryffindor–” the Slytherin's all groan, “–but the match itself goes to the Slytherin's.”

“Gryffindor was only in the lead by ten points, though,” Hermione tells them, “and before Harry caught the snitch, Tracey was about to score again.”

Tracey punches Harry's arm, who laughs and rubs at the point of contact. “Couldn't have waited twenty seconds, Harry?” she asks. “Ah, whatever,” she waves him off before he can say anything in response, “I'm trying out for Chaser this year, anyway.”

“Really? That's great!” Harry grins.

“You're down three people, all Chasers, and since my mum played professionally before she had to retire to become Head of the family and Kian—that's my brother—is currently playing professionally, I was raised on a broom. Honestly, don't tell them, but I've been waiting for Flint, Pucey, and Olive to graduate for the past three years. Basically counting down the days.”

Harry laughs and throws his arm around Tracey's shoulders. “Don't worry, Trace, your secret's safe with me.”

“Oi! Kids!” Sirius yells from the garden. He's leaning against the white picket fence surrounding the garden, and Harry can see Zar wrapped around one of the poles, waiting for Harry. She had refused to go further than the fence, and Harry had only rolled his eyes and left her there. “Come on in! We're gonna cut the cake!”

Grinning, the crowd heads inside, Harry picking up Zar when he and Tracey pass through the open gate.

“Miss me?” he asks. Zar doesn't deign him with a response.

The cake is a brilliant two-tier thing of sugar, covered in green-colored vanilla ice cream instead of frosting. There's little swirls as a border around each layer of the cake in gold fondant, as well as a Golden Snitch at the top—also in fondant—and a grey fondant snake cascading down one side of the cake.

Harry is thankful they don't sing him Happy Birthday. He's seen it done at Dudley's extravagant birthday parties and he's always thought it to be super embarrassing. Having to sit there and get sung to or be one of the people singing.

“Birthday boy gets to make the first cut!” Remus says with a smile as he hands Harry a white cake cutter, also holding out a white plastic plate.

Harry grins as he cuts himself a piece, then goes around cutting pieces for everyone else who wants one. As Harry stands up to go sit outside in the sun with his friends, Sirius catches his arm and places his other hand on his lower back, then leans down.

“Hey, just a heads up, you're gonna be opening your presents once everyone leaves,” Sirius whispers in his ear. “Moony and I figured you wouldn't want to do it in front of everyone. We didn't want to overwhelm you.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispers.

“Also, we are currently trying to corral Hermione's parents into allowing her to stay the night, since Draco and Ron are both staying as well,” Sirius says with a mild smile.

Harry laughs, then walks off to the garden. There's a table out there with an umbrella over it as well as a few chairs. Ginny, Parvati and Padma, Draco, and Vince had clearly been the first ones to make it there, as they are the ones sitting in actual chairs, though Blaise, Daphne, and Greg are standing there between their seats. Draco is faced away from the table, though, Hermione and Ron sitting on the grass in front of him. Harry grins and goes over to them, sitting down right by Draco's leg. He places his right arm over Draco's left leg then props his plate on his knee.

“So, Harry, how has your summer been so far?” Hermione asks.

“It's been great!” Harry beams. “There was this–”

“Harry, dear, we love you,” Pansy interrupts him, “but before any of that, I have just been dying to know about Carneirus' front page article of the Prophet.”

Harry grins, more Slytherin than his previous smile, and tells them all about the plan he had contracted to get Sirius off the house arrest the Ministry had placed him on. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins (both pairs of them), look a bit nervous at how much, ah… manipulation, so to say, went into the plot, but even they can't deny that it was a damn good plan. Hermione, especially.

After explaining all of that, though, they really do get into what they've all been doing for the past month. Not everyone has elaborate stories of luxury and travel, but Blaise tells them about his adventures in Italy. Pansy tells them about her grandfather and even her great-grandfather coming to visit; she doesn't mention any grandmother, and nobody pries. Tracey tells them about her father surprising the family with Quidditch World Cup tickets, even if her brother—who plays for England's team—couldn't play at it.

Which of course prompts a conversation about Quidditch again.

“Speaking of; Blaise, I had no idea you played,” Harry says, looking up at the boy. He's the only one still standing, citing that sitting on the grass was beneath him.

“Oh, I don't,” Blaise says. “My mother hates Quidditch and how dirty it is. I've only ever been able to play while at Draco's, and if I played at school, it would get back to my mother in some way. I'd rather not deal with that, so I don't play.”

“But– you were so good!” Harry protests.

“And?” Blaise cocks an eyebrow.

“I… but…”

“Oh, Harry, you will lose this argument,” Draco tells him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Quit while you're ahead, hm?”

Harry pouts, morose at the fact that Blaise refuses to expand on his natural talent, but with more thought about it, he thinks about Blaise's mannerisms the past few years and his staunch refusal to get 'dirty' in any way.

He stops thinking about it as quickly as it comes.

They spend the rest of the evening talking about all sorts of things they've done and even some upcoming summer plans. Harry's glad to be told that nearly everyone else will be going to the Quidditch World Cup, the only outliers being Padma and Parvati (who will be in India visiting family that week), Blaise (who hates them all and wants them all dead, obviously), Greg (who will also be out of country in Bulgaria), and Daphne (who simply didn't want to go).

They make plans to try to meet up if they can, and if not, at least to talk about it when they get back to Hogwarts from break. Throughout the evening, everyone begins to trickle off one by one, realizing it's time for them to leave. They all hug Harry goodbye, wishing him a happy birthday and telling him that they were glad to be there.

As the Weasley's (save for Ron) are leaving, Harry overhears Sirius talking to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley right outside in the garden.

“Molly, Arthur, take the tickets,” Sirius is insisting.

“We can't possibly take these, Sirius,” Mr. Weasley responds.

“Arthur is right. This is too much–”

“It's a thank you,” Sirius clarifies. “For taking care of Harry when I–when I couldn't. You didn't have to do what you've done, and you did. Take the tickets.”

“Sirius, this is far too much money that you've spent–” Mrs. Weasley tries, but is interrupted yet again by one very determined Sirius Black.

“Molly, not to brag, but the amount of money I have could fill every inch of this house, corner to corner, floor to ceiling, 20 times over. Hell, a lot more than that. This? The money on these tickets? Didn't even make a nick in the pile. I still have enough money for everyone in my family, yours, the Grangers, and even old Lucius' to live comfortably independently for the rest of our lives, and probably a few generations down as well, hm?”

Harry chuckles to himself and walks away before he can see how Mr. and Mrs. Weasley respond, but when Ron comes back in from saying goodbye to his family, he's beaming, telling Harry, Draco, and Hermione that his dad had secured tickets for everyone in his family and Hermione to go to the Quidditch World Cup.

“Ah! That's great!” Hermione squeals and yanks Ron down for a hug. “How did he do it?”

Ron shrugs his shoulders, still grinning. “I dunno. He said he pulled in nearly all the favors he owes and even promised some more, but see if I bloody well care. I'm going to the Quidditch Cup!”

“We have to hang out afterwards,” Draco says.

“Or during it,” Ron grins. “Dad said he's not too sure yet, but he's got box seats with the Minister; more importantly, though, you two and your families.”

It's a small little thing, but Harry beams internally at the prospect of him, Remus, and Sirius being referred to as a family.

“Alright, Hermione,” Mrs. Granger says, walking into the room suddenly. The girl straightens up quickly, brushing off any ruffles from her clothing that had been caused by hugging Ron. “You can stay the night,” Hermione cheers, “only for one night,” Mrs. Granger clarifies at her daughter's excitement. “We'll be here a little after 5 to get you. I want absolutely zero funny business, okay?” This is directed towards the boys, who all furiously nod their heads in sync, all their arms glued to their sides.

Harry spots Sirius chuckling quietly behind the couple.

“We'll see you tomorrow, dove,” Mr. Granger goes forward and presses a kiss to Hermione's head, right below her bushy hair. “Don't get into trouble.”

Harry bites back saying that with him around, there'll always be trouble.

“I won't, I promise,” Hermione says. “Thank you both so much for letting me stay. I love you.” Hermione steps forward and envelopes both her parents in a hug before shooting them out the door, face becoming more and more prominently red the longer they stick around and warn against any 'funny business.'

“Now, I'm all one for telling the rules to fuck right on off,” Sirius says as he steps into the foyer, “but I want no funny business under my roof.”

Harry makes a face; Ron blushes red; Draco stares at him blankly; Hermione scoffs.

The reactions all make Sirius smile.

“Alright, go to bed you rascals,” he says, waving them off with his hand. “We set up some blankets and sleeping bags in Harry's room for you three. Hey! If I go in there in the morning and there's an extra person on that bed, there will be consequences!” Sirius yells as they all rush up the stairs. “Consequences!” They hear him yell one last time before Draco shuts the door behind himself.

It only takes one look around at each other that sets them all off into fits of delighted laughter.

The four of them sprawl out on the floor of Harry's bedroom, laying in a circle with their heads closest to each other and staring at the assortment of crescent moon-shaped lights hanging all over the ceiling.

“Thank you guys for coming,” Harry whispers once they've quieted down. “It's nice to have… friends and family and all that stuff.”

“I know we said this earlier, but you deserve it, Harry,” Hermione says, reaching over and grabbing his hand. She's next to him, Ron on his other side with Draco across from him, technically. “You deserve to have people who love you like Sirius and Professor Lupin do.” Despite Remus' insistence on Hermione to call him by his first name, she continues to hold up the belief that it would be incredibly rude to call a professor by his first name, even if he no longer works for the school she attends anymore and they are out of school at the moment.

“Mione's right, mate,” Ron says. “We're all really happy for you.”

“Really?”

“Of course, Harry,” Draco says. “Like we've said, you deserve this, And if we have to say it a thousand times more, we'll do it. We'll keep saying it until you believe it, okay?”

“Come on, I already said you're not allowed to make me cry on my birthday,” Harry says in a strangled sort of voice.

“I think that one may be inevitable, mate,” Ron says with a wry laugh.

Harry brings both his hands up to his eyes, pushing his glasses out of the way to rub furiously at his eyes, the tears soaking into the sleeves of the sweater he'd stolen from Remus the other day.

“You know, Sirius said that there can't be any extra people in my bed, but he never said I had to be in it,” Harry says with a dry little laugh.

“Oh, are we doing a proper sleepover?” Hermione asks, being the only one of the four of them who's ever actually been to a sleepover; Draco doesn't count because his childhood sleepovers were always done in homes that had more than enough rooms to host each of his friends.

“What exactly does a proper sleepover entail?” Ron asks nervously as he sits up, turning to sit crisscrossed and face Hermione. The rest of them follow suit, so they're now sitting in a circle together, making a sort of square as they all sit crisscrossed.

“Oh, shut up, Ronald, I'm not going to force you guys to let me do your makeup and hair,” Hermione laughs as she stands up, dragging the blankets and pillows Sirius had put out for them over to the section in front of Harry's desk. “We're just gonna sleep on the floor together and attempt to make pancakes in the morning. When I was 7, I had a sleepover with my best friend at the time, Amanda Fischer, and we nearly set fire to her kitchen trying to make pancakes and eggs in the morning. Luckily, her older brother woke up in time to save our dastardly attempt, but it was still fun. Besides,” Hermione puffs up, “I'd like to think I've improved since then.”

Harry laughs and rolls over onto the blankets Hermione's put out, claiming the edge of the blanket closest to the chair at his desk. Ron and Draco both shrug before joining him on the blanket.

“Are you going to sleep with us too?” Draco asks as he makes a grab for the most comfortable looking blanket.

“Well, of course,” Hermione says as she sets another blanket down, spreading out over nearly the entire floor now. Ron looks a bit grateful for more blanket space, because he crawls over Draco—who sputters and hits him on the back of the head— and sprawls out like a starfish on the blanket Hermione's just set down. Hermione laughs lightly, then drops down to lie next to Harry. They're all still wearing their day clothes, but none of them are keen to get changed into pajamas, not that Hermione even has some. She'd probably have ended up borrowing some of Harry's if she did want to change. “I trust you guys,” Hermione continues as she steals some of Harry's blanket and lies her head on her pillow.

“There are so many blankets here,” Harry complains, though he doesn't make any move to push Hermione out from under his blanket.

“Yeah, but you're warm,” Hermione shrugs.

“She's right,” Draco says. “You're always warm, these days.”

“And here I thought snakes were supposed to be cold-blooded,” Ron jokes.

“Oh, hahah,” Harry rolls his eyes, then hisses at Ron with no real words behind it. The hissing, though, reminds him of Zar, wrapped tight around his arm under the sleeve of Remus' sweater. “Oh, Zar, you'll want to sleep somewhere else.” He'd gotten enough complaints from Esa about how much he moves around in his sleep now that he's actually got room to do so. Harry props himself up and raises his arm up to his bed, and he watches as Zar swirls out of his sleeve and makes herself comfortable on Harry's bed.

“I believe you are growing on me, Harry,” Zar hisses.

Harry grins up at the snake. “Why thank you. I think you're growing on me too.”

“That is still so freaky,” Ron whispers. “Bloody amazing, but freaky.”

“Thank you?” Harry says.

“Don't worry, it's a compliment,” Ron promises, leaning over and pushing Harry on the shoulder. “Now, I'm gonna crash. Been awake too long, bloody hell.” The redhead falls back against his pillow, still starfished on the blanket, though it's less wide than before. Draco rolls his eyes before lowering himself between Hermione and Ron.

“Night, everyone,” Hermione murmurs as she, too, begins to succumb to sleep.

“Yeah, night,” Harry responds. He takes his glasses off and places them on the chair of his desk, then places his head onto his pillow, not at all hesitating in allowing Hermione to force herself into his arms. He's quite tired himself, the excitement from the day's events bleeding away into the desire for sleep, and before he knows it, he feels his eyes drooping and his mind floating away.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up with a scream on his lips.

The blanket previously covering him has been thrown aside, and his hand is clutching over his scar, which burns. Harry keeps his right eye shut tightly, hand clamped over it, as he reaches to his glasses on the head of his bed. He also reaches up to the shelf along his wall and places his hand on the golden sun Remus and Sirius had gifted him for his birthday. Fleamont, his grandfather, had had it made for his father when he was a baby, and it stayed in James' bedroom, wherever that may have been, until Harry was born and it was placed in his. The two men had said that it was about damn time it was given to Harry once more.

The sun comes to life, bathing his room in a golden light. Wincing only slightly, Harry removes his hand from his face, keeping his eyes closed as he puts his glasses on. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. The burning in his scar is gone, though there's still a dull thrum of something painful beneath his skin.

He can't remember what the nightmare was about, try as he might.

Harry groans and climbs out of his bed, knowing that he will be unable to sleep for the rest of the night. He grabs his wand and casts a Tempus, revealing that it is currently 5:14 in the morning. He crosses over to the mirror in the corner in front of his bed, making sure not to step on the prayer mat the Patil twins had gifted him for their birthday. He'd only done a few prayers since his birthday, but it was nice to have something connected to his family. Maybe one day, when he was brave enough, he could request to see the Potter heirloom vault in Gringotts and see if he could find a prayer mat that was actually connected to his family.

In the light of the room, he can see himself in the mirror, wearing one of Sirius' old Muggle band shirts that was part of the clothes gifted to him for his birthday and grey pajama shorts. He's himself, though, if a little scrawny, despite how much food Sirius and Remus are pushing into him, both of them citing that he's entirely too skinny. They haven't had a proper talk about Harry's treatment from the Dursleys, and if Harry has his way, they never will. Them knowing about it is mortifying enough, added to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, probably Snape, and Draco, Ron, and Hermione all know about it too.

Draco had, after all, been the first one to outright call them abusive.

Harry sighs and collapses down onto the edge of his bed, dropping his head in his hands. His scar is still throbbing, so he closes his eyes once more and tries to recall what his nightmare had been about. The nightmare had seemed so real. There had been two people he knew and one he didn't. Harry closes his eyes tightly and concentrates as hard as he can.

The dim picture of a darkened room comes to him, accompanied by the remembrance of a snake on a hearth rug… a man being called Wormtail, and Harry knew that nickname with every sliver of hate he held. There had been a cold, high voice… and a man, an elderly man.

Harry had seen him fall after seeing Lord Voldemort himself, but Harry can't remember what the man had looked like, nor what he and Wormtail had been speaking about.

Cursing, Harry stands and crosses to his desk, yanking down a journal he'd been taking notes in for the past year and opening it to the first empty page. He quickly grabs an inkwell and begins to scribble out what he remembered.

• 'there was an old man

• spying on Voldemort and Wormtail

• Voldemort had a snake

• he was speaking to the snake

• Voldemort and Wormtail talked about someone they killed

• don't remember name

• they were plotting to kill me

• old man is dead

• can't remember what Voldemort looked like'

“What troubles you, my kin?” Zar hisses as she comes down from the shelf he'd yanked the journal from.

“Nightmare. But it was real. At least… it felt real,” Harry sighs and brings his hand to his scar again, running his fingers over the top of it. “Voldemort and Wormtail and an old man. He's dead, I think. They killed someone else, but I… I can't remember who it was, and they were plotting to kill me, which isn't surprising in the least.”

“Ah, good things, good things,” Zar says with what Harry thinks is a sarcastic edge to her voice. Yucra and Shakreh are both on the “mysterious old being that speaks in riddles most of the time” end of the spectrum; Esa is Harry's friend that still speaks with a firm tone sometimes; Rosza is the one he sees the least often, the conjured snake making the most of its life; Runeit is a little strange with him, always offering up her services as an attack snake if he ever needs it—biting Derrick seemed to have made her want more, and if Harry were a little more morally sound, he'd probably be worried about that.

Zar, though, is entirely different. She's sarcastic as hell, for one. Harry hadn't even known snakes could be so rude and dripping with as much sarcasm as they do venom. Zar is also one of the few snakes that don't call him 'kin'. He had asked her, and she had only said that she'd be “appalled to consider myself related to you.” In all honesty, she's like a little sister, and he's starting to realize what Ron means when he complains about Ginny as a younger girl.

“Last time my scar hurt, it was because Voldemort was around,” Harry whispers quietly, as if afraid that he'll hear the sudden swish of robes or the creaking of stairs.

“This home is protected by many wards, Harry,” Zar tells him as she slides up his bare arm. “I can feel it in the air.”

Harry closes his eyes and focuses. Just there, at the back of his mind, he can feel the house wards too. He can't sense it enough to actually grasp onto it or even do anything with it, but he can sense that it's still there, still intact.

“See?” Zar asks, seeming to know what he'd just done. “There is nothing to worry for, Harry. Voldemort will not find you here.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“In other words, your control over your magic is impeccable,” Zar says after a moment of Harry staring down with despondent eyes at what he's written on the journal page. “I'm not an acceptable person to talk to about what that means, but being able to feel the wards of this house when you are not in charge of them is something even I know to be rather extraordinary.”

“I'll talk to Sirius and Remus about it later,” Harry says, then frowns down at the paper. “I'll have to show them this, too.”

“Relax for now, Harry,” Zar urges. “Perhaps you should make breakfast using that pancake recipe Hermione lent to you the day after your birthday.”

A small, strained smile crosses over Harry's face at the reminder of him and his three best friends being found in the kitchen at 8 o'clock in the morning by Sirius and Remus, all four of them covered in some way with batter or flour or butter or something else they had been using to make pancakes, eggs, biscuits, and sausage for a real, proper sleepover breakfast.

“Yeah, I'll do that,” Harry murmurs. He stands up and exits his room, wand still in his hand and his journal tucked underneath his arm. He places both on the island when he gets to the kitchen, though, and sets about making pancakes for when Sirius and Remus wake up later. Sirius is a late riser, while Remus is more of an early riser.

Maybe they can both sense something is wrong, though, because they come down together just after sunrise. It's still early, another Tempus revealing that it's 7:26, but it's at least later than when Harry had woken up. He sends a thankful prayer upwards for the silencing charms on his room.

“Morning, pup,” Sirius says, wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders for a moment so he can kiss his forehead—and grab some of the eggs off of Harry's plate that sits on the island.

“There is enough for you to have your own plate, mister,” Harry snaps, pulling his plate out of Sirius' reach, though he does lean into the hug.

“Everything okay, cub?” Remus asks as he goes about making a plate for him and Sirius.

“Yeah. No, no, wait, sorry, no, it's not,” Harry stammers.

“What's wrong, cub?” Remus asks gently. He sits his and Sirius' plates down on Harry's right, then sits down a seat over so Sirius can sit next to Harry. “Anything to do with your wand being with you? Or that journal?”

Harry sighs, then reaches over to the journal and opens it up to the page he'd been writing in over two hours ago. “I had a nightmare, or… a vision or something. I'm not sure what it was, exactly, but that's what I remember. It was slipping away from me pretty quickly, so I wrote down what I could remember.”

Sirius and Remus both look pretty horrified at what Harry's written down.

“Where were you in this dream?” Sirius asks after a few moments.

“What do you mean?”

“Were you seeing the dream from the old man's eyes? Voldemorts?”

“No! No!” Harry shakes his head vehemently, strongly disliking the idea of seeing things from Voldemort's eyes. “It was like… like I was a bystander. They were in a house, one bigger than this, at least. Not as big as Malfoy Manor, though. I just…  What does that mean? Could that have… have actually happened? My scar has hurt before, all throughout first year when Voldemort was on the back of Quirrell's head–”

“I'm sorry, Voldemort was where?” Sirius laughs derisively.

Harry shrinks down a bit, his shoulder hunching slightly. “Um… on the back of Professor Quirrell's head. He was our Defense teacher that year. I met him under the school and we fought for the Philosopher's Stone. He ended up dying, though, and Voldemort escaped. Dumbledore showed up eventually, too.” Harry frowns down at his food. He hadn't thought about his eleven-year-old doubts of what Dumbledore wanted from him in quite a while, content to just let the man stray to the back of his mind.

“We'll talk about your first year later,” Sirius says, then slowly raises his hand to trace his fingers over Harry's scar. “You said it hurt when Voldemort was near you?”

“Yeah, but he's not here,” Harry nods his head. “He… couldn't be here, right?”

“No, of course not,” Remus says earnestly. “The wards on the house are powerful. I and Sirius both would feel him coming. He wouldn't even know where to look, though. You're safe here, Harry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry nods his head. He knows he's safe here, of course he does, but he can't help that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that's telling him that he's missing something. It's the same nagging feeling from the Shrieking Shack over two months ago, except this one is far more important. There's something that happened in his dream that he needs to remember, but he just can't.

“Sirius, what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?” Remus asks.

Harry looks over at his godfather; the man has his hand on his chin, his eyes boring down on the hastily written notes of Harry's dream.

“Why would Harry be having visions of Voldemort?” Sirius asks after a moment.

Harry frowns, unsure what to feel about his nightmare being called a vision. Had it actually been a vision? Had he seen something that actually happened?

“I'm not sure,” Remus says. He rests his arms around Sirius' shoulders, squeezing the man's arm. “Have you got any idea?”

“None that are good,” Sirius shakes his head, then closes the journal and pushes it away. “We'll deal with it after the Quidditch World Cup,” he decides. “We're going to the Weasley's tomorrow and staying the night, then leaving early in the morning to catch the portkey to the Cup.”

“Is Draco going to be there?” Harry asks as he cuts up his pancakes with his fork.

Sirius and Remus share a meaningful look, but Harry doesn't know what it could possibly mean.

“No, but he'll be sitting with us at the match, and I believe their tent is near ours. We're right next to the Weasley family, though Molly isn't coming.”

“Why not?” Harry asks.

“She didn't want to,” Sirius shrugs his shoulder, and Harry leaves it at that.

Chapter Text

They end up leaving a little after five PM the next day. Early enough to help the Weasley's set up for dinner. Ron, Hermione, and Mr. Weasley meet them just outside the house wards.

Hermione bundles him up in a hug, then latches onto his arm before turning to Ron with a triumphant look on her face. “I told you, Ronald, he's fine.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” Harry asks with a little laugh as they start up the dirt path to the Burrow.

“Ron was insisting that something was wrong with you,” Hermione tells him. “Forced me to walk all the way out here with him just to make sure you're fine, and look! You're perfect!”

“I'm sorry, it was just something… I don't even know!” Ron shrugs his shoulders. “I'm glad you're okay, mate.”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he says, nodding his head along with his words. He'd tell Hermione and Ron about the weird vision once they got Draco with them, that way he doesn't have to repeat it more than necessary. They come up to the Burrow quickly, and Hermione leads him inside and to the kitchen. The twins are standing there with Ginny, trying to corral her into eating some sort of sweet they're holding in their hands. She wisely continues to back away from her two brothers as they advance on her with wicked grins.

He sees Percy sitting at the kitchen table with two red-haired people Harry's never met before, though he knows immediately who they have to be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers.

“How're you doing, Harry?” says the nearer of the two, grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which Harry shakes, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. This one has to be Charlie, the dragon-tamer that works in Romania. Charlie's built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who are both long and lanky. He has a weather-beaten face that is so freckly he almost looks tanned; his arms are muscular, and one of them has a large, shiny burn on it. His grip, too, is tough, and Harry's reminded of one of Ron's comments about Charlie having played for Gryffindor as their Seeker in his Hogwarts years.

The other redhead—who can only be Bill—gets to his feet and approaches Harry, smiling as he shakes Harry's hand. Bill comes as something of a surprise. Harry knows that he works for Gingotts, the Wizarding bank in Britain, and that he was Head Boy at Hogwarts; he had been expecting some sort of older version of Percy, but Bill isn't like that at all. Bill is—with no other word for it—cool. He's tall, with long red hair that's pulled up into a ponytail at the moment. He's wearing an earring on one ear with what looks like a fang dangling from it. Bill's clothes wouldn't look out of place at a rock concert—or maybe Sirius' wardrobe—if not for the fact that Harry recognizes his boots as not leather, but dragonhide.

“Um… I, well… hi,” Harry finally squeaks out, utterly mortified at how small and crackly his voice has suddenly become.

He hears someone snort behind him and he squishes down the urge to turn around and hex Sirius. They're not at home right now, any magic he uses here will be detected by the Ministry and he's gotten this far without being given some sort of warning letter from the Ministry as of yet—blowing up Aunt Marge doesn't count.

“Well, hello!” Sirius lightly pushes Harry aside. He grabs Bill's hand and bows lavishly, planting a kiss to the back of the man's hand like he's a woman at a gala or something. Sirius does the same to Charlie, who sputters a bit before joining his older brother in laughing. “Sirius Black, at your service. This is Harry, my godson, and my adorable lover, Remus Lupin.”

Remus scoffs, but allows Sirius to pull him flush to his side.

“Adorable is a bit of a stretch–”

“Nonsense,” Sirius silences Remus with a chaste kiss, then turns to Mr. Weasley, who's watching the exchange with a fond smile on his face. “Arthur, thank you for allowing us to stay here tonight.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley is the one who answers, walking into the kitchen with Percy right behind her. “You're Harry's family, which makes you family to us.”

Sirius grins, seeming to be as happy at being referred to as Harry's family as Harry himself is.

“Ginny, what are the twins trying to get you to eat!?” Harry calls over to the girl, who's climbed onto Charlie's back, a ladle in her hand as she brandishes it at the overeager twins.

“George! Fred!” Mrs. Weasley snaps angrily, whipping around to glare at the two. Fred hurriedly hides his hands behind his back, but with a quick summoning charm, a few wrapped sweets zoom out of Fred's clasped hands. “Is this Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes again!?”

Harry has no clue what that means, but Hermione and Ron do, if the way they groan and both make a grab for Harry at the same time is anything to go by. Without any of Harry's input, the two begin to drag him up the stairs and to Ron's room a few floors up.

“What's Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asks, the whole name being a mouthful.

“Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George's rooms,” Ron says quietly. “Great long price lists for stuff they've invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they'd been inventing all that…”

“We've been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually making things,” Ginny says, coming up right behind them. “We thought they just liked the noise.”

“Only, most of the stuff—well, all of it, really—was a bit dangerous,” Ron says, “and, you know, they were planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren't allowed to make any more of it and burned all the order forms… She's furious at them anyway. They didn't get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.”

O.W.L.s are Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the examinations Hogwarts students take at the end of fifth-year. It's insane to think Fred and George would get too many, though. They're super smart, easily two of the smartest in their year, but they've said themselves that the school work bores them.

“And then there was this big row,” Ginny says, “because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.”

“I'm sure Sirius and Remus would love that,” Harry laughs. He hadn't gotten around to asking Remus and Sirius if he could tell the twins about them being Marauders. They know he'd gotten the map from them, but he hadn't really divulged how much the twins worshipped them. He'd have to save that for when he really wanted something from the twins, so long as Sirius and Remus are fine with him using the Marauder legacy like that; Harry doesn't think they'll mind, honestly, as long as whatever he asks for is devious in some way.

“You'll be staying with me,” Ron says once they get to his floor. “'Mione's with Ginny, and Charlie and Bill are bunked together for the night so Sirius and Remus can have a room to themselves.”

“Mrs. Weasley's fine with all that stuff, then?” Harry asks, unable to stop himself from voicing the question. When he gets quizzical looks from the other three, he clarifies, “The gay stuff.”

“Oh, yeah, she's perfectly fine with it,” Ginny answers him. “When Charlie came out, she was a little confused. I mean, they tried keeping it from me cause I was so young, but when he brought his first boyfriend around, Mum was pretty proud in introducing him to the family. I think she might've been more proud than Charlie was, to be honest.”

“What about Percy?” Harry asks, recalling the redhead's relationship with Adrian Pucey. “He's still dating Adrian, right?”

“I think so,” Ron says. “Percy's not one to talk about his relationships. Besides, he's at home less than dad these days; recently got a job at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don't ask him about it. He'll talk your ears off. Especially don't ask about his boss. According to Mr. Crouch… as I was saying to Mr. Crouch… Mr. Crouch is of the opinion… Mr. Crouch was telling me… They'll announce their engagement any day now, then we'll really know if he's still with Pucey.”

“I think they've stopped arguing,” Hermione says, peering over the banister and at the bottom floor. “Come on, let's head out back and help Bill and Charlie with setting up. We're eating out in the garden. Not enough room for thirteen people inside.”

The four of them go back down the stairs, creeping through the kitchen and to the yard out back. Crookshanks, Hermione's tabby cat, comes darting out from the garden suddenly, chasing what looks like a muddy potato on legs. Harry recognizes it instantly as a gnome, used to them after helping to clean the garden of them the summer before second year. Barely ten inches high, its feet patter on the soft grass as it makes a mad dash to one of the Wellington boots gathered by the door. Harry can hear it giggling faintly as Crookshanks leans over the boot, sticking his paw into the shoe.

Meanwhile, a very loud crash comes from the garden, followed by some cheers. The source of the commotion is revealed when they walk into the garden, revealing Bill and Charlie standing there with their wands raised. They're making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn and smash into each other, each attempting to knock the others out of the air; Fred and George are the ones cheering.

Bill's table catches Charlie's with a huge bang and knocks one of its legs off. The twins, plus Ginny and Ron, all erupt into cheers. Hermione looks more than a little nervous, and while Harry shares her sentiment, he's mostly finding the whole thing amusing.

By seven o'clock, the two tables are groaning under the weight of the amount of food Mrs. Weasley has planted all over it. Harry's sitting between Hermione and Ron, with Bill, Charlie, and Sirius sitting across from them. Sirius' arm is thrown around Remus' shoulders, with said man sitting across from Ginny.

“So, Charlie, you work with dragons?” Sirius asks once they actually start on dinner.

“Yeah, in Romania,” Charlie nods his head, then points at the large burn on his right arm. “It's hard work, but I love it.”

“Fascinating,” Sirius whispers, eyeing the burn with wide eyes. “Jamie used to tell us that when he reached retirement, he was gonna go live out with dragons, force Lily along if he had to. Lily was a spitfire, though, as fascinated with them as he was.”

“Really?” Harry pipes up. There's still so much he doesn't know about his parents, despite having spent over half a summer with Remus and Sirius.

“Oh, yeah,” Remus laughs. “If she could have, I'm sure she would have had a dragon as a pet.”

Ron snorts into his cup. “I'd imagine she and Hagrid would have loads to talk about, then,” he says, eyes travelling to the burn on his left forearm. It's long since healed, barely even a second-degree burn, but in the right lights, Harry can still see it on his freckled skin.

“Ronald Weasley, is that a–”

Bill is cut off by a smack to the back of his head courtesy of Charlie.

“Charlie, do I even want to know what that means?” Bill demands of his younger brother, who cackles before reaching into the pockets of his trousers. He hands over four identical photos to Ron, Hermione, and Harry. Charlie's standing next to a giant Norwegian Ridgeback in the photo, and Harry can't help but grin at it as he pockets the extra photo for Draco.

“One day, I'll take the four of you out to see him,” Charlie says with a grin. “Maybe I can get Hagrid to come along, too. Dragons are extremely influential when they're young, and Norwegian Rideback's have one of the best memories of the dragon species out there. I've no doubt Norbert will remember Hagrid.”

“That would be great!” Harry says excitedly. He feels his face heat up when Charlie smiles ruefully at him. “I'd love to go to a dragon reserve! Um, well, of course, Draco, Ron, and Hermione would be there too, of course! Um, I, well…”

“So, Bill!” Sirius calls suddenly, cutting off Harry's rambling. “You're a curse breaker, yeah? You deal with all of that stuff?”

“Yeah, I do,” Bill nods his head. “Been all over the world with that stuff, though I'm in Egypt most of the time. There are so many old curses in that country, especially in all the ruins they have there.”

“I'd love to talk to you about curse effects sometime tonight, if you have the time,” Sirius says.

Harry tries not to let his mind linger too hard on the implication in Sirius' statement; was he wanting to talk to Bill about his scar? Sure, Harry had assumed it hurt when Voldemort was near because of what happened the night he lost most of his power, but is it something that can be broken? He'd never really thought about it before.

Shaking his head, Harry focuses at the head of the table, where Mr. Weasley and Percy are speaking.

“…You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?”

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” Mr. Weasley says with a frown. “He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of times before now—though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I'd be worried…”

“Oh Bertha's hopeless, all right,” Percy says. “I hear she's been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she's worth… but all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest. She worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her—but Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However–” Percy heaves an impressive sigh and takes a deep swig of elderflower wine, “–we've got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments, too. As you know, we've got another big event to organize right after the World Cup.”

Percy clears his throat significantly and looks down toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione are sitting. “You know the one I'm talking about, Father.” He raises his voice slightly. “The top-secret one.”

Ron rolls his eyes and mutters to Harry and Hermione, “He's been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. None of us will give him the satisfaction, though.” Ron then turns to Sirius and Remus. “I don't suppose either of you know?”

Sirius grins wickedly, and Harry's reminded suddenly of a few days after his birthday, when Sirius left after an early breakfast, saying that he was gonna be sitting in on his first Wizengamot meeting since he claimed his seat. He had the Black seat as well as the Potter seat by proxy, being Harry's guardian and all. He'd been gone until well into nightfall, and when he returned, he'd immediately gone up to his and Remus' bedroom to crash.

“Ask me no secrets, I shall tell you no lies,” Sirius responds.

Remus laughs. “I haven't heard that one in years. One of Padfoot's favorite responses whenever we tried to get his secrets out of him,” he says to Harry's confused looks. “It's nothing you need to worry about, Harry, truly. It doesn't affect you. Not directly, at least.”

Harry sighs, but lets the matter lie. He'll figure it out when school starts again, no doubt. Besides, he needs to sleep easy. Sirius had said they were leaving early in the morning, after all.

Chapter Text

Harry feels as if he's just fallen asleep before he's being shaken away by Mrs. Weasley.

“Time to go, Harry, dear,” she whispers before moving to wake Ron.

Harry reaches blindly for his glasses. It's still dark outside. Ron is mumbling in his bed, but he's awake and that seems to be enough for Mrs. Weasley, who leaves the room. The two of them get dressed in tired silence, neither having enough energy to speak. Nobody else does, either. Save for an offhand comment about Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Remus all apparating—Sirius saying that Remus doesn't want to take the long walk to the portkey—breakfast is a silent affair.

Finally, they're ready to set off. After a horde of George and Fred's inventions being confiscated by Mrs. Weasley, the eight of them set off towards where their portkey will be. At last, they begin to climb Stoatshead Hill, the sun peeking over the horizon by now.

“Alright! We've still got ten minutes, that's good!” Mr. Weasley calls once they get over. “Now we just need to find the Portkey… It won't be big, come on, now…”

Groaning, they all set off looking for the portkey. They're only at it for a couple minutes, though, before a shout rings through the air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it!”

Two figures are silhouetted on the other side of the hill, cast upon by the starry sky they have their backs too still.

“Amos!” says Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strides over to the man who shouted; the rest of them follow. Mr. Weasley is shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who's holding a muddy old boot in his other hand. “This is Amos Diggory, everyone. He works for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?”

“Regulation and Control, you say?” Sirius asks, strolling forward and clasping Amos Diggory's hand in his own. He doesn't give the man much of a choice in the matter, Diggory clearly being caught off guard at having his hand pulled away from Mr. Weasley. “I have you and your coworkers to thank, then, for my lover's current ban from working anywhere in Wizarding Britain, hm?”

“Lord Black!” Diggory exclaims, clearly caught off guard. “Well, to be honest, I–I didn't have much of a say in, um, Remus Lupin's case.”

Cedric laughs next to Harry.

“Harry, your godfather is certainly something,” he says with a grin. “Merlin, I've never seen my dad so scared before.”

“Oh, Sirius won't actually do anything,” Harry promises.

Cedric laughs again. “It's nice to see you in good spirits, Harry,” he says, bumping his arm against Harry's.

“It's nice to be in good spirits,” Harry says.

“Ah, uh, it must be nearly time,” Mr. Weasley says quickly. “We're not waiting for anyone else, are we, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn't get tickets,” Mr. Diggory tells him. “There aren't any more of us in this area, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” Mr. Weasley says. “Yes, it's a minute off… We'd better get ready…”

He looks over at Harry and Hermione.

“You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do—”

With difficulty, owing to their bulky bags, the ten of them crowd around the old boot held by Amos Diggory. They all stand there in a tight circle, none of them speaking. Harry thinks that it would look awfully weird if a Muggle were to walk up on them at the moment, the ten of them in a circle, three of which are grown men, all touching a muddied old boot.

Before the thought can take full root in his mind, though, Mr. Weasley is counting down, and when he hits one, Harry knows it's happening.

He's traveled by Portkey only three times, but he doesn't think he'll ever get used to it. He forces himself to not close his eyes and just tries to focus on not vomiting up his breakfast. His feet slam into the ground; Ron staggers into him and they fall over; the Portkey hits the ground near his head with a heavy thud.

Harry looks up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, Cedric, and Sirius are the only ones still standing.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” says a voice.

Harry groans and disentangles himself from Ron, then gets to his feet. They've arrived on what appears to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them is a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom is holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both are dressed as Muggles, though very badly: The man with the watch wears a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.

“Morning, Basil,” Mr. Weasley says as he picks up the boot and hands it to the kilted wizard, who grunts and throws it into a large box of used Portkeys; Harry can see an old newspaper, an empty drink can, and a punctured football.

“Hello there, Arthur,” says Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It's all right for some… We've been here all night. You'd better get out of the way, we've got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite… Weasley… Weasley…” He consults his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile's walk over there, first field you come to. Lord Black, you're right next to them, as requested. Site managers called Mr. Roberts. Diggory… second field… ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thank you,” Sirius says with a curt nod, then he turns and beckons for Harry to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate comes into view. Beyond it, Harry can just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon. They say goodbye to the Diggory's and approach the cottage door.

A man is standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Harry knows at a glance that this is the only real Muggle for several acres. When he hears their footsteps, he turns his head to look at them.

“Morning!” says Mr. Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” says the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”

“Aye, I would, and who're you?”

“Weasley, two tents booked, and Black, one tent booked.”

“Aye,” Mr. Roberts murmurs, then consults a list tacked to the door. “You've got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?”

“That's it,” Sirius pipes up.

“You'll be paying now, then?” Mr. Roberts asks.

“Ah, yes, um…” Mr. Weasley fumbles with his pockets before pulling out a roll of Muggle money from his pocket. He stares down at it, and just as he's about to turn to Harry, Sirius sighs and grabs the money, then produces his own from the pocket of his black jeans.

Sirius sighs, counting off the money with expert hands from both his and Mr. Weasley's stack. “Sorry about him,” Sirius murmurs as he hands over Mr. Weasley's money first. “His wife handles all the money, if you can believe!” Sirius barks out a laugh, as if he's just said something extremely funny.

The confused, kind of dazed expression on Mr. Roberts' face disappears, replaced by a grin. “Aye, I can believe it! Here's your change and your map of the campsite, sir! Have a lovely night!”

“Come on,” Sirius says, bustling all of them away from the Muggle before he can ask questions.

“Everything okay, Sirius?” Harry asks once they make it through the gate.

“Damn Ministry'll be lucky if he doesn't come out of this with brain damage, amount of memory charms they've put on him,” Sirius shudders. “Arthur, I hate the people you work with.”

“Ah, uh…” Mr. Weasley doesn't seem to have anything to say to that.

They set up the tents entirely by hand. Mr. Weasley's tents are both tan colored, but Sirius' tent is pitch black with what looks like the Black Family crest on the flap to go inside. Harry doesn't miss Sirius casting out some magic to thoroughly douse all three tents in wards, right behind Mr. Weasley's back.

When they walk into the Weasley tent, Harry's amazed at what he sees, Hermione looking the same right next to him. They've walked into what looks like a three-room flat, complete with a bathroom and kitchen.

“We'll need water,” Mr. Weasley says as he looks around.

“There's a water tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” Sirius says. “Harry, take Ron and Hermione and go get some water.”

“Alright, then.”

The three of them take the map and set off walking to the water tap marked on the map.

They run into more than a few people they know from school, including Seamus Finnigan, a Gryffindor in their year that's in the Ireland part of the field, decked out in green plants and such. They look over at the Bulgarian side as well, but they don't see anyone they know, so they continue on to the tap.

It's on their way back that Harry hears someone call his name.

Almost instinctively, he moves to hide behind Ron and Hermione, not wanting attention brought to him at the moment. When he looks from behind his best friends, though, he sees Adrian Pucey, his former prefect and teammate on the Slytherin Quidditch team at Hogwarts.

“Adrian! Hey!” Harry yells, greeting the man with a hug.

“Are you guys going back to your camp?” he asks.

“Yeah, we are,” Hermione answers.

“Sweet! Let me walk with you!” Adrian throws his arm over Harry's shoulder and begins to walk with them back to where they're camping.

When they get back to the camp and Adrian visibly deflates at the distinct lack of Percy Weasley, Harry begins to suspect that Adrian had not seemed so excited to see him, but instead his boyfriend. The frown on his face isn't there for long, though, when Remus, Bill, Charlie, and Percy stroll out of the woods a few minutes later. Adrian wastes no time in rushing to Percy and gathering him in a hug that has the redhead being lifted off the ground.

“Ack! Adrian, put me down this instant!” Percy yells, beating his fists on Adrian's back.

“And if I don't?” Adrian asks with a grin.

“I swear, Pucey, I will curse your entire bloodline–”

“Considering that you'll one day be part of that bloodline–”

Percy sputters and pushes Adrian away from where he was peppering kisses on his neck, forcing the Slytherin to put him down. Percy looks around at his family with a face as red as his hair. Everyone is staring at him.

“Well, Adrian, was it?” Bill says as he approaches the pair.

“Ah,” Adrian pulls away from Percy, looking suddenly flustered. He bows his head, hands splayed out at his sides with his palms facing Bill. “Well met, Heir Prewett.”

Bill grins, then does the same motion as Adrian just did. “Well met, Heir Pucey.”

“Sirius, what did they just do?” Harry whispers, watching as Charlie does the same thing, being referred to as “Heir Weasley” by Adrian.

Sirius sighs heavily. “Goddess, we need to have some lessons soon. I'll explain it later, after the Cup. For now, focus on your friends, hm?”

Harry grins, deciding to do just that. He drags Hermione and Ron all over the camp, seeing many of their friends along the way. They talk to Ernie MacMillan and his family for a few minutes before being whisked away by Pansy and Tracey, both girls dragging them halfway through the entire campsite in search of the other Slytherin they lost: Daphne Greengrass.

They find her in the third campsite, sitting in a hammock outside a lavish royal blue tent with Leanne Unknown and Sue Li, two Ravenclaw girls in their year. They pass by a tent that is neither theirs nor Adrian's, but they do see Percy and Adrian ducking inside after looking around once to make sure nobody is watching them.

They end up stopping by the Malfoy tent, which has two stories and is surrounded by a black picket fence. The three of them take turns throwing pebbles at the tent before the three Malfoy's emerge from the tent. Mr. Malfoy sighs exasperatedly, then waves his wand, allowing the Slytherin and two Gryffindor's access through the wards.

“Five Galleons Ireland wins!” Ron says immediately.

“You're on, Weasley,” Draco says, fishing in his pockets for five Galleons of his own. They both present the money, then hand it to Hermione for safekeeping.

“Honestly, I don't think you two have ever gotten through an interaction without arguing or betting on something,” Hermione says with a sigh, though she does pocket the coins in a pouch that's dropped into her bag soon after.

They continue exploring, this time Draco joining them.

They find Fred and George outside Angelina Jonhnson's tent, as well as most of their other school friends, all of them tossing a Quaffle back and forth in front of Angelina's tent.

They keep going around and around, greeting people they know and even a few they don't, until it finally gets late enough that they have to head back to camp so they can all gather up and make their way to their seats. They're saved, though, from having to walk all the way back to the edge of the campsite just to have to walk all the way back again by Draco calling for Lora, the house elf his family brought along for the Cup.

“Lora, can you go to Arthur Weasley and tell him that Ron, Hermione, and Harry are going to their seats with me and my parents? Our seats are right by each other, so it should be no trouble,” he requests of the tiny little house elf. She's not one of the ones Harry has seen in Malfoy Manor before. Though in all honesty, he's only interacted with two of the house elves in the manor before.

“Lora will do just that!” the excited little house elf exclaims before disappearing with a pop!

They go back to the Malfoy tent, where Lora is waiting for them with three new tickets in her hands that she gives to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Mister Arthur Weasley gave these to Lora for her to give to yous!” she tells them.

“Oh, thank you, Lora,” Hermione says with a warm smile.

“Lora, dear, pop up to the top box and save our seats, hm?” Mr. Malfoy suggests.

“Of course! Lora be doing that, Master Malfoy!” Lora disappears with another pop! and the six of them make their way through the crowds, going up to their seats in the top box, where they're handed pairs of Omnioculars by Mrs. Malfoy, who's generously brought extras.

The Weasley's and Sirius and Remus arrive not long after they settle into their seats, and Remus leans over to give Harry a half hug and land a kiss to his temple. Sirius and Remus are both incredibly affectionate with him, not that he's complaining. He thinks they're that way because they need proof that he's there and that they do, indeed, have custody of him. That he won't have to go back to the Muggles. He accepts the love and the touch and the kind kisses to his temple and forehead for those same exact reasons.

The lively chatter in the top box dies out as the Irish team comes out from their end of the field, the Bulgarian team following them a few moments later. After a few pre-match stuff Harry's used to at this point, the balls are all thrown in the air, and the match begins.

—

More than a few hours later, they're all trudging back to their tents, in high spirits due to Ireland winning. Harry hadn't been rooting for a specific team, not really, but the Weasley's and Remus had been rooting for Ireland, Sirius and the Malfoy's being the only outliers, all four of them having been rooting for Bulgaria.

They bid farewell to the Malfoys, then head back to their own tents for their own round of celebrations. Harry tries not to rouse his nose in disgust when a thoroughly drunk Remus Lupin drags Sirius into their tent. Only about thirty minutes later does Harry go into the tent as well, heading to his room. It's a small little room, obviously not meant to be spent time in, but the bed is comfortable, so he crashes down on top of it and burrows himself under the plush blankets provided.

He's not sure if he ever actually falls asleep, but just as he imagines flying with Viktor Krum, the hotshot Bulgarian Seeker, he's being violently shaken awake. His eyes snap open, staring into shining amber eyes.

“Remus?” Harry murmurs.

“No time, Harry! Get up! Don't bother getting dressed! Grab your wand!” Remus tells him, then dashes out of his room.

Harry grabs his wand from his bedside, clutching it tight between his fingers, then forces on some socks and shoes before running out of his room. Sirius and Remus are both fully dressed, Remus hurriedly doing the clasps of Sirius' robes. Sirius is wearing robes Harry's never seen before, though.

“Harry, let's go.” Remus grabs Harry's hand and pulls him out of the tent. For the first time, Harry sees what has Remus and Sirius both so worried.

The noises of the campsite have changed, filled now with people screaming and running, and Harry sees why.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, are marching slowly across the field. At first glance, they don't seem to have faces, then he realizes that their heads are hooded and their faces covered by bone white masks. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures are being contorted into grotesque shapes. It's as though the masked wizards on the ground are puppeteers, and the people above them are marionettes operated by invisible strings that rise from the wands into the air. Two of the figures are very small.

More wizards are joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumple and fall as the marching crowd swells. Once or twice Harry sees one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several catch fire. The screaming grows louder.

The floating people are suddenly illuminated as they pass over a burning tent and Harry recognizes one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three look as though they might be his wife and children.

“That's sick,” Ron mutters as the crowd continues to play with Mr. Roberts and his family. The smallest child begins to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. “That's really sick.”

Hermione and Ginny come hurrying over to them, both pulling coats over their nightdresses. At the same time, Bill, Charlie, and Percy come from the other Weasley tents, dressed similarly to Sirius. Harry notices a lot more dragonhide on Charlie than the others; he almost looks as if he's wearing it as armor.

“We're going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouts over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot—get into the woods, and stick together! Boys, watch Ginny and Hermione! Especially Hermione!”

Harry doesn't want to dwell on the emphasis of protecting Hermione, the only Muggleborn in their group.

“If you need to use magic, don't hesitate!” Sirius yells. “If the Ministry even does detect it in all this chaos, I will make sure nothing comes of it! Now go!”

“C'mon,” says Fred, grabbing Ginny's hand and pulling her towards the woods. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George follow after the two, running away from the masked figures that Harry has an increasing suspicion about their identities.

The colored lanterns that had been lighting the path to the stadium are now all extinguished. Dark figures are shrouding the trees; children are crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices are reverberating through the night air. Harry feels himself getting pushed around by all sorts of people he cannot see. Then he hears Ron yell from behind him.

“What happened?” Hermione says anxiously. She stops so abruptly that Harry walks right into her. “Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid – Lumos!”

She illuminates her wand and directs its narrow beam across the pathway. Ron is lying sprawled on the ground.

“Tripped over a tree root,” he says angrily.

“This is why you'd die first,” a drawling, easily recognizable voice says from behind them.

“Draco!” Harry turns to the boy. Draco is leaning against one of the nearest trees, one of his crutches caught perfectly in a root so as to hold him up. He's watching the commotion from the campsite through a gap in the trees.

“This is the last time I go for a late night walk,” Draco sighs, then turns back to them. “Where's the rest of your party?”

Harry looks around, just now realizing that Fred, George, and Ginny are all gone. They must have run ahead. They probably didn't even realize that Harry, Hermione, and Ron had lagged behind.

“Okay, nevermind, doesn't matter,” Draco kicks himself off of the tree. “Come on, we have to get Hermione out of here.” Draco casts a nervous glance back to the growing crowd of the bone masked people.

“Why me?” Hermione asks.

“They're after Muggles, Hermione,” Draco snaps, voice suddenly angry. “You think they won't take one look at you and realize you're Muggleborn? Because they will, they fucking will, and I try to make it a point to not have dead friends. Let's go.”

“Draco's right,” Ron says. “We have to– fuck, where's my wand!?” In the still light of Hermione's wand, Harry sees Ron's eyes go wide as he frantically pats his pockets.

“What!?” Hermione screeches.

“You probably left it back at the tent!” Harry yells.

“No, I had it in my hand–”

“Weasley, none of that matters!” Draco yells. “You can't exactly go back looking for it! We need to get out of here, come on!”

Ron looks as if he really does not want to listen, but then he looks over at Hermione and the fear etched into her face. She's staring back at the crowd again and the Muggles risen high above them. Three of the Muggles are screaming; the smallest one is not.

“Okay, okay,” Ron nods his head, then grabs Hermione's hand. “Come on, let's go!”

They continue to run through the trees, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the crowd of attackers as they can. Harry's not sure for how long they run, but eventually Draco is panting heavily and slumping against a tree, his hold on his crutch slipping from his hand.

“Can't–run–any–more,” he pants as he sinks to the roots at the base of the tree.

“Okay, okay, we can shelter here,” Harry says. They're right near some already burned down tents, and he can distantly see the shadows of the attacking crowd, but they're moving away from where they are.

“I hope those Muggles are okay,” Hermione whispers in a horrified sort of voice. “What if they can't get them down?”

“They will, 'Mione, they will,” Ron promises, though even he looks a little hesitant of the fact.

“Mad, though, to do something like that when the whole Ministry is out and about,” Hermione murmurs. “I mean, how do they expect to get away with it? Do you think they've been drinking, or are they just–”

But she cuts herself off suddenly and looks over her shoulder. The boys look around too. It sounds as if someone is staggering toward their little clearing. The four of them wait, listening to the sound of uneven steps behind the dark trees, but the footsteps come to a sudden halt.

Harry raises his finger to his lip, wand clutched tightly in his hand and pointed at where the footsteps had stopped. Harry slowly gets to his feet, Ron right by him even though he's currently lacking a wand. Hermione and Draco both move to stand as well, but Harry and Ron push them back down. Draco can't walk for shit at the moment and Hermione's a Muggleborn. If whoever is out there is bad news, it's best to keep her away from them.

Then, without warning, a voice penetrates the silence; it's not of the panicked shouts they've heard this night, but instead, it screams something like a spell.

“MORSMORDRE!”

Something vast, green, and glittering erupts from the darkness Harry is trying to see through. It flies up over the treetops and into the sky. For a split second, Harry thinks it's another leprechaun formation, but then it becomes clear to his eyes, and he feels his entire body run cold.

The image is of a colossal skull, comprised of what looks like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. They watch as it rises higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a constellation.

The woods around them erupt in screams once more. Harry scans the darkness for who had cast the spell, but they are gone now.

“We have to go,” Draco says, struggling to stand. Hermione reaches out and helps him up. “Come on we have to go before–”

But they don't get more than a few steps away before a series of popping noises announce the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding them. Harry whirls around, and in an instant, he registers one fact: Each of those wizards have their wands pointed at him, Draco, Ron, and Hermione.

“DUCK!” Ron yells.

“Protego!” three identical yells cast over the shield right as every single wizard present screams, “STUPEFY!”

“Stop!” a familiar voice yells. “STOP! That's my son!”

Mr. Weasley rushes into the clearing, his wand raised as he crowds the four of them near him. Sirius and Remus are right behind him, their own wands brandished and backing the Ministry wizards away.

What follows is perhaps the most pathetic excuse for an interrogation Harry has ever seen. And he's seen multiple pathetic excuses on the cop shows Uncle Vernon likes to watch on the telly. Sirius and Remus stand right next to him, Draco, Ron, and Hermione the whole time, the werewolf occasionally reaching out to squeeze Hermione's shoulder in a show of silent support and comfort. The girl is clearly grateful for it, even more so when the Dark Mark is released from Ron's lost wand again. Ron, on the other hand, looks like he's going to be sick on the fact that it was his wand that was used to produce such a hateful symbol.

Finally, the Ministry officials give Mr. Weasley and Sirius and Remus permission to take the kids away. Draco doesn't say anything about going off to find his own parents, instead walking with them back to the Weasley tent. Charlie's waiting just outside, and he visibly relaxes when he sees them approaching.

When they get inside, they find Bill with the twins and Ginny, but it's the extra face that has Harry doing a double take.

Theo is sitting curled up on one of the chairs, sitting right next to Ginny, who's rubbing circles onto his back. His arms are wrapped tight around his knees, his eyes staring forward unseeing.

“Theo? Are you okay?” Harry asks, approaching the boy immediately, Draco right behind him.

“We ran into him in the woods,” Fred says. “He knew we were with you, Harry, so he stuck by us, but he's barely said more than a few words.”

“Theo,” Draco crouches down in front of the boy, “what happened?”

“They're out there,” Theo whispers, voice caught and strained. “My father, my brothers, they're… they're out there.”

And Harry knows, in a sort of sick, twisted way, that Theo is not crying out of worry for his father and brothers, but rather in a deep, revolting disgust and fear that they are in places they really shouldn't be.

Everyone in the tent knows exactly what Theo is saying.

Before anyone can say anything in response, though, Sirius stands sharply, wand raised to the tent flap. Nearly everyone does the same, but the person who comes through doesn't immediately start spouting off curses at them. The man is nearly as tall as Sirius, wearing dark clothes but no robe. There's a deep cut on his arm that has blood still coming from it, but the man doesn't seem to pay any mind to it. His eyes land on Theo, who snaps his head up and then springs up, rushing toward the brunette man.

“Oh, Theo, Theo,” the man gasps as he gathers Theo in his arms. “Oh, thank Merlin you're okay. Noah and I, we–we couldn't find you after we all– and then you– Father wasn't at all worried, but we didn't know if you were–”

Harry realizes that the man must be Jordan, one of Theo's two older brothers. He's pretty sure that Jordan is the middle child and that Noah is the oldest.

“Jordan,” Charlie steps forward.

“Charlie!” Jordan looks up from his younger brother and at Charlie, who's standing there with his hands clenched into fists. The dragonhide clothes he was wearing earlier are gone, and Harry can see ash and soot on his face and hands, as well as what looks like a new, festering burn on his neck. “Charlie, hey, haven't seen you in a minute.”

“Where were you?” Charlie demands, voice sharp and cold.

Jordan frowns and looks away from those in the tent that are staring at him. Which is, well, everyone. Everyone is staring at him and his brother, both knelt on the ground and holding onto each other like they'll disappear if they loosen their grip.

“Were you out there with those Death Eaters?” Charlie spits. Jordan flinches at the accusation, arms tightening around Theo's shoulders, said boy letting loose a cracked sob.

“Noah and I or Theo,” Jordan says evenly. “He gave us a choice. You would have chosen the same if you had to pick between saving yourself or your siblings, Charlie. Don't lie for one second and say you wouldn't. Theo, come on, stand up. We have to get back to our tent.”

Theo stands up at Jordan's urging, but he's still crying.

“Theo!” Jordan grabs Theo's chin harshly, forcing the boy to look up at him. “Stop crying.”

Miraculously, Theo does.

“Draco,” Jordan nods over to Draco, who snaps to attention. “Are you good with staying here, or do you want us to walk you back to your tent?”

“I… I think I'll stay here,” Draco says, and it's the first time all night that Harry's heard his voice waver like that.

“Okay,” Jordan says, then bows his head to Sirius. “Lord Black.”

Sirius nods his head to him, watching as Jordan leads Theo out of the tent.

“Okay, that's enough excitement for one night,” Mr. Weasley says, hands on his hips. “Everyone, off to bed. Girls, will you be okay in your own tent for the night?”

“Yeah, we will be,” Hermione says, though she's clutching tight to Ginny's arm.

“Alright, let me walk you over,” Mr. Weasley heaves a sigh.

“Harry, Draco, come,” Remus instructs. “You can stay in our tent for the night, Draco. We'll head back to the Burrow early in the morning and owl your parents from there, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Draco slumps against Harry, who's already waiting with open arms to support the boy.

“Come on, I'll carry you,” Harry says. He presses the gem on the handle of Draco's crutch, catching it when it transfigures into a hair clip once more. Draco's other hair clip is already in his hair. Draco doesn't protest being hauled onto Harry's back, and as they get into Harry's room in the tent and settle into the bed, Harry imagines that if they keep getting into situations like these, Draco will be spending a lot of time clutched to his back like a baby dragon.

Chapter Text

Draco's parents show up to the Burrow the morning after they arrive back at the Burrow. Harry doesn't see them come in, as he's watching a game of Wizard's Chess between Draco and Bill, but he hears them. How could he not, when the force of Sirius' magic shakes nearly the whole house as he slams Mr. Malfoy against the nearest wall?

Harry and the others rush into the kitchen to see Sirius shoving Mr. Malfoy against the wall, Sirius' arm pressed against Mr. Malfoy's throat. Harry hears Draco let out a little whimper at the sight.

“And where the fuck were you, huh!?” Sirius snarls. “Were you out there wearing one of those bone masks!? I fucking warned you that if you did anything to break the trust I've put in you, I would kill you, Malfoy.”

“Sirius!” Mrs. Malfoy yells. Harry hadn't even realized she was there, but he watches as she yanks her cousin off of her husband. “We had no choice!”

“No fucking chocie!?” Sirius asks, exasperated.

“She is right, Black,” Mr. Malfoy says as he rubs at his bruising neck. “They were doubting our… loyalty.” He spits the word out like venom. “If we had not joined, they would have targeted us, and I'd rather my son not return to his school with a giant “Kill me right now” sign on his back, especially with the… nature of Hogwarts this year.”

Remus grabs Sirius' arm, pulling him back more. “My love, calm down.”

“Remus, you're not seriously excusing this crap, are you?”

“Of course not, but if you were in their situation, would you not do everything you could to protect Harry?” Remus asks calmly.

Sirius scowls, then looks over at Harry. The expression on his face melts away into understanding. The man sighs. “Okay, fine,” he says. “Malfoy, you live to see another day after all.”

“Why thank you,” Mr. Malfoy replies dryly, then he begins to approach the group gathered in the doorway. “Draco, come, let's–”

Mr. Malfoy freezes.

Harry turns and sees that Draco has taken several steps backwards. The blond's hand is grasped to Bill's arm, who's standing somewhat protectively in front of the Slytherin. It catches up to Harry, suddenly, what Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had been doing the other night. Those Muggles floating above the ground and Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had been one of the masked figures below them, laughing and jeering as they twisted their bodies for their own amusement.

Oh.

“I think it's best you leave,” Sirius whispers, voice suddenly soft as he talks to Mr. Malfoy, who looks as if his entire world has crumbled down around him. “Remus and I'll take him for the rest of summer, just… go home.”

Mrs. Malfoy looks like she's about to start crying, but she nods her head and grabs her husband's hand. Together, the two of them walk out of the Burrow.

“Draco, are you okay?” Harry asks, turning completely to look at the boy.

“Fine, I'm fine,” he rasps, then he looks up at Sirius and Remus. “Did you mean that? That you'll take me for the rest of the summer? I–I don't want to intrude–”

“You're not intruding,” Sirius says earnestly. “You're family.”

Later, before they're supposed to go back home, Harry pulls Draco, Ron, and Hermione up to Ron's room on the top floor.

“What's wrong, Harry?” Hermione asks when he closes Ron's door behind them.

“I have to tell you guys something,” Harry says. He explains to them what he could remember from his dream—which isn't much of anything now. He only knows what he wrote down in his journal—and tells them about his scar hurting. “The last time my scar hurt, it was in first year and it was because Voldemort was near. Now, I'm sure Voldemort wasn't on the island, but it's weird, isn't it? I get some weird vision or whatever of Voldemort and Wormtail, and three days later, Death Eaters attack the Quidditch World Cup. I mean, the two of them were planning to kill… someone.”

Harry holds back from saying “me,” but he thinks his three best friends all understand where his train of thought had been heading.

“You're sure it wasn't a dream?” Ron asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Even Sirius and Remus agreed that it was some sort of vision. Then Sirius was asking your brother about curses and stuff… What if Voldemort's killing curse blasting back on him affected me more than we thought? It's not exactly like I was taken anywhere where I could be checked up on. I was brought to the Dursleys immediately after my parents died.”

“If you're worried, have Bill check you out,” Ron says. “I know he's worked on humans before. He's one of the best out there, so if he doesn't find anything, I'd say you're in the clear.”

Harry sighs. He feels as if there's a weight falling from his shoulders now. He hadn't really realized how high-strung he was about the whole thing until he'd talked to his friends about it.

“Harry, I'm sure Sirius has it figured out,” Hermione says, placing her hand on top of his, “and if he doesn't have it figured out right now, he will.”

“Thanks, Hermione, that actually kind of helps,” Harry says with a grin.

The four of them leave an hour later, the sun just peeking below the horizon, the full moon coming up from the other end.

“Alright, Harry, we're about to leave,” Sirius tells him. It'll only be Harry's second full moon since they moved into the house. Harry's surprised to see Sirius holding a stack of books. “I want you to read through some of these. Day after tomorrow, we're taking a trip to Diagon Alley. We'd go tomorrow, but, well…” Sirius casts a glance to Remus, who's leaning all his weight against the wall by the front door.

“What are these?” Harry asks, taking the books from Sirius. He counts three of them.

“You missed out on a lot of stuff not growing up in the family you should have,” Sirius tells him, one of his hands clamped down on Harry's shoulder. “One of those things, I realized the other night, was a distinct lack of education on your place in the Wizarding World.”

Harry looks down at the books, reading the titles.

Inheritance Magic Explained

History of the Wizengamot

Wixen Tradition and Customs

Harry recognizes the first book, having seen it more than a fair few times in the hands of Hogwarts students.

“Read the second one first,” Sirius says, pointing to History of the Wizengamot. “At the very least, ask Draco what the important bits are that you need to read.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry sets the books down on the nearest table and then crosses over to Remus, who's looking wearier and wearier with each passing minute. “Stay safe out there, okay?” He knows that Snape is still brewing the wolfsbane potion for Remus and is still not charging for it. Harry had heard Sirius arguing with Remus about it a few nights after the July full moon, about how they had enough money to pay Snape for a few lifetime's worth of supplies of wolfsbane. Sirius then went on to say that he couldn't believe he was being so adamant about thanking Severus Snape, but that the Potions Master should still allow them to pay.

“Of course, cub,” Remus ruffles Harry's hair, and maybe he holds him tighter than most days, but Harry won't begrudge him for it. “Don't go burning the house down, alright?”

Harry grins as he pulls away. “No promises,” he says.

Sirius plants a kiss on Harry's forehead before leaving the house with Remus. Once they've apparated away, Harry closes the curtains on the window and then goes to the living room, grabbing the books on the way.

“Hey Draco, Sirius gave me these books before he left. Said you could answer any questions. Any clue what they mean?” Harry sits at the coffee table next to Sirius, his back against the couch.

Draco takes one look at the books, then cheers, “YES!”

“Woah,” Harry laughs. “Gonna clue me in on what that's for?”

“He's getting you ready!” Draco says, grabbing for the History of the Wizengamot and flipping open the pages.

“For what?” Harry asks as he watches Draco eagerly flip through the many pages of the book.

“For when you turn seventeen, obviously,” Draco rolls his eyes dramatically. “You didn't get the education you should have about your place in the Wizarding World.”

“That's exactly what Sirius says,” Harry snorts. “He also said we're going to Diagon Alley day after tomorrow.”

“He'll probably take you to Gringotts, have the Goblins do a line test on you,” Draco says. “A line test will reveal what Houses you have a say for. There's the Potter line, obviously, and likely the Black line, too. It's not in mine, at least, and I'm the only kid any of the Black's have had lately. Sirius probably did something to ensure it would pass to you when he was named your godfather, especially considering that he was never magically disinherited. I'm not sure what other blood will be in the Potter line, but I doubt it's much, considering how they married with their name kept. No ancient house would let their heir marry someone from the Potter family. For example, if they were still a respectable family, Ginny Weasley, or even Ron or the twins could marry you, but Bill nor Charlie Weasley could. Probably not Percy Weasley either, just in case complications arose within the first two heirs.”

“What do you mean, 'respectable family'?” Harry asks, making a face at the choice of words.

“A lot of people don't like how Muggle oriented and obsessed the Weasley family has become in the last few decades,” Draco says absentmindedly. “Well, not Muggle obsessed, per se, but very vocal about Muggleborn rights and stuff like that. Even without that whole thing, though, I'm not sure Arthur Weasley would let his two eldest marry you anyway, considering they're the only heirs he has.”

“Well, lucky for him, I'm not planning on marrying any of the Weasleys,” Harry says.

Draco looks up at him, a faint blush on his cheeks. “Right, yeah, no, sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm not sure what other family magicks you'd be heir to other than Potter and Black. Oh, there's Slytherin, isn't there?”

“I'm not sure if I actually count as the Heir of Slytherin,” Harry says. “Like, blood wise and everything. Salazar hadn't meant it as someone who actually held his blood, just as a powerful Parselmouth that would work with Shakreh and the other snakes he'd put up to protect his house. I don't think I actually count as his heir by blood.”

“A line test will figure that out,” Draco murmurs. “Ah! Here it is!” Draco twists the book over to show to Harry. The title on the page reads 'Wizengamot Families' and beneath it are a long list of surnames, all in alphabetical order. “Recognize any of them?” Draco asks. Looking it over, Harry realizes that he does, indeed, recognize them. Nearly all of them, actually. There's Abbott, Bones, Bulstrode, Greengrass, Longbottom, Malfoy, Nott, Parkinson, Pucey, Spinnet, Warrington, Weasley, Zabini, to name a few. All names belonging to people he knows at school.

“Families try to have their heirs at around the same time,” Draco says, “so that we go to school with each other and can form bonds in the early years. Making friends is an important thing to do, after all. It doesn't always work, like with the Nott's. His heir, Noah Nott, is about ten or so years older than us. Went to school with Bill Weasley. Still another heir, but the Weasley's are outliers here, too.”

“What does it even mean to hold a Wizengamot seat?” Harry asks.

“Well… okay, when Sirius had his trial two months ago, he was put on trial in front of the Wizengamot. They heard his story, his side of things, and they listened to witness reports, read the reports given to them by us, Ron, and Hermione, allowed him and his lawyer to argue his case, and then they took a vote on whether or not they should free him, basically. There's 50 seats; 50 families. Now, of course, some Lords and Ladies hold more than just one seat. My father, for example, holds… seven seats, at the moment. Malfoy, Lestrange, Rosier, Rowle, Travers, Yaxley, and Mulciber. He holds the Malfoy by blood, but not the others. No, he holds them by proxy, because they don't have heirs at the moment. A lot of them, ah… died in the war and gave their seats to my father. Sirius claims the Black seat, but the Potter one by proxy as well, since you're his godson.”

Harry nods his head, remembering being dragged into the Ministry a few weeks ago to sign a paper giving his permission to take the Potter seats. He wonders if he'll have to sign more seats over to Sirius, if the line test reveals more houses for him to hold.

“So what, they just vote all day long?” Harry asks, entirely unimpressed.

“Yes,” Draco answers. Harry's thankful he doesn't try to make it seem like some sort of fun, exciting thing that you get to do. “It's awfully boring. Father was once gone for a whole two days because they dragged some boring case on for as long as they could. They vote on laws, too, though, and all that stuff. The Minister runs the Ministry of Magic, yeah, but the Wizengamot is there to keep whoever the Minister is in check. You need at least 26 votes for anything to pass.”

“Wait, Mr. Weasley's on the Wizengamot?” Harry asks, mind going back to that piece of information.

“Yeah, but I think he proxied his seats to Dumbledore,” Draco says. “Bill Weasley, his oldest, is heir to the Prewett line, Molly Weasley's family. Charlie Weasley is heir to the Weasley line. Don't ask me why his oldest isn't the Weasley heir. Family magic is tricky. We might never be able to fully understand it. For example, Cassius Warrington, he's heir to the Warrington line, but he has an older brother. For whatever reason, the family magic decided to skip over him for heir. He still has the family magic, he's just not the heir.”

“What happened to his older brother?” Harry finds himself asking.

“Last I heard, he's living with one of his Aunts in the Americas,” Draco shrugs his shoulders. “What was I talking about? Right, Wizengamot seats. There's 50. No, wait, I lied. There's 52. The family seats, the Chief Warlock, and the Minister. The Chief Warlock, if they hold any seats, has to proxy them to someone or hand it over to their heir. The Chief Warlock is elected by the general public, and the Minister, well, that's the Minister.”

“What about if the Minster holds seats?”

“The Minister can keep any seats they hold,” Draco says.

“What was that thing Adrian did with Charlie and Bill?” Harry asks suddenly. He stands up, trying to mimic how the three of them had held their hands: open-palmed, face forward, at their sides.

“Oh, that!” Draco springs up. He copies the motion, then bows his head, saying, “Well met, Heir Potter,” along the way. “It's a way of formal greeting. If you were greeting my father, for example, you would do the same thing and say, 'Well met, Lord Malfoy'. You hold your hands open and with your palms facing out to prove you are unarmed, and you keep them at your sides so it doesn't look like you're reaching for anything.”

Harry belatedly follows Draco's movements, jerkily nodding his head to the boy as he says, “Well met, Heir Malfoy.”

Draco giggles, then steps forward and readjusts his hands so they're facing out more and not just plastered completely against his sleep shorts. He also lifts his head up a bit. “You don't need to bow your head down so deeply. It's a show of respect, not a greeting of a royal.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” Harry feels his face heat up, though he's thankful his skin is too dark with the summer sun to be noticeable.

“Okay, try again,” Draco instructs.

Harry does as told, and this time, Draco grins and claps his hands together. “Perfect!”

Harry grins and sits back down, looking back to the still open book. “Hey, does that say Lupin?” he asks, pointing at the surname among the 50 Wizengamot families.

“Yeah, but he can't take it,” Draco says as he sits back down as well. “Sirius is holding proxy on that, too, I believe.”

“Why can't he take it?”

“He's a werewolf,” Draco says simply. “They would never let him on the Wizengamot with the state it's in at the moment.”

“Could we change that?” Harry asks. “Could we change all the laws on werewolves? Well, not all of them, but we could at least change the ones that classify them as dangerous, dark creatures?”

Draco grins over at him. “Oh, Susan'll love you.”

“Susan Bones? The Hufflepuff?” Harry tries to recall any interactions he's had with the girl, but they're not much. A few requests for quills and inks in class, a few almost falls in the hall as they're rushing to classes, but he's never actually held a genuine conversation with her.

“When we get back to school, we have to meet up with the other heirs,” Draco says. “Formally introduce you to them, for one, but since we'll all turn of-age around the same times, we should start working together. Oh, maybe we can start a study group.”

Harry laughs lightly. “A study group wouldn't be a bad idea.”

“Great!” Draco grins, then turns back to the books. He pushes the Wizengamot book away from them, grabbing 'Inheritance Magic Explained' instead. Harry notices, suddenly, that his hands are shaking. Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs Draco's pale hand. The boy flinches, but he doesn't pull away.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks softly.

Draco looks away, though he's still shaking like mad.

“I–I just… how could they do that, Harry?” he asks in a wobbly voice. “Go out there and… and do those things to those Muggles? To all those people? I know that–that nobody died, but people were injured and I think I'll have nightmares for a while, seeing that little Muggle boy in the air. Twisting until he went limp. Then they claimed they did it to keep me safe, as if that makes me feel any better. They went out and terrorized people!”

Draco breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling as he pants.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to dump all of that on you,” Draco sighs.

“Don't apologize for telling me things, Draco,” Harry says. “If I'm not allowed to feel bad for telling you what I'm feeling, you're not allowed to feel bad for telling me what you're feeling. You're allowed to feel angry at them, Draco.”

“I know that, but… but they're my parents, y'know? I love them, and I know they love me.”

“That doesn't excuse them from doing bad things.”

Draco sighs again, then drops his head on Harry's shoulder. “Yeah, I know,” he mumbles.

—

Remus sleeps most of the next day. When he does come down, it's to pancakes, eggs, grits, sausage, and all sorts of other breakfast foods. Monday morning, the four of them wake up and get ready for a day in Diagon Alley.

“We'll get your school supplies too,” Sirius says as they walk to the edge of their wards.

“Wait, mine too?” Draco asks. “I–I don't have any money, and I don't have any Gringotts keys.”

“Don't worry, we're pulling money from the Black vaults,” Sirius says, waving his hand absentmindedly.

“But I'm–”

“I have my own–”

Harry and Draco both blush when they start speaking at the same time.

Sirius laughs, one hand on his hip and the other still looped through Remus' arm. “Draco, you're a Black by blood, you have the right to those vaults as much as I do. Harry, you're my godson and my heir, you have more of a right than Draco. Besides, I don't want to visit more vaults than we need too. We'll get the money from the Black vault and that is final.”

“Don't try to argue with him,” Remus sighs, “it's pointless. Sirius is going to side-along us one at a time to the apparition lines in Diagon. We're going to Gringotts first to do a line test for you, Harry, and then we'll go get your school supplies and anything else that you may need.”

“Why do we need to do a line test?” Harry asks. “We already know I'm heir to the Potter and Black line.”

“It's for confirmation,” Sirius begins, “and to see if you're heir to any other lines. Me, I'm heir to the Black line and the Burke line. I shouldn't be, but the Burke's are all mostly dead and unless there's an illegitimate heir out there, the seat and their vaults and everything about them are mine. A lot of people, a lot of families, died during the war and with how many families have joined the Potter line, you could be their heir.”

“What happens if I am?” Harry asks.

“First off, you'd proxy your Wizengamot seats to me. That's only if you want to, of course. There's also their vaults. You've got old blood and old money in you, Harry, and with the Potter vaults alone, you could live jobless and only eating takeout for several lifetimes. You'd be gaining more money and heirlooms. Especially heirlooms. Heirlooms are great. I love heirlooms. Okay, Moons, come here, we're past the wards.”

Sirius pulls Remus close to his body, and with a crack! he disappears. Sirius reappears a moment later, taking Draco this time, and then comes back once more to apparate Harry and himself to Diagon. Remus and Draco are leaning against the nearest wall, both leaning on their respective mobility aids.

“Alright! To Gringotts!” Sirius exclaims, ignoring the stares their group is receiving. Harry's used to being stared at by now, but he finds at least a little comfort in the fact that it's not solely because of him that they're being stared at. Sirius gets stares because of who he is; Remus gets stares because nearly everyone knows he's a werewolf by now; Draco gets stares because, well, he's the Malfoy heir.

The Alley, thankfully, isn't that crowded on a Monday morning, so the four of them get to Gringotts fairly quickly. Sirius walks them right up to the Head Goblin's desk. “Saa, Unroir. I hope you gold flows well today.”

The goblin grins down at him.

“Saa'atcha, Lord Black,” Unroir says.

“I have an appointment for my godson to do a line test and a magic scan,” Sirius says.

“Yes, of course,” Unroir climbs down from his desk. “Follow me.” Unroir leads them down one of the hallways to the right and through a tall brown door. The room is mostly bare, more similar to a cave than an office of any kind. There's a single chair in the middle of the room and a table left of the door, but that's it.

Unroir walks Harry to the chair. “Mister Potter, if you would sit,” he says, motioning a hand to the chair.

Harry sits down. Nobody else is in the room with him. He hadn't even noticed that Sirius, Remus and Draco hadn't gone through the door with him and Unroir.

“Mister Potter,” Unroir says, snapping Harry's attention back to him, “do you consent to a magic scan?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes, sorry, yes, I consent,” Harry stammers.

“Do you consent to a line test?” Unroir continues.

“Yes, I consent.”

It seems to be enough, as Unroir nods his head.

“This won't hurt,” Unroir says as he raises his hands. “You may feel a little strange, but when my magic comes over you, do not push it away. Let me do my thing; you just need to sit there.”

“Okay,” Harry says with a nod of his head, then he closes his eyes.

A moment later, he feels something washing over him, like the water on him before he dries himself after a shower. The feeling—Unroir's magic, no doubt—is warm, if a little foreign. He knows it's not going to hurt him, though, so Harry doesn't make any move to push it off of him.

The feeling goes away after a moment, and when Harry opens his eyes, Unroir is looking down at a parchment that wasn't there a moment ago. His facial expression is undecipherable, and before Harry can put any effort into figuring it out, it's gone. Unroir folds up the parchment and places it in the pocket of his pants, and then goes over to the table. He pulls open one of the drawers and takes out a blank parchment and a needle, then goes back to Harry.

“Your pointer finger on your right hand, Mister Potter,” Unroir instructs, holding the parchment and needle out. Unsure what's about to happen, Harry holds out his pointer finger. Unroir doesn't bother warning him when he pricks the needle on the digit of his finger.

“Ow! Motherfucker!” Harry yells, yanking his hand away. Some of the blood has already landed on the parchment, though. Unroir rolls his eyes—the bastard—and mutters something in a different language over the parchment. Almost immediately, blood red words begin to form on the parchment. Seconds later, the red bleeds away and the words are black.

“Hmm, you have high blood in you, Mister Potter,” Unroir says, handing the parchment over.

HARRY JAMES POTTER

– The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

– The Cunning and Most Ancient House of Slytherin

– The Hallowed and Most Ancient House of Peverell

– The Affable and Most Ancient House of Fleamont

– The Fearless and Most Olde House of Potter

– The Unyielding and Most Olde House of Gaunt

“These are the houses I'm heir to?” Harry asks, shocked.

“Yes,” Unroir answers.

“Why do Potter and Gaunt say 'Olde' but the others say 'Ancient'?” Harry asks, unable to tamp down his curiosity.

“The House of Potter and the House of Gaunt are of the older lines,” Unroir says. “The much older lines.”

“How… how old, exactly?” Harry asks, mouth suddenly dry.

“Over 2000 years,” Unroir responds, “and that is only what the general public knows. It is possible that the Potters and Gaunts can trace their line back further and have simply decided not to share that news with the public, which is well within their right.”

“I recognize these names of these names, but who are the Peverell's?”

“An older house dating back to the early Middle Ages. They're more of a… lesser known house, despite the infamy they come from.”

“The infamy?”

“Ay, old stories,” Unroir waves his hand dismissively. “Myths people don't even believe today. Let's go to your godfather, hm?”

Harry recognizes a topic change when he sees one, but he doesn't pressure it. Instead, he clutches the paper tight to his chest and follows Unroir out of the room. Sirius, Remus, and Draco are waiting for him right outside, and all three of them perk up when he emerges behind Unroir.

“So?” Sirius asks.

Harry holds out the parchment for them to read.

“Slytherin house? That's my boy!” Sirius raises his hand for Harry to clap, and Harry does, although a little stunted. “I mean, Gryffindor would be preferable–”

“Sirius–”

“–but Slytherin is great! Remember what I said about heirlooms? They have so many. I'm not sure where you would have crossed with them, though. They should have family trees somewhere in their heirloom vaults, so we can study those if you'd like. At a later date, though, as we must go school shopping now. Remus, go with them to Flourish and Blotts, I'll catch right up with you.”

Sirius speaks at a mile a minute, and it's a miracle that Harry processes any of what he just said.

“Yes, let's,” Remus says. “Flourish and Blotts shouldn't be too busy at this hour, and I need some of my own books to grab anyway.”

Harry turns back to look at Sirius and Unroir as they walk away. Sirius is crouched down, and Unroir is holding out the parchment from earlier, that undecipherable expression on his face again. Sirius looks as if he's receiving bad news, but then they turn the corner and the two of them are out of sight.

Like Remus had said, Flourish and Blotts isn't that busy. They find their school books fairly quickly, and as Remus is putting the books he needs in their basket, Sirius shows up again. He looks a little wearier than normal, but he's otherwise chipper and he's holding an endless pouch of money.

They pay for the books and move on to buying some extra school supplies. Sirius continues to drop their new stuff in an endless bag. Once they're done with school supplies, Sirius leads them to High Street, where the more expensive shops are.

“What are we doing here?” Harry asks.

“Part of your school list is dress robes,” Remus tells him.

“What do we need dress robes for?”

“Is this for that thing Percy was talking about at the Weasley's the night before the cup?”

“Wait, you don't know?” Draco asks.

“Wait, you do?” Harry fires back.

“My parents told me immediately,” Draco shrugs. “I'm not supposed to know, though.”

“Yes, well, we figured it was best left a surprise,” Sirius says as he steers them into Twilfitt and Tattings. “Alright, one of the workers will measure you and then direct you to the appropriate dress robes.”

Much like before the Yule party the Malfoy's hosted in his second year, one of the workers—who introduces herself as Nora Maybury—ushers Draco and Harry onto separate pedestals for her to measure them on. Once their measurements are done, Maybury directs them both to separate selections for them. Sirius and Remus, like the good guardians they are, buffer between the two boys and give them advice on their dress robes.

Eventually, Harry decides on a phthalo green set of dress robes with gold accents, and he swears that Sirius is tearing up at the sight of him.

“What?” Harry asks when Sirius continues to stare at him with that sort of wide-eyed expression on his face.

“You look so much like Jamie,” Sirius says with a wet laugh. He stands up and pulls Harry into a hug, then pulls away a few moments later, his hands still on Harry's shoulders. “I'm proud of you, Harry. I'm proud of you for just being here, understand? James and Lily would be proud of you.”

“Even though I'm a Slytherin?” Harry asks. He doesn't mean to voice that small insecurity, but he's been wondering for a few months now what Sirius thinks of the whole thing.

“Hey, come on,” Sirius gently holds Harry's face between his hands, and he's smiling the most blinding smile. “You're their son. Above all else, you are their son and they love you. They would be so proud of everything that you have done and overcome, I swear upon it, Harry.”

“And what about you?” Harry whispers in a terrified sort of voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you… okay with me?” Harry's voice grows quiet. “Despite me being a Slytherin and…” He finds himself choking on the words, but he has to say them. “And a Parselmouth?”

“I love you,” Sirius says suddenly; Harry's head snaps up, his cheeks still held by Sirius' warm hands. “Harry James Potter, you are my godson and I love you. I am proud of you. That is all that matters. Who gives a flying fuck if you're a Slytherin or a Parselmouth? I come from a family of Slytherin's, and sure, most of them are shitty people, but more than a few of them aren't. My cousin Andromeda was a Slytherin, and she married a Muggleborn. Cissy was a Slytherin, and look at her now. Yeah, she's made mistakes, but she's made up for them in the ways that she can. My Uncle Alphard, he was a Slytherin and he left all his money to me when he died. Hell, Dorea Black, my Great Aunt, was a Slytherin and she married a Potter and fought for muggle reform alongside her husband. She wasn't even disinherited because she was connected to the Potter line and nobody could touch her then.

“Harry, what I'm saying is that I love you and I am proud of you and I don't give a damn about Hogwarts houses or abilities you find yourself with. What I care about is whether you are safe and happy and loved.”

“I am,” Harry says. “I mean, I–I am those things. Safe and happy and loved.” He leaves out the “by you” part of that sentence, but he thinks it's implied.

“I love you,” Sirius repeats as he pulls him into another hug. “You don't have to say it back right now. Or ever, if that's how you are, but I need you to know that I love you, prongslet.”

Harry can't be blamed for the tears springing in his eyes.

“Come on, Padfoot, you're gonna make me cry all over my robes,” he says with a wet laugh.

Sirius laughs heartily and pulls away, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder. “Alright, get changed out of this and ask Maybury to bag it up. I'm gonna go see if Moony's helped Draco's indecisive mind at all.”

Harry perhaps spends longer than needed in the dressing room, but he really needs a minute to calm himself down. Only once he's sure he's not about to break down sobbing does he change out of his dress robes and back into his day clothes. He finds Maybury pursuing one of the racks for female dresses and asks her to help him bag the robes he's picked out, which she does happily. When he finally gets over to where Draco's trying on dress robes, Sirius and Remus are sitting on one of the cuddle chairs right outside his room, Sirius nearly all the way in Remus' lap.

“Okay, okay, I–I think this is the one!” Draco calls from behind the door.

When he walks out, Harry feels all breath leave him at once.

Draco is wearing ice blue robes that have swirling stars and constellations all over it in shimmering white, like flakes of snow on an icy lake. The robe opens over a well-fitting white shirt; the white undershirt has chiffon ruffles at the wrists that go perfectly to the end of the sleeves of the robe.

“I like this one,” Draco says, doing a spin. As he does so, the constellations shimmer like morning snow. “Oh, I really like this one.”

“You'll be going with constellations, too,” Sirius says with a grin. “Very Black of you, Dragon.”

“Oh, why thank you.” Draco bows flourishly; he looks up a few seconds later. “What do you think, Harry?”

“It–It looks beautiful. I mean, it looks great. On you, it… it looks great,” Harry stammers.

He thinks he's being repetitive, but can someone please kill him already? Or just use magic to cut out his vocal chords seeing as he doesn't ever use them to say anything coherent.

Draco smiles, then disappears back into the dressing room with a dramatic turn. He reemerges a few moments later back in his normal clothes with his dress robes over one arm. They find Maybury again, who happily helps to put Draco's robes in a bag. After paying, they head back to the apparition point, all thoroughly done with shopping for the day.

Chapter Text

Summer ends quickly and without any flourish. Harry wakes up on July 31st and realizes with a groan that he has to board the Hogwarts express tomorrow morning. He almost falls back asleep, but then Draco barges into his room holding his Nimbus Two Thousand and One and is telling him that they have to go out and fly one last time before they're constricted by school access once more.

Sirius and Remus cook dinner (mostly Sirius, since Remus can't cook very well) for them, a delicious spread of cassoulet, palak paneer, and lasagna. Three very different foods but all delicious nonetheless. Harry goes to sleep on a full stomach, and the next morning, the four of them wake up at 9, get ready, and then leave the house by 10:30.

Draco and Harry find an empty compartment quickly, and twenty minutes later, Ron and Hermione find them. Harry smiles as he looks around at his three best friends. He remembers back in first year when they used to sneak to the library nook at all hours of the day and communicate in coded messages in classes and hallways just so they could hang out. All of that nervous sneaking around went out the window the moment Harry exploded the ceiling above Quirrell's head, though, and he's kind of grateful for it.

The train ride is pretty boring. Well, as boring as a train full of unsupervised students can be, at least. Loads of their friends stop by throughout the ride, and when Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, and Ernie Macmillan stop by, Harry doesn't miss the conspirative look Susan shares with Draco.

Cody stops by a little after sunset, prefect badge pinned proudly to his robes. “Draco, Harry, glad to see you're both well,” Cody says with a grin. “I'm sure you know the routine by now?”

Surprisingly, it's Ron who stands up and lugs Harry and Draco's suitcases down. He props them in the space between the two benches and opens them facing Harry and Draco.

“Thanks,” Harry says.

Ron shrugs his shoulders, his long red hair moving around. He looks a lot like Bill, though Harry has to admit that he's sporting long hair as well.

(Maybe he looks like Sirius.)

Harry hands over his already bound books, Draco doing the same. Sirius had left a few days ago with Draco to go to Malfoy Manor and pack his school stuff, and when Draco returned, he looked suspiciously like he'd been crying. Harry didn't ask about it, though, and had fun making a nice French dish for him that night.

“Enjoy the ride, boys. Granger, Weasley.” Cody winks at them and then leaves, sliding the glass door behind him.

The Hogwarts train rolls to a stop a little while later, and the four of them wait until the crowd outside their compartment is small before climbing off the train and heading to the self-drawn carriages. It's a near monsoon outside, but Hermione's smart enough to conjure shields above them. They end up getting their own carriage, as most everyone else has already set off from the Hogsmeade station and to the school.

The Great Hall looks its usually splendid self, only decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets fill the four long tables that belong to the four houses of the school. There's hundreds of candles floating over the tables in midair. The four tables are already filled with chattering students, and at the top of the hall are the professors sitting at a fifth table, facing the students.

Harry and Draco say goodbye to Ron and Hermione upon entering the hall. The Slytherin and Gryffindor tables are the farthest away from each other, with Hufflepuff next to Slytherin and Ravenclaw on the other side, between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.

Theo doesn't look at him when they sit down. He's sitting with his chin in his hands as he twirls around the golden fork in his other hand.

“Where's the Defense professor?” Draco asks once they sit down with the other fourth years.

“They're not here yet,” Blaise says.

“Do you think Dumbledore got one on time?” Tracey asks from across the table.

“He had to have,” Daphne says.

Harry looks up at the staff table. There are, indeed, three empty seats. Hagrid is still battling across the lake with the first years and McGonagall is in the entrance hall drying off the students coming from the carriages. The only other empty seat is where the Defense professor should be.

“Can they hurry up?” Millicent groans. “I'm starving.”

No sooner are the words out of her mouth do the double doors to the Great Hall swing open. Professor McGonagall is leading a charge of first years between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. If Harry, Draco, Ron, and Hermione had been wet even with the shields Hermione conjured, then the first years are soaked. They look as if they'd swam across the lake instead of floating across in boats. All of them are shivering with a combination of cold and nerves.

When they get up to the front of the hall, Professor McGonagall places a four-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, weathered hat. Everyone in the hall stares at it. For a moment, nothing happens, and then a long tear near the brim of the hat opens wide like a mouth, and the hat breaks into song:

“A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own House, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favorites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!”

The Great Hall erupts into applause when the sorting hat finishes.

The sorting drags by slowly. Harry has to agree with Millie about being hungry. It finally ends when Kevin Whitby becomes a Hufflepuff.

Professor Dumbledore gets to his feet; he's smiling out at the hall. “I have only two words to say to you,” he tells them, his deep voice echoing about the hall. “Tuck in.”

The empty dishes fill magically before their eyes, and the students in the hall immediately begin to dig in.

“So, just to get it out of the way, how many of you were at the World Cup?” Draco asks once they're all a few bites into their food.

“I was,” Pansy frowns down at her food. “It was fine until my parents got into an argument and mum took me and the little ones back home. I think they might've been arguing about me, y'know… joining.”

A shock of ice runs itself down Harry's spine.

“Greg? Vince?” Draco asks, looking over to the two boys, who're both idly messing about with their food.

“We were in our tents the whole night,” Vince mumbles.

“Same here,” Millie says. “I woke up to the screaming. Josua stayed by the tent flap nearly the whole time with his wand raised at it.”

Harry remembers Josua Bulstrode, their other beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team in his first year.

“Trace, how's your dad?” Draco asks. “I heard he got injured fighting one of the Death Eaters.”

“He was in St. Mungo's for a few days, but he's fine now,” Tracey shrugs her shoulders.

Harry looks around at his friends, more than a little shocked at how nonchalantly they're talking about Death Eaters and the attack and all of it. The conversation, though, moves on pretty quickly after that and soon they're talking about the upcoming school year. Harry's glad, at least, that while most of his friends know about the top secret thing the Ministry has going on, Tracey, Blaise, and Millie also have no idea. They spend most of dinner trying to pry it from their friends but all of them are being tight-lipped about it.

When the dessert has also been demolished and the plates are clean, Dumbledore stands up once more. The buzz of chatter filling the hall ceases all at once.

“So, now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it. As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

“What?” Harry hisses. He snaps his head to look further down the table at Cody, who's gone as white as a sheet. His hold on his goblet is dangerously tight. He's planning on going professional and he'd only been promoted to captain of the team last year. He only has this year and next year to prove that he's good, but if Quidditch isn't happening this year…

Draco, too, looks appalled, and Tracey's eye is twitching.

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts–”

But at that moment, there is a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall bang open.

A man stands in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, his body shrouded in a rain-black cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivels towards the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashes across the ceiling. He lowers his hood, shakes out a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair, then begins to walk towards the teachers table.

“No,” Blaise murmurs, suddenly looking very afraid.

A dull clunk echoes through the hall at his every other step. He reaches the end of the top table, turns right, and begins to limp heavily towards Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning erupts across the ceiling.

The lightning gives Harry a clear view of the man's face. There doesn't seem to be any skin that isn't scarred. His mouth looks like a diagonal gash and a large chunk of his nose seems to be missing. It's the man's eyes that make him look frightening, though. One of them is small, dark, and beady. The other is round, large like a coin and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye is moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and is rolling up, down, and from side to side—then it rolls over, pointing into the back of the man's head so that all they can see is the whiteness.

The man approaches Dumbledore and shakes the man's hand.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Dumbledore says brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.”

Nobody claps except for Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both stop pretty quickly when nobody joins them.

Harry notices a lot of angry faces at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables combined, though more are at the Slytherin table.

“What the hell is Mad-Eye Moody doing at Hogwarts?” Blaise hisses angrily. Daphne reaches out and grabs his arm; it's clearly meant to comfort him but Blaise only shrugs her off.

“What happened to his face?” Tracey asks at the same time Harry asks, “Who is he?”

“He's a former Auror,” Draco says, face twisted. “He was a bigshot during the war. He killed a bunch of Death Eaters. He got paranoid after it, though. Thought everybody was a dark wizard. Eventually, the Auror department had to force him into retirement to save face. As for his face, well… you don't fight a bunch of Death Eaters and come out unscathed.”

“What's your problem with him?” Tracey asks Blaise, who's still glaring at Moody.

“He's a fucking bastardo,” Blaise bites. “He sticks his nose where it doesn't fucking belong. Always showing up whenever my mom's newest husband dies. I hate him.”

Dumbledore clears his throat.

“As I was saying,” he says as he smiles at the sea of students before him, all of whom are still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“YOU'RE JOKING!” Fred yells all the way from the Gryffindor table.

The tension that had been in the hall since Moody's arrival breaks away. Nearly everyone laughs, and Dumbledore chuckles appreciatively.

“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley. Some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely. The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”

“Death toll?” Harry whispers, though his alarm doesn't seem to be shared by anyone else in the hall.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continues, “none of which have been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their shortlisted contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“Wicked,” Vince whispers, suddenly looking a lot better than he had at the beginning of the dinner.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he says, “the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years or older—will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This–” Dumbledore raises his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, “–is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Dumbledore sits down again and turns to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There's a great scraping and banging as all the students get to their feet and swarm towards the double doors into the entrance hall.

“Damn it, we can't enter?” Vince groans as he drags himself to his feet.

“As if you'd have a shot at winning,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, and you would?” Vince fires back.

“No. Which is why I never planned on putting my name in in the first place,” Draco shrugs as he, too, gets to his feet and begins to walk out of the hall.

“I need to have a talk with whoever the hell decided this was a good idea,” Cody says, suddenly slinking up to their group. Val, their other Slytherin beater, is right next to him. “Cancelling Quidditch! Oh, they're lucky they didn't do this last year! Oliver Wood would have rioted, for one, and Marcus would've been right next to him.

Harry remembers the Gryffindor Quidditch captain. Last he heard, Wood was playing reserve Keeper for Puddlemere, Ireland's national Quidditch team.

“Are you gonna put your name in?” Draco asks.

“I am,” Val says proudly. “I turn 17 in a few days. Oh, I'd love to get in and win. Show everyone what druid magic can do.”

“What about you, Cody?” Draco asks.

Cody shrugs. “I'm not sure. I turn 17 at the beginning of October, so I could put my name in, but I'm not a hundred percent sure about needlessly risking my life for eternal glory and a thousand galleons. I can get a thousand galleons from Gringotts easily and I don't even have to risk my wellbeing to do so.”

“Well we can't all be rich,” Val laughs. “Password is Caligula. Don't forget it, alright?” she tells them as they come up to the chimera statue.

“It would be great to enter,” Theo says, speaking for the first time. “Eternal glory and all that.”

“Better you guys than me,” Harry sighs. “I don't think I can deal with any more glory.”

Theo laughs quietly and smiles at Harry, who mirrors it right back.

When they get to their dorms, the boys all get changed into their pajamas pretty quickly, all tired from the long train ride and the dragged on feast. Harry grabs his three books wrapped on his pillow and goes to put them in his trunk; he sees his dormmates doing the same thing. Harry's about to close the trunk when his eyes catch sight on a handheld, silver mirror. Sirius had given it to him the other day, saying that he and his father had used it to communicate when they were out of school for the holidays and when they were in separate detentions.

Harry hides it under his arm and climbs into his bed. He bids goodnight to the others and then pulls the curtains on his bed shut, then casts a silencing charm around himself.

“Sirius Black,” he whispers while staring at the mirror.

A couple seconds later, Sirius' face shows up in the mirror.

“Hey, pup!” Sirius greets him with a bright smile. “I wasn't expecting a call so quickly. What's going on? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it's fine,” Harry nods his head, then goes into an explanation of what had all happened at dinner: his friends talking about the World Cup; Mad-Eye Moody; the Triwizard Tournament.

“Mad-Eye is your Defense professor this year?” Sirius gasps. “Hey! Remus! Remus! Get up here!”

Only a moment later, Remus' face shows up in the mirror squeezed next to Sirius.

“What is it? Is everything alright?” he asks urgently.

“Moody is the DADA professor this year,” Sirius says.

“What!?” Remus exclaims. “And they say that I'm dangerous! Mad-Eye is, well– there's a reason his nickname is 'Mad-Eye'! Harry, Moody is an extremely skilled fighter, but he is just that: A fighter. You must be careful around him. I don't know what Dumbledore is thinking, bringing him into a school.”

“His eye, too!” Sirius butts in. “His blue eye, the one that swirls, it's magic. It can see through anything; that means your invisibility cloak, Harry. Be careful when you're sneaking about the school—don't give me that look, I know very well that you are your father's son. Be careful, especially with this Triwizard Tournament. There will be a bunch of strangers in the school this year. Be careful who you talk to; especially the kids from Durmstrang. That school has a heavy emphasis on the Dark Arts.”

Harry bites down his frown. He still hadn't told Sirius about his dark affinity. Remus doesn't know either, though he does know about the dark spell he used last year in that fight with the older boys. Sirius has told him he loves him and that all he cares about is him being happy, but Harry can't help but wonder if that will change the moment he finds out about his dark affinity. He's a little grateful to Remus for not telling Sirius yet; at least, he doesn't think Remus has told Sirius. Harry imagines he'd know if Sirius knew.

“Yeah,” Harry says through the lump forming in his throat, “yeah, I'll be careful.”

“Good night, prongslet. I love you,” Sirius says with a smile, and Harry hates how it cuts at his heart like a blade on his marred skin.

“Love you too, Padfoot, Moony,” Harry murmurs. “Night.” Then he flips the mirror over and shoves it under his pillow. He's not surprised to turn and see Esa on his bedpost, Zar right with him.

“I see you two have met each other,” he hisses.

“It is lovely to see you, my kin,” Esa hisses back, “and I see that you have made a new friend, hm?”

“Esa, meet Zar. Zar, meet Esa.”

“You shall soon have an army of snakes, Harry,” Esa says with his familiar snake-like laugh.

“How are the hatchlings?”

“All healthy. Runeit hatched 9 babies. You'll have to come meet them soon. Shakreh has also missed you. She said that us normal snakes are boring compared to her master.”

“I'm not–”

“Trivial matters, my kin,” Esa interrupts. “So, tell me, what was your summer like? I have heard things.”

Harry grins and begins to explain, all tiredness out of his bones.

Chapter Text

Harry is never staying up so late again.

“No, no, we have Latin first thing?” Harry complains when Snape hands them their timetables. “Guys, I can't. I'm so tired.”

“Did you stay up late?” Pansy asks with a little smirk.

“Yes,” he moans. “I was catching Esa up on everything that happened this summer.” Harry gestures with his left arm that Esa is wrapped around over the sleeve of his uniform. “It was a bad idea. Now I'm exhausted.”

“Where's Zar?” Daphne asks.

“She said she was going to explore the castle today,” Harry shrugs, “but Esa wanted to keep me company.”

“You're gonna want to hide him before we go to Defense on Monday,” Draco says.

“Or don't and start speaking Parseltongue in front of Mad-Eye,” Blaise pipes up. “Please do that, it would be so funny.”

“N… no,” Harry stammers.

“It's not like he can whip out his wand and curse you in the middle of class,” Blaise says.

“You never know, he is insane,” Theo says.

“Potter,” Snape's voice startles Harry, who turns around to see the professor. He'd just finished handing out the first year timetables. Snape is staring down at Esa. “Refrain from taking your… pet to certain classes this year, understand?”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry says without thinking. Being polite to Snape is weird, but he figures that he should at least try after what Snape did for Sirius at his trial. His report of the night in the Shrieking Shack had, after all, meant a lot for Sirius, plus he is still making the wolfsbane potions for Remus even though he doesn't have to anymore.

Snape grunts and then continues along the side of the table and back to the top table.

“I hate starting school on a Friday,” Tracey moans. “Why does it always have to be September first that we get here?”

“To keep up a schedule, of course.”

“That was a rhetorical question, Parkinson.”

Pansy laughs and begins to rub soothing circles on Tracey's back as the girl continues to moan about how unfair life is for starting school so close to the weekend.

After their elective in the morning—Latin for Harry, Millie, and Tracey—they all meet up at the Transfiguration classroom, then head to lunch. After lunch they go straight to Charms with Hufflepuff and then Herbology with Ravenclaw.

Dinner is a raucous affair, with the school still buzzing about the Triwizard Tournament. After dinner, they all head to their common rooms, where Harry immediately goes to the dorm. He doesn't even notice Draco is behind him until he pulls out the Marauders Map and sees the little dot that indicates him right behind the little dot labeled 'Harry Potter'.

“Going somewhere?” he asks with a raised eyebrow when Harry turns around.

“Shut up, you know exactly where I'm going,” Harry says with a roll of his eyes. He shows the map to Draco, pointing at the two little dots labeled 'Ronald Weasley' and 'Hermione Granger' that are currently taking the Detention Hall entrance to the dungeons.

Draco grins down at it. “Think we can beat them there?” he asks.

Harry grins sharkishly.

—

They beat Hermione and Ron there. In fact, he and Draco stand there for fifteen minutes hunched over the Marauders Map, giggling and pointing at the lost little dots that are trying to find their way around the vast dungeons.

It's after Draco laughs really loudly that both dots freeze and then turn around, hurrying their way around Hieroglyphic Hall.

“Shut. Up,” Ron demands as he and Hermione jog up to Draco and Harry, who're sitting leaned against the cobblestone wall right by the familiar wooden door.

Draco takes one look at them and then immediately begins laughing again.

“If you two knew we were here, why didn't you come find us?” Hermione asks, staring down at the Marauders Map that Harry's is now folding up.

Harry shrugs, then says, “It was funnier to watch you.”

“That's it, this friendship is over,” Ron says as he grabs the handle of the door and twists it open.

“Oh, Ron, you wound me!” Harry gasps dramatically.

“Ah, it's so nice to be back!” Hermione spins in a circle in the middle of the room, her arms spread wide. “I missed this place.”

“Weird to admit it, but I missed this place too,” Ron says as he gravitates towards the left side of the room.

“I can't believe nobody else has ever found this room,” Draco says.

“Well, it's as the history books say, people stopped declaring for the light in the early 1100's,” Hermione says as she pulls one of the thicker white books from the shelves. The library shelves still hold her little sticky notes from the year prior. “Shakreh said you needed someone with a light and a dark affinity to get into the room.”

“Yeah, an affinity, not a declaration,” Draco says.

“Wait, back up,” Harry waves his hand. “Nobody's declared for the light in nearly 900 years?”

“Yup,” Hermione nods her head, “and I'm gonna be the first.”

“Excuse me?” Ron exclaims, turning sharply from the shelves he was looking over.

Harry crosses over to the round table across the room and sits next to Hermione. He doesn't touch the massive book she's set down, but he does peer over her shoulder at the pages she's furiously slipping through.

“I'm planning on doing an affinity rite the night of Mabon,” Hermione says. “I know Mabon is traditionally a darker holiday, but if I don't do it at least when the light is still active, I'll have to wait until the end of January when thaw starts to take place, and I don't want to wait that long. I refuse to. I found this circle I can do by myself to see if I have a light affinity.”

“We already know you have one,” Draco says. “You got into here, didn't you?”

“Yeah, but I need to be sure, don't I?” Hermione says. “You wouldn't let Harry declare before doing an affinity rite even though he got into here, would you?”

Draco thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. “No, I wouldn't.”

“Can I do it too?” Ron asks.

“Yeah, of course!” Hermione beams.

“Okay, Hermione, not that this isn't a great idea,” Harry starts, “but I don't think we should really broadcast to everyone that you and Ron have light affinities. That would be dangerous, wouldn't it be?”

“You guys go across the lake for it, right? Outside the Hogwarts wards so you can't be detected for any… ah, dark stuff that you do?” Hermione asks.

“Yeah, we do,” Draco says with a nod of his head.

“Great! I'm not going over there. No, we're doing this at the standing stones we pass on the way to Hagrid's hut.”

“Why there?” Ron asks.

“Those stone pillars have been there for centuries. Since before even the Founders got here. It's infused with ancient magic. I've consulted the book and from what I can tell, it would honestly be the best place to do our affinity rites. Nobody has a clear answer on what, exactly, the light and the dark are, but when we do this and when we do get confirmation we have light affinities, we'll feel it, and the light has been alone for nearly 900 years. The stones will absorb any… excess magic, I guess, that may come from our rite.”

“You mean the standing stones will stop your rites from leveling the school,” Draco deadpans.

“Pretty much,” Hermione shrugs, seeming entirely too nonchalant about the prospect of leveling Hogwarts. “The pillars are also a grey area within the wards; we won't be detected.”

“By Dumbledore, you mean,” Harry says in understanding.

Hermione's skin goes a little red. “I'm not saying he's untrustworthy or anything, far from it, I just mean that… Well, it's like you said, Harry, we shouldn't let anyone know about this, right?”

“It's a smart plan,” Draco says. “Are you sure we won't be detected in the circle?”

“We won't,” Hermione shakes her head.

“None of the Gryffindor's ever leave for this sort of thing,” Ron says. “The cyclical days, I mean. What if we try to leave and are stopped by a prefect or something?”

“Tell them you're going to the celebration,” Draco says. “Say you're going to see what it's about. Merlin, even cite Hermione Granger's incessant need to know everything about everything. I doubt a prefect would spread rumors about you two leaving to go celebrate, and if they do and people ask, just say you lied or something so you could get out of the common room for some alone time– AH!” Draco ducks, suddenly, out of the way of the quill Hermione's just tossed at him.

“'Alone time'?” Ron tilts his head. “What do you– oh. Ohhhhhh.” Harry watches as Ron's face goes as red as his hair. “Hermione and I– we wouldn't– I would never–”

“Oh, Ronald, shut up!” Hermione yells. “We'll just make sure not to get caught by anyone while we're leaving! Stop going red, Ron!”

Harry joins Draco in laughing at the expense of their two Gryffindor best friends once more.

—

The Slytherin's finally have Defense Against the Dark Arts Monday afternoon. Draco and Harry go right to the front of the class and take the seats at the middle table. Blaise and Daphne sit at the table to their left and Theo and Millie sit at the table to their right. Harry takes out his copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and sits and waits; the class is unusually quiet.

Soon they hear Moody's familiar clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and then he enters through the door, looking as strange and frightening as ever. He goes around to his desk at the front of the room. “You can put those books away,” he grunts. “You won't be needing them.”

Moody takes out a register and begins to call out names. He doesn't pause at all when he gets to Harry's name, which Harry is grateful for. His real eye stays fixed on the parchment but his magical one swivels around and lands on each student as they answer to their name.

“Right then,” he says when the last person declares themselves present, “I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures—you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”

There's a general murmur of assent.

“But you're behind—very behind—on dealing with curses. So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with dark curses.”

“You're not staying?” Greg asks from the table being Harry and Draco.

Both of Moody's eyes fix on Greg, though the magical one stays there for only a moment before it swirls around again.

“I am staying just one year. Favor to Dumbledore,” he grunts. “So—straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I'm supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal dark curses look like until you're in the sixth year. You're not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then, but Professor Dumbledore's got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you're up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've never seen? A wizard who's about to put an illegal curse on you isn't going to tell you what he's about to do. He's not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. So, do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by Wizarding law?” Moody asks.

Several tentative hands rise around the room.

“Ah, Miss Parkinson?” Moody calls.

“The Imperius curse,” she says, and Harry's heard of that one.

Moody gets to his feet and opens the drawer in his desk. He pulls out a large glass jar that has three black spiders scuttling around inside it.

Moody reaches into the jar and catches one of the spiders. He holds it in the palm of his hand for all of them to see, then raises his wand to it and casts, “Imperio!”

The spider leaps from Moody's hand and begins to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretches out its legs rigidly, then does a backflip, and lands on the desk, where it begins to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerks his wand, and the spider rises onto two of its hind legs and goes into what is unmistakably a tap dance.

Harry laughs a little nervously, as do some of the others, though there's no real amusement behind any of it.

“You can make someone do whatever you want with the Imperius Curse,” Moody tells them as he flings the spider over to an open window but stops it from going over the edge at the last minute. Moody then has it hover over a jug of water. “It's impossible to tell who's been under it, too. It gave the Ministry loads of trouble after the war was over. The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I'll be showing you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone's got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barks, and everyone jumps.

Moody picks up the somersaulting spider and throws it back into the jar.

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

Hands fly in the air again, but it's Theo who gets called on.

“The Cruciatus Curse, sir,” Theo says in a very quiet voice.

Moody peers down at him for a second, then turns back to the jars..

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Moody repeats as he takes out another spider. “Needs to be a bit larger in order for you to see. Engorgio!”

The spider swells; it is now larger than a tarantula. At the table over, Blaise pushes his chair out and away from Moody's desk.

Moody raises his wand again, points it at the spider, and mutters, “Crucio!”

At once, the spider's legs bend upon its body; it rolls over and begins to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound comes from it, but Harry is sure that if it was given a voice, it would be screaming. Moody does not remove his wand, and the spider begins to shudder and jerk more violently–

“Stop it!” Pansy suddenly screams.

Harry whips his head around to look at her: Her eyes are wide and her hands, which are atop the desk, are trembling.

Moody raises his wand, breaking the spell. The spider's legs relax, but it continues to twitch.

“Reducio,” he murmurs, and the spider shrinks back to its original size. Moody picks it up and deposits it back into the jar. “Right. Anyone know any others?”

Draco's hand is the only one that goes into the air this time.

“Mister Malfoy, yes?” Moody calls.

“Avada Kedavra,” Draco whispers.

“Ah,” Moody hums. “The last and the worst. Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse.”

He puts his hand into the glass jar; the final spider tries to scurry away, but Moody catches it in his hand and takes it out of the jar. When he sets it onto his wooden desktop, it starts to scurry away.

Moody raises his wand, and Harry is hit with this sudden sense of dread.

“Avada Kedavra!” Moody roars.

A flash of blinding green light comes from Moody's wand accompanied by a rushing sound, as though a hippogriff were soaring through the air—instantaneously the spider rolls onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead, and Harry feels as if he's going to throw up.

Harry feels as if all air has left him. Moody continues talking—he mentions that only one person has ever survived the Killing Curse, but Harry doesn't even have room to feel embarrassed about being singled out.

Harry stares at the dustbin Moody's just swept the spider into. Had that been how his parents died? Had they seen a flash of green light and then just been gone? They weren't even marked. Completely clean, just… dead. Harry thinks back to the dementors, to what he hears. He doesn't remember the night they died, but at the same time, simultaneously, he remembers it all too well.

The flash of green light and the way his mother sounded as she screamed and pleaded for Voldemort to spare her son. Not her. She didn't care about her life at that point. She had to have known that his father was dead; she had to have heard it. Had she seen it? Had she died thinking that Harry was next? Had his father died believing that his wife and son had gotten away?

With great effort, Harry pulls out a parchment and begins taking notes on the Unforgivables as Moody instructs.

He's not sure how he keeps it together for the next hour, but he does, and when the bell rings for them to leave, Harry is the first one out. He doesn't pay attention to where he's going, not caring as he shoves by other students.

He doesn't even notice he's being followed until he makes it to the Quidditch Pitch, which seems to have been where his legs had been forcing him to.

“Harry–”

Harry starts to sob the moment Draco says his name. He's glad that Draco had been the only one to follow him; he doesn't know what he'd do if it had been anyone else or if other people had followed. Harry collapses into Draco's chest. Draco is nice enough to allow Harry to do so, at least.

—

“You're what?”

“I'm starting a campaign,” Hermione says proudly. “S.P.E.W. Stands for Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. Now, I've been doing loads of research and asking Draco here loads of questions.”

Draco looks up from his spot at the palladian window. Harry feels like he hasn't been in the library nook for ages; they haven't had much use for it considering the fact that they stopped trying to hide their friendship in first year, but it's still a nice place to retreat to when they want to be alone together. It's this or the Founders library, and since neither Hermione nor Draco can step foot into there without immediately being drawn into research, the library nook it is.

“Elves have to be magically bound to a family to survive, right?” she says as she starts spreading out several books onto the round table. Ron groans and picks up the Divination work he'd been trying to work on. It seems he realizes it's a lost cause to do anything except listen to Hermione. “However, there is nothing saying that the family has to treat them well! Loads of people get away with abusing their elves because there's not an enforcement on treating them well! I plan to change that. My first order of business is to have people open their eyes and see how badly elves are treated!”

“Your first order of business should be to graduate,” Draco deadpans. “You can't really do anything as a fourth year, Hermione. You don't even have a Wizengamot seat, actually. You're a Muggleborn.”

“Yes, and I'm going to be the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic,” Hermione says proudly.

“You're planning to be first on a lot of things, 'Mione,” Ron says. “First person to declare for the light in 900 years, first person to fight for Elf rights, first Muggleborn to be Minister of Magic.”

“What can I say?” Hermione shrugs. “I have high dreams and every little bit of ambition to achieve them.”

“So, how does S.P.E.W. work?” Harry asks.

“I haven't worked out how to regulate proper treatment of elves just yet, which is why I'm telling you guys about this now,” Hermione says. “I'm the only member right now, but if you three join… I'll have four. I've worked very hard on this and it would mean the world to me if you three would join me on this. I just can't help but think about how Mr. Crouch treated his house elf, Winky, at the World Cup, and how awful it all was. You can't help but ask yourself how he must've treated her behind closed doors, you know?”

Harry stares, mouth gaping, at the girl, and he does not miss the little smirk that flits across her face when Ron and Draco both reach out and grab one of the fifty S.P.E.W. pins she's made.

“Oh, thank you both!” Hermione exclaims. “Harry, what about you?” Hermione turns pleading eyes on him, and still, Harry stares. He slowly reaches out and grabs one of the pins, putting it on the flap of his school bag. “Thank you, Harry!” she exclaims happily.

—

“I hate that bastard!”

Harry looks up sharply from the book he's reading. It was Daphne who'd just yelled.

“I walk out of that stupid lesson and he decides to assign me five feet of parchment on the effects of the Imperius Curse, how to fight it off, and all the other things to deal with it!?” Daphne throws one of her inkwells against the cobblestone wall of the common room. “He needs to go back to fucking retirement!”

Harry sees several other Slytherin's staring at the group of fourth years.

Daphne breathes and visibly composes herself. She walks over to the cobblestone and uses a spell to clean the spilled ink and shattered glass away. “I apologize for that outburst,” she says, then sits back down again next to Harry on the settee. “How are all of you feeling? I can't believe Dumbledore permitted him to put us under the Imperius Curse.”

“Harry was the only one able to throw it off,” Tracey says.

“Yeah, and I can still feel the effects,” Harry murmurs. His hand travels to his knees, which had been nearly shattered the first time Moody put him under the curse. It was disorienting watching his friends being forced to do things at Moody's behest, and it was even worse being under the curse.

“It's like I can still hear him,” Theo shudders. “I hate it.”

“The effects will wear off by dinnertime.” Blaise places his hand on Theo's shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I feel like my skin is going to fall off,” Theo mumbles.

“Lovely.”

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE – Hermione

Hermione's been waiting for this moment for months. She has collected everything she needs to collect—and instructed Ron to do the same—and it is finally time. It is September 22nd, the night of Mabon and the Autumn Equinox.

She and Ron successfully sneak out of Gryffindor tower, each of them holding their bags of essentials. Hermione had given Ron the list of what he needed and she hopes that he followed it well. She's sure that if he didn't he could use her stuff, but she also doesn't know how the light will react and what it may do to her conduits.

The two of them meet Draco and Harry at the bottom of the clocktower. Hermione had told them that they didn't have to go, but they'd insisted and Hermione couldn't deny them at that point. The two of them seem to be as excited as her and Ron about it, even though they're both of the dark.

The four of them tiptoe across the wooden bridge, Harry staying at the back and keeping an eye on the Marauders Map. The professors are all in their offices or personal quarters while a lot of students are going around the lake and disappearing off the edge of the map.

“I'm going to go first,” Hermione whispers once they step off the bridge. She's been past the standing stones loads of times—hell, just last year they were standing here when Crookshanks attacked Scabbers—but right now, Hermione feels this sort of pressure on her shoulders. Like the air around them is charged, like the magic knows what they're about to do. “You three need to stay out of the circle, okay? Harry, if you see anybody coming this way, you need to stop them. It would be dangerous to stop me while I'm in the middle of my circle, okay?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Harry nods his head.

Hermione smiles warmly at him. She knows you're not supposed to play favorites among your friends or anything, but while Ron and Draco are her best friends, she feels a certain connection to Harry. She's an only child, but when she's with Harry, she thinks that this is what it would feel like to have a sibling.

“Ron, you got your stuff, right?” Hermione asks.

Ron nods his head and pats his satchel. Hermione hears the sound of crystals clunking against each other inside of it.

“Good, good,” Hermione nods her head, then turns to Draco.

“Everything okay?” he asks slowly.

“Is this a bad idea?” she asks suddenly. It's pretty late to be having second thoughts, but she can't help it.

“Absolutely not,” Draco says immediately. “Hermione, this is your moment. You can't tell anyone about this just yet, but think about how great it'll be to tell the public that you, a Muggleborn witch, were the one to bring the light, the real, proper light that is, back.”

Hermione smiles at him. Draco always knows what to say; it's the Slytherin in him.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Of course,” Draco grins. “Now go, go. Do your thing and be amazing.”

Hermione squeals excitedly and then crosses the threshold of the stone circle. She can feel the magic in the grass beneath her and in the air surrounding her. Hermione goes to the middle of the circle and crouches down, setting her satchel there. She breathes deeply, collecting the magic around her in her lungs and then lets it out, breathing it once more into the air around her.

Gingerly, Hermione reaches into her satchel and pulls out her first crystal: Raw green aventurine to represent the element of Earth. Hermione unwraps it from the white cloth she'd put it in and goes to the pillar connected to the North. Holding the crystal through the white cloth, Hermione places it on the grass in front of the stone pillar. Hermione goes back to her satchel and shoves the white cloth into one of the other pockets.

Hermione then brings out the next cloth-wrapped crystal: Raw iolite to represent the element of air. Hermione does the same she'd done with the green aventurine, this time placing the crystal in front of the pillar connected to the East.

Hermione goes back to her satchel and takes out the next crystal: Raw orange calcite to represent the element of fire. Hermione crosses to the pillar connected to the South and places the orange calcite down.

Hermione goes back to the satchel and pulls out the final crystal: Raw vivianite to represent the element of water. She places it in front of the pillar connected to the West. She goes back to her satchel, places the cloth into the side pocket, and then crosses to the edge of the circle; the boys are all staring at her. She tosses them the satchel and then flicks her wand out from the holster Draco had gotten her for her birthday just a few days ago.

The magic around her has become more charged; she can feel it in her veins.

Hermione swallows down her fear and summons every ounce of Gryffindor courage she has in her.

She must have a lot, because suddenly, she begins to raise her wand to the green aventurine under the North pillar. Hermione breathes deeply, then says in perhaps the most stable her voice has ever been, “I call upon the element of Earth. I represent you with green aventurine to provide me with the strength to do my affinity rite tonight. I welcome you into this circle. Honor me with your magic tonight.”

Hermione can feel the weight of her words wash over the circle, and suddenly, she's not alone. Not physically, but spiritually. She can feel the magic washing over the circle and winding around her, comforting her and offering her the magic it can. The green aventurine begins to glow beautifully.

Hermione turns to the East, points her wand at the crystal, and says, “I call upon the element of Air. I represent you with iolite to provide me with a better connection to my own inner-self tonight. I welcome you into this circle. Honor me with your magic tonight.”

The iolite glows black, and another presence leaves her more full, more connected to the world around her. Hermione's never felt this connected to magic before and it makes her want to properly cry. She swallows down the urge, though, and turns to the South pillar, pointing her wand at the crystal there.

“I call upon the element of Fire. I represent you with orange calcite to provide me with the creative energy I need for my affinity rite tonight. I welcome you into this circle. Honor me with your magic tonight.”

The orange calcite glows orange, and Hermione nearly sobs at the relieved, warm feeling that surrounds her all at once.

She finally turns to the West pillar and points her wand at the crystal.

“I call upon the element of water. I represent you with vivianite to provide not me, but the light, the ability to heal their wound of being left alone for so long. I welcome you into this circle. Honor me with your magic tonight.”

The rush of magic nearly doubles her over, and she thinks that the Light may already be present even though she has not done her affinity rite yet.

Hermione turns back to the North. It takes her a moment to recall the words she must say, her mind so caught up in how much she feels at the moment. She can't even put words to the feelings swarming around her, and she won't try. She doesn't need to because she knows how she feels and that is all that matters.

Hermione takes a big breath.

“I welcome the light into this circle tonight. I seek to know if the light can work within me and through me. To know if the light and I can work as one and to know if the light can accept me as its child. Dictum est igitur.”

The reaction is slow. Hermione remembers Harry's recount of his affinity rite and how crashing and surging everything had been, but this feels nothing like that.

It's as if the magic—the light—is feeling her out, checking the sincerity behind her words. She can't blame it. She can't imagine being alone for so long, being forgotten. The magic washes over her like dipping into water, feeling her magic and the compatibility they have.

Then, suddenly, she is plunged beneath the water.

The water is not cold, though. No, no, no. The warmth wraps itself around her very bones and sinks into her core. It doesn't falter once and it makes its home in her body. She thinks she gasps. Hermione feels her knees hit the grass beneath her, but it's barely there. It's like she is feeling everything through a film.

The light has taken over her very being but it is not malicious like the Imperius Curse is. No, no, it is warm and it is home. If this is what her affinity rite feels like, she can't imagine what her declaration will feel like. Hermione can feel everything around her, but she cannot process her own body. It's quite like an out-of-body experience.

The warmth continues to move, and Hermione thinks, This is light magic. It's beautiful.

The warmth festers away slowly, and just as slowly, Hermione returns to her body.

Her senses come back one by one.

When she opens her eyes, she's staring up at a starry night sky. She can feel the grass through her clothes and it feels amazing.

Her moment of reprieve, however, is broken when something hard thunks against her head.

“Ow!” Hermione sits up suddenly, hand holding the side of her head. She turns to see Ron, Harry, and Draco all crouching right at the edge of the circle. “What was that for?”

“You were just lying there,” Ron whispers, eyes wide and slightly terrified, though there's also a deep relief in them. “They wouldn't let me go in and disturb you, so I… I threw a pebble. Sorry,” he murmurs.

Hermione can't help but laugh.

“It went well, then?” Draco asks with a wry grin.

“Amazing,” Hermione sprawls onto her back once more, limbs starfished out as she stares at the twinkling stars of the sky. “Oh, Ron, you're going to love it. It feels so warm.” Hermione feels tears begin to spring in her eyes. She sits up once more and looks around. Her crystals have all stopped glowing, and on a second look, she notices that they're all broken.

“They exploded,” Harry tells in an awed whisper. “Your knees hit the ground and they just… they just blew up. The shards went everywhere.” Harry holds up a shard of orange calcite. She looks at Ron and Draco and notices that they're both holding their own shards of crystal: Ron has a shard of the green aventurine and Draco is holding a shard of the vivianite. Hermione looks down between her legs and sees a shard of iolite sitting on the grass there. She picks it up gently, then stands up.

Her legs shake a bit, but they hold her body up, so she trusts them to bring her over to where Ron, Harry, and Draco are. She grabs her satchel and pulls out the four white cloths; she's not sure how, but she knows which cloth was for which crystal, and she hands them out to the three boys.

“Keep them,” she says. “We each got a different crystal and I feel like… I don't know, I just feel like it's important.”

A few minutes later, Ron is getting ready for his rite. He looks a lot more nervous than Hermione had been. He also uses different crystals than she did. The book she'd found this rite in had given a list of crystals for each element and it seems like Ron had chosen different ones.

Hematite for Earth and to provide grounding; sugilite for Air and to provide relaxation of the mind; sardonyx for Fire and to provide inner strength; kunzite for Water and to provide openness of the heart.

Hermione honestly hadn't expected such well-thought out crystals, so she is pleasantly surprised the longer Ron speaks.

Watching it, she understands why Ron had been so worried.

His starts slow at first, but Hermione sees the exact moment that he is plunged under the water.

Ron gasps loudly and his knees buckle. His crystals don't shatter—the light has clearly gotten better control of its reactions—but they do shake and glow brighter than hers. The Gryffindor lets out a shocked sob as he folds backwards, his back slamming against the grass beneath him.

Hermione really understands why Ron had wanted to run into the stone circle and check on her. She almost wants to grab her own pebble and throw it at Ron, but she refrains from doing so.

For a long, suffering minute, the three of them sit in the grass and watch as Ron gasps and stares wide-eyed at the sky above him, though Hermione knows that he's not actually seeing the sky.

Ron eventually sits up slowly. His head twirls around for a minute before it turns to Hermione, Harry, and Draco.

“Did you guys see that?” he whispers.

The three of them blink and stare.

After a moment, Ron shakes his head and rises up on trembling legs. “Nevermind, nevermind.” He goes around and collects his crystals, wrapping them in their own white cloths as he does so. “Did I look super cool?” he asks as he drops down to sit with them.

“You started crying,” Draco deadpans.

Ron rolls his eyes and punches Draco's arm, who gasps dramatically and drops against the grass, splaying his limbs out and bemoaning about being defeated at last. Hermione and Harry laugh together as Draco and Ron begin to wrestle with each other.

Hermione can still feel the warmth of the light in her bones, and it only intensifies as she laughs with her friends.

Chapter Text

Hermione and Ron have both been on Cloud 9 since their affinity rites. Harry's really happy for them, truly, but Merlin, it's like they're in a constant state of elation. He's not going to rain on their parade, though, as he knows how important that this is to them both.

The confirmation that they're both of the light had been enough, it seems, to get Ron to throw himself into research (Harry thinks he's excited to do something his brothers haven't done before) and Hermione is equally ecstatic about the whole thing. If they're not in classes or the actual library, they're hiding away in the Founders library and pouring over books, looking for information neither Harry nor Draco can really be a part of.

Because of this, Draco and Harry are getting a lot of alone time. They do have their other friends they hang out with, but sometimes their friends are doing their own things and that leaves Draco and Harry alone together. There are some moments—like today—when Draco has something to do too, though, which leaves Harry alone.

Ron and Hermione are in the Founders library and Draco is with Madam Pomfrey talking about fifth year and him being one of the students that can begin to work under her. This leaves Harry alone in the clocktower courtyard working on a Charms essay.

Harry lifts his head when someone sits down across from him. It's George and, surprisingly, he is without his other half at the moment.

“Hey, you can do a good privacy ward, right?” George asks.

“Uh… yeah,” Harry says.

“Okay, great. Can you cast one over us? I need to talk to you about… something, and I think it would be best done without the threat of eavesdroppers,” George says.

Harry looks at him quizzically, but does as he's asked and puts up a privacy ward over them. Sirius had made him learn it over the summer, saying that it was a good thing to know.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks once it's up.

“Yeah, no, totally,” George nods his head. “Look, I–I might be overstepping here and I also might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that I'm not, but if I am, you can go right ahead and just tell me to fuck on off, okay?”

“Okay…”

Harry stares at George, growing more confused and curious by the second.

“When I was around your age, Harry, I started to have these… thoughts and these feelings, but they were different from the ones that Fred and Lee were having, you know?” George starts slowly. “They weren't about… girls. I–I like guys. I'm gay.”

Harry sits up straighter. He did not know that about George. He knows about Charlie because of Ginny telling him and obviously knows about Percy, but he had no idea George was also gay.

“Now, look, it's entirely possible that Sirius and Remus talked to you about this this summer,” George continues, “but, well, you're basically my second little brother, you know? Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm closer to your age than Sirius and Remus.”

Harry laughs a little breathlessly.

“So I–I remember it better, you know, being young and having feelings that none of my other friends were having. We went to see Charlie the winter of my third year, your first year, and he gave me this book.” George reaches into his school bag and pulls out a plain, leather-bound book. He presses his thumb to a tiny little indent on the bottom and the book cover changes: The Ins and Outs of Being A Homosexual Wizard.

“Again, if I'm wrong, tell me to fuck off,” George says, and when Harry looks up, he sees that George looks incredibly nervous.

“Um… why–why are you giving this to me?” Harry stammers.

“Shit, forgot to explain that part. Um, when you came over before the World Cup, you looked… properly flustered at seeing Bill and Charlie,” George explains. “And, you know, that could mean nothing, but then you kept kind of… you know, being a little… foolish, I guess, is the right word, and it reminded me of myself and when I met Charlie's first boyfriend, Felix Rosier. He was so fucking hot, but he was also cool, you know?”

Harry feels his face heat up. That's exactly what he had thought about Bill. That he looked cool.

“It–it's hard to see, but I think your face is heating up,” George chuckles. “It's perfectly alright with me if you're gay. I know that seems obvious with what I've told you, but I have to say it. And it would be perfectly alright with mum and dad and all my siblings. Just, uh, try not to get a crush on one of my older brothers, alright?”

Harry can't help but laugh. Gently, slowly, Harry grabs the book George is still holding out to him.

“The cover hides itself,” George explains. “Press your thumb into that indent there, like you saw me do, and it'll be a plain old leather journal again.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “Is it… is it possible to… to like both? Both girls and… and boys?”

“Yeah, totally,” George says with a nod of his head. “It's called being bisexual.”

“Oh.”

Harry stares down at the book. There's a rainbow tint to the title words and the symbol for unity hidden behind the words.

“George?”

“Yeah, Harry?” the Gryffindor asks.

“I'm… I'm bi,” Harry stammers.

George smiles at him, all teeth and warmth. “Never said that out loud before, huh?”

“I've barely even thought it,” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “My aunt and uncle weren't… good with that stuff, and I–I haven't had a talk with Sirius and Remus about it yet. I'm pretty sure they're planning to watch the tournament, though, so I'll tell them then.”

“Hey, if you don't want to tell them, if you're not ready, don't,” George says. “I knew my mum and dad would be perfectly fine with it, but it took me months to tell them because there was this little nagging voice asking me what if? What if? What if? If you want to tell them, do it, but if you're not ready, wait until you are.”

“I–I am, I think,” Harry nods his head. “Besides, I'm sure the first task will be in late November or something. That gives me time to–to think about what I want to say. And, George…” Harry surges forward and yanks the redhead into a crushing hug. “Thank you. For reaching out and everything. I dunno what I would've done otherwise.”

“Happy to help, Harry,” George says.

—

Harry's studying with Tracey in the library, the two of them working over a Potions essay that was assigned the other day. They're leaned together, going over their individual wording, when sudden loud sobbing has them both snapping their heads up. Harry looks up in time to see Sue Li, a Ravenclaw in their year, run out of the library.

“What–”

Tracey has already stood up, though, and is going over to the Ravenclaw's Li was sitting with. Harry knows that Tracey is friends with the Ravenclaws in their year. Honestly, sometimes he thinks she would have been better fit to be a Ravenclaw, but he's glad she's a Slytherin. She's the only other half-blood Slytherin Harry knows of, and so the two have a few things in common. Although Harry's teaching of the Wizarding World and his place in it are a lot far behind Tracey's, they're still clueless together in a lot of places.

Tracey comes back a few moments later, looking rather despondent. She takes her seat again next to Harry, a frown on her face.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks.

“The enchantment on Sue's necklace went out,” Tracey explains sadly, but she doesn't elaborate any further. She turns back to her essay and continues marking stuff off, but Harry's now curious and confused.

“I'm sorry, but what does that mean?” Harry asks.

Tracey turns to him fully, an odd look on her face. She squints her eyes and finally says, “You don't know?”

“Um… no, I guess I don't.”

Tracey sighs, then reaches into her hair and pulls out a flower hair clip. The girl points her wand at it and whispers, “Fulgeo,” and the clip begins to glow a faint green. “Now, when I die in one hundred and twenty years–”

“'One hundred and twenty years'?” Harry parrots with an amused grin.

Tracey scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Yes. I am going to die at the ripe old age of 134 surrounded by a dozen cats that have lasted my lifetime.” She raises her hands and carefully places the clip into Harry's hair. “Now, when I do die, your child or grandchild or maybe even great-grandchild will notice that the clip has stopped glowing.”

“Why don't I have it anymore?” Harry asks.

“Because you are going to pass this clip down like a family heirloom,” she says sternly, and Harry laughs at it. “Also, I refuse to let any of you outlive me. Now, when I die, the enchantment will die with me. The glow will stop.”

“That's really sad,” Harry muses.

Tracey hums as she finally pulls her hands away from Harry's hair, deeming the placement of the hair clip acceptable at last.

“Maybe so,” she responds, “but the times we have aren't, are they?”

And Harry can't argue with her, not there.

Later, during Charms, Susan Bones shoulders her way into being Harry's partner. This means that Draco, who is usually Harry's partner, is stuck with Ernie Macmillan. Neither boy looks happy about the arrangement.

“Tonight,” Susan tells him in a hushed voice once they start working on the banishing charm. “Heir meeting tonight at 8 o'clock in the abandoned classroom right across from Binns' office. I've told everyone else.”

“Alright,” Harry hums.

Harry goes straight to the classroom after dinner. He knows they still have an hour but he wants to be there before anyone else. Susan, it seems, has the same idea, as she shows up just a few minutes after he does.

“Who's all going to be here?” Harry asks her.

“Us two, Macmillan, Patil twins, Longbottom, Warrington, Zabini, Malfoy, Greengrass, Abbott, Spinnet, Davies and Fawcett. It's not everybody, since it's not safe for all of the heirs to be seen with us, even privately by others, and I'm sure there are a few that I don't know about. Some families keep their heirs secret, after all, and they're not supposed to tell anybody, even their closest friends.”

“What about people who are heir to more than one house?” Harry asks. “You haven't got just Potter with me, you have Black, too.”

“It's not uncommon to be the heir to more than one line,” Susan says. “Some families, though, they only broadcast the obvious one, you know? Like, if you were heir to… oh! Ravenclaw! If you were the heir to Ravenclaw, your family might decide not to tell just anybody about that, you know?”

“Huh,” Harry hums. He thinks back to his line test and what it had revealed. Sirius had told him that it was probably best to only share the Potter, Fleamont, and Black part of his line test, and Harry actually agreed with him. The only people who know his whole line test results are Remus, Sirius, and Draco, plus the goblin who did it for him.

As it gets closer to eight, Harry finds himself growing more and more nervous. He knows Susan has everything planned out for tonight—not that she's telling him everything—but he also can't help but worry that something is going to go wrong.

The Patil twins and Neville show up first, followed closely by Alicia Spinnet, Roger Davies, and Sienna Fawcett. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott show up exactly at eight. Cassius, Blaise, Daphne, and Draco show up at ten after eight.

“Is this everyone?” Susan looks around at everybody present. “Yeah, this is. Alright, hi everybody! Thank you all for showing up, I know it was kind of… strange.”

“What is this for?” Cassius asks.

“We're all heirs, here,” Susan says, “but it has come to my attention that while we do know each other, we haven't really gotten to know each other, y'know? Also, I have plans.”

“What kind of plans?” Padma asks nervously.

Susan grins wickedly. “In this room, we have 21 seats together. There's three more in the school that are with us but can't be seen with us, even privately. I won't name them, and don't ask me to. That's 24 seats.”

“27,” Harry pipes up. “Don't ask.”

“27?” Susan asks. “That's great! That's 27 votes, the exact amount we need for my stuff!”

“Do I even want to know what stuff you mean?” Harry asks.

“That stuff is for later, love, don't worry,” Susan says with a grin. “Right now, this is just going to be getting to know each other and forming connections. We all know each other, yes, but not well enough. It's best to form connections, after all. Now,” Susan reaches into her bag and pulls out a book, an inkwell, a quill, and a rolled up piece of parchment, “who wants to help me with this Charms essay?”

Chapter Text

On the 24th, exactly one week before Samhain, the school finds a notice in the entrance hall.

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY. STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST.

The rest of the week, no matter where Harry goes, all talk is of the Triwizard Tournament. Even the school itself becomes clean. The knights of armour are all shiny and unmoving, every painting becomes clean, and Filch yells at anyone who so much as drags the tiniest bit of mud into the castle.

Beauxbatons and Durmstrang show up in perhaps the most dramatic show of magic Harry has ever seen.

Beauxbatons descend from the sky in a giant, powder-blue, horse drawn carriage. Durmstrang emerges from the Black Lake in an equally giant ship of a dark brown wood.

The Beauxbatons students sit at the Ravenclaw table while the Durmstrang students sit with the Slytherin's. Harry ends up sitting between Draco and Viktor fucking Krum. Harry is currently sitting next to one of the best Seekers in the world. Viktor and the other Durmstrang students are all shrugging off their fur coats and hats, clearly happy to be in the warmth of the Great Hall.

“So, Viktor, can I call you Viktor?” Draco doesn't wait for a response, instead barrelling onwards. “You play Quidditch, right? You're a Seeker?”

“Yes,” Viktor says shortly.

“Woooooow,” Draco whispers as if this is entirely new information to him. “My friend Harry, here, Harry Potter, he also plays Seeker for our house Quidditch team. Can you believe it? Totally shocking. He got onto the team at eleven years old—youngest Seeker in a century.”

“Draco, please stop talking,” Harry groans, his head in his hands.

“No,” Draco says with a sharkish grin. “If we have time, you two should totally play a Seeker's match. Not at all because I want to see Harry meet his match and get humbled or anything, no, of course not. Just a friendly little match. Please say yes.”

Surprisingly, Viktor laughs. His laugh is warm like velvet and it matches his face perfectly.

“You iz funny, Draco,” Viktor says. “Will you be joining the 'ournament, Harry?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Harry shakes his head vehemently. “I'm not old enough, for one, and for two, I'd–I'd rather face Voldemort again.”

Across from him, one of the Durmstrang students chokes on his drink.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Harry says quickly. “Fair warning, I–I use his name. I just… I don't see a point in censoring myself. I know names have power and everything, but I doubt he's gonna come back to life because I keep saying his name, you know?”

“I like you,” the student across from him says as he points his hand at Harry. The student then turns to the other boy on his right and they start talking in a different language.

Once all the students have settled into their seats, the doors to the Great Hall open again and the staff file in. At the very back is Headmaster Dumbledore with Professor Karkarof—headmaster of Durmstrang—and Madame Maxime—headmistress of Beauxbatons.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests,” Dumbledore says. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable. The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast. I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

“So, are all of you joining?” Harry asks Viktor once they start eating.

“Yes,” Viktor nods his head, then continues eating.

“Our Viktor here is a man of few words,” says the Durmstrang student on Viktor's other side. The boy throws his arm around Viktor's shoulders and pulls the boy close; Viktor grunts and tries to squirm away, but gives up only a moment later. The student reaches his hand over Viktor and to Harry. “My name's Emil Krause.” Emil has really curly black hair and bright, ice blue eyes. The Durmstrang students all wear blood red uniforms with low collars, but Emil's uniform covers his whole neck. “You're Harry Potter, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says as he clasps Emil's hand.

“Cool, cool,” Emil nods his head. “Is it true you're a Parselmouth?”

The students previously talking around them all stop speaking. Harry feels everyone staring at him.

“Emil!” one of the three girls with the Durmstrang lot snaps from across the table. “That is a personal question!” She says the word 'question' pronouncing each and every letter.

“I just want to know if the rumors are true!” Emil exclaims to the girl, then he turns back to Harry. “Are they, Harry? Are they true?”

“They are,” Harry hisses.

Emil's eyes widen, but it's not from any sort of fear or shock. In fact, he looks almost excited at the fact that Harry's a Parselmouth. Emil doesn't say anything else, though. He turns to the girl and begins talking quickly in another language.

Once dessert is over, they reveal the impartial judge—a giant, semi-sentient goblet. Aside from Karkaroff's strange reaction to Harry as they leave the Great Hall, though, the night goes off without a hitch.

The next day, Harry, Draco, Ron, and Hermione head down to Hagrid's hut. They hadn't gotten around to visiting him yet this year.

They end up spending lunch with Hagrid too, and Hermione decides to make it her mission to get him to join S.P.E.W.

“What is this?” Hagrid asks as he stares down at the badge she'd pulled from her bag.

“Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,” Hermione says proudly. “At the moment, it's really just an idea, but I'm getting more support by the day. I've been talking to Susan Bones from Hufflepuff, and she's been helping me with a lot of it. She wants to be the youngest Chief of the Wizengamot once she's out of school, and she has a lot of ideas.”

Harry looks up at the mention of Susan's name. Susan hasn't revealed much about her plans regarding the heir study group, but Harry honestly thinks she's planning some sort of political takeover with the things she's said.

“Right now, we've basically set it up like a foster system,” Hermione continues. “Whenever a family or business or, say, a school, wants to get a new elf, they have to go through an application program. We're currently trying to make the application program as quick as possible while still leaving it thorough, but elf magic is its whole separate version of magic, right? Well, we found this old ritual or spell or whatever you want to call it that keeps an elf bonded to its family but for a temporary period. There's also an old ritual that young house elves would go through back in the olden days. They wouldn't be able to handle the full force of being tied to a family, so the elder house elves would… lighten it, so to say.

“We'd do this on the new elf and then hand them off, and then for the first six months we would have weekly check-ups, basically. Someone in the department would check up on the elf, bring them off property to talk, and also talk to the Master. If they find anything concerning, they can use the spell we put on the elf to pull them away from the family without any fight. The spell also makes sure that the Master can't Order the elf to not disclose any abuse they might be suffering through.”

“That's… really thought out, Hermione,” Harry says.

Hermione smiles widely at him, then looks over to Hagrid. “So? Will you take one?” she asks.

“Ay, o' course,” Hagrid crosses over to his moleskin coat and—with great difficulty—pins the badge to it.

“Ah! Thank you, Hagrid!” Hermione cheers. “This makes twelve members! Us five, Susan Bones, Ernie Macmillan, the Patil twins, Lavender Brown, Cho Chang, and Hannah Abbot! This is great!”

Eventually, they have to go back up to the castle for the Samhain feast and then the choosing of the champions. The Great Hall is buzzing with excitement all throughout the feast. Harry sees many last minute bets spreading throughout the hall; he sees the twins whip out a parchment and collect a lot of the bets.

“I really need Cassius to get in,” Vince says from across the table halfway through dessert. “I placed my bet on him.”

“Vincent, what did we say about gambling?” Millie asks.

Finally, the Goblet is ready and the first paper is spit out. The Durmstrang students cheer loudly and chant Viktor's name when Dumbledore calls it out. Emil cheers the loudest, clapping Viktor on the back and urging him out of his seat.

The next one to be called is the Beauxbatons champion: Fleur Delacour. Harry sees a lot of the other Beauxbatons students start crying, clearly disappointed that they weren't chosen.

The Goblet spits out the Hogwarts paper and Harry sees a lot of people leaning forward in their seats, himself included.

“Cedric Diggory!” Dumbledore calls.

The Hufflepuff table erupts into screams and cheers. Vincent curses.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore calls happily once the cheers die down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real–”

Dumbledore stops speaking suddenly, and it's apparent to everybody what's distracted him.

The fire in the Goblet has turned red once more. Sparks begin to fly out of it as the flame rises high in the air. A fourth piece of parchment shoots out of the Goblet.

Harry feels his blood turn ice cold.

Automatically, Dumbledore raises his hand to grab the fluttering piece of paper, but Harry doesn't need him to read it out loud to know what name is going to be on it.

“Harry Potter…” Dumbledore whispers, then, louder, “Harry Potter!”

Every head in the hall whips towards Harry, and honestly, he should be rewarded for not shrinking in on himself immediately. The Durmstrang students are staring at him with mixes of anger on their faces.

There is no applause. Why would there be?

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore calls again. “Harry! Up here, my boy!”

Harry turns to Draco, panicked, but the white-haired boy looks as shocked as the rest of the hall.

Harry snaps his head back to stare at Dumbledore.

“No,” he says firmly and loudly, ensuring that his voice is carried all across the hall.

“Harry, you have to go up,” Daphne hisses from across the table. “The Goblet called your name, you have to.”

“No!” Harry says again. “I didn't put my fucking name in! I'm refusing. I–I'm not going up.”

“Harry, go!”

Draco gives him a push.

Tamping down a genuine temper tantrum, Harry rises to his feet and walks along the table. A lot of people wince and look away as he passes by, though whether that's because he looks as if he's about to commit a murder or because of what just happened, he's not sure.

Harry slams the door behind him when he goes through it. He goes down a short set of stairs and finds himself in a smaller room lined with portraits. There's a few sofas and settees around and a blazing fire in the corner. Cedric, Viktor, and Fleur are all sitting in front of the fire, but all three of them rise when Harry comes in.

Harry sees understanding dawn on Cedric's face immediately, and Harry suddenly feels like the worst person alive. This was supposed to be Cedric's moment and here he comes along, causing all sorts of trouble with the magnet he's got on his damn back.

“What is it?” Fleur asks. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

“I–I didn't put name in,” Harry says. “Cedric,” Harry turns to the Hufflepuff, “Cedric, you have to believe me. I didn't do this!”

Harry gets no time to say anything else, though, as the door at the top of the stairs opens again and Ludo Bagman comes hurrying in, heading straight to Harry. He grabs Harry by the arm and steers him over to the other champions. Harry tries pulling his arm away, but Bagman is really strong.

“Don't touch–”

“Extraordinary!” he says, completely ignoring Harry's attempt at protest. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen, lady, may I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the fourth Triwizard champion?”

“Bagman, let go of me–”

“Harry's name has just come out of the Goblet of Fire!” Bagman grins wide, looking positively delighted at the idea of sending a fourteen-year-old boy to fight in a death tournament.

“Zair 'ad to 'ave been a miztake,” Fleur says. “'E cannot compete. 'E is too young.”

“Well… it is amazing,” Bagman says, rubbing his smooth face and smiling down at Harry, who begins to try to struggle away from Bagman again, but the man completely ignores him. “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet… I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage. It's down in the rules, you're obliged. Harry will just have to do the best he–”

Viktor had seemingly had enough of the struggle. He marches forward and yanks Bagman off of Harry, who gasps greatly for breath. He hadn't even noticed he'd started hyperventilating until Bagman was finally away from him.

“He has asked you to let 'im go,” Viktor says coldly.

Bagman doesn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

The door opens again and a large group of people come in: Headmaster Dumbledore followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Moody.

“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-door?” Madame Maxime demands.

“I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” Professor Karkaroff says. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” He gives a short and nasty laugh.

“C'est impossible,” Madame Maxime says. “'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust.”

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” Karkaroff says. He's smiling, but his eyes are colder than ever. “Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.”

Dumbledore sighs and finally turns to Harry.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” Dumbledore asks calmly.

“No,” Harry answers.

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?” he continues.

“No,” Harry says vehemently.

Harry allows himself to fade into the background as the adults all argue back and forth with each other about what to do. Neither Beauxbatons nor Durmstrang can pull out of the tournament, but that doesn't stop Karkaroff from threatening it.

Finally, the four champions are dismissed. The Great Hall is empty when Cedric and Harry go back through it.

“I didn't put my name in,” Harry says again. “Cedric, I swear that I didn't.”

“Don't worry, I believe you, Harry,” Cedric says, and Harry's surprised to hear the earnestness in Cedric's voice. “Anyone with eyes can see how much you've been turning your nose up at this whole tournament. It's not like you need any more glory, huh?”

Harry actually laughs at that, and Cedric is clearly proud of doing that.

“How bad do you think this is going to be?” Harry asks. “The reactions, I mean.”

“I'll try to calm them down,” Cedric says as they descend the stairs to the dungeons. “Don't worry, Harry, I'm with you on this, alright? They said we can't ask the professor's for help, but I didn't hear anything about not being allowed to help each other.”

Harry grins. “You sure you wanna throw your lot in with me?”

“We're Hogwarts' champions,” Cedric grins right back at him. “We gotta stick together, don't we?”

—

The Slytherin common room is partying when he gets back.

“Look, we all know you didn't put your name in,” Cody tells him when he gets there, “BUT, a Slytherin champion is great! Woo!”

The party's for him, yeah, but Harry doesn't stay longer than half an hour. He finally gets back to his dorm where all the other boys are.

“Hey, I didn't see you guys out there,” Harry says as he struggles to get off the scarf Cassius Warrington had thrown around his shoulders.

“We figured we'd talk to you once you got back,” Draco says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone's trying to kill me. Again,” Harry groans. “Moody seems to think that someone put my name in in an attempt to kill me.”

“What do you think?” Blaise asks.

“I hate to agree with him, but I think he's right,” Harry groans. “You all know I didn't put my name in, right?”

“Anyone who thinks otherwise is fucking stupid,” Greg tells him. “Everyone heard you trying to deny it when your name got called. Merlin, you looked like you were about to jump out the window behind you.”

Harry groans and collapses face first onto his bed. “I kind of wanted to,” he says into his pillow.

“One of the portraits came in earlier and told us that Dumbledore's allowing you to compete,” Draco says. “They can't seriously expect you to do this, right?”

“I don't have much of a choice,” Harry shrugs. “I didn't put my name in, but my name did come out. The magic is still binding, so I have to compete.”

“Did they tell you what the first task was?”

“No, just that it's meant to test our daring, so they're not telling us,” Harry groans again. “I'm going to bed, alright? We have classes tomorrow and I really don't want to deal with it on a lack of sleep.”

“Don't worry, Harry, we'll watch out for you,” Theo promises. “Anyone tries anything, Slytherin house will deal with it.”

Harry smiles at him. “Thanks, Theo,” he mumbles, and then he closes the curtains around his bed and drops down on the pillow. He really, really just wants to go to sleep.

Chapter Text

If Harry thought that Cedric speaking to the Hufflepuff's would do anything, he was sorely mistaken. Their second class of the day Tuesday morning is the Herbology class with the other three houses, and it is painfully obvious that absolutely none of the Hufflepuff's like him. Susan Bones is the only one who tries talking to him, but it's short and is just her telling him that she doesn't think for one second that he actually put his name in the Goblet of Fire.

Harry's glad, at least, that he still has one friend outside of his house aside from Hermione and Ron, who both stick by him during the whole Herbology lesson, clearly showcasing where their loyalties lie.

Their final class of the day is Charms with Hufflepuff and it is perhaps the most awkward class Harry has ever been to. Professor Flitwick tries to engage the class, but the hour is spent glaring at the opposite house and hissing words.

The rest of the week, at least, really showcases Slytherin unity. People hiss and snap at Harry in the halls, calling him a glory-stealer, a thief, a self-absorbed little kid, a selfish snake, and every single time, they are met with discreet, muttered curses and jinxes and hexes courtesy of whichever other Slytherin overheard it. Harry can't go anywhere without having at least three Slytherin's with him, sometimes not even Slytherin's that are in his year. As he and Pansy climb up to Divination Wednesday afternoon they find themselves flanked by Cassius Warrington, Cody Sykes, and Peregrine Derrick, of all people.

It's like second year all over again, when people thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin (which he technically is) and were being all weird around him. This time around, though, they're not that subtle about it. By the time Friday morning rolls around, Harry has thoroughly bruised himself all over in his attempts to dodge out of the way of whatever hex is being thrown at him.

His day gets worse when, during Herbology with Ravenclaw in the afternoon, Astoria Greengrass inches herself into the room and tells Professor Sprout that she's been instructed by Bagman to take Harry upstairs for some champion thing. Professor Sprout doesn't look at all happy about it, but she allows Harry to leave, which he's grateful for.

“What's this for?” Harry asks Astoria once they're back in the school.

“Photos,” she says. “For the Daily Prophet, I think.”

Harry does not want to do that, but like most things in his life, he has no choice, does he?

Astoria leaves him outside the right door, heading back to her own class. Harry walks into the room. It's a smaller classroom, and nearly all the desks had been pushed to a corner. Ludo Bagman is sitting behind some velvet-draped desks talking to a blonde witch in magenta robes. There's another man Harry doesn't know that's standing in front of a smoking camera.

Fleur, Cedric, and Viktor are sitting together by one of the windows, though Viktor isn't saying anything. Fleur and Cedric, however, are engaged in a conversation that has Fleur laughing.

Bagman stands up when he sees Harry standing in front of the now closed door.

“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come… nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment–”

“Wand weighing?” Harry repeats.

“We have to check that your wands are fully functional. No problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead,” Bagman says. “The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he adds as he gestures toward the witch in magenta robes. “She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet.”

“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” Rita Skeeter says, her hawkish eyes on Harry. It makes his skin crawl like there's a thousand fire ants right under it. Harry recognizes her name. She was writing about the attack at the World Cup for over a week, drawing it out and inciting panic all over Europe.

“I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?” she says to Bagman, though her eyes stay fixed on Harry. “The youngest champion, you know… to add a bit of color?”

“Certainly!” Bagman cries. “Go along, Harry!”

“Wait, I don't want to–”

“Oh, nonsense!” Skeeter rolls her eyes and reaches out a manicured hand to clasp around Harry's bicep. She's unnaturally strong for a reporter. The point of contact, even through his robes, ignites the fire ants once more. “It's quite crowded here, hm? Let's go over here, over here.”

“I really don't want to talk to you, and please let go of me,” Harry says as he tries to wrench his arm away from the woman. Honestly, what is it with people grabbing him and not listening when he tells them not to touch him?

“Oh, it's just a little interview,” Skeeter tells him.

“Look, if you want to interview me, you interview all the champions,” Harry says.

“Harry, there's no need to cause so much trouble,” Bagman pipes up.

“I'm not causing trouble!” Harry snaps angrily. “This tournament is supposed to be all about school unity and stuff, right? Why are you focusing so much on me and not the other, real champions?”

“It's just an interview,” Skeeter repeats. “Now, stop being so difficult, Harry, and come with me–”

“'E 'as said 'e does not dezire to speak with you,” Fleur says. Harry hadn't even noticed that the other three champions had started to approach them. “You cannot interview a minor without zair conzent. Unless," Fleur gives the same derisive laugh Madam Maxime had done a few nights ago when they were down in the antechamber, "the laws are different here in Britain?"

“Fleur's right,” Cedric says. He shoulders past Bagman and grabs Harry's hand, pulling him away from Skeeter. Harry's really grateful for it, though he does feel his face heat up in embarrassment; that's the second time one of the other champions has had to wrench him away from some touchy adult. “If he doesn't want to talk to you, he doesn't have to. If you force him to, that's illegal, and you have three witnesses here.”

Neither Skeeter or Bagman have the chance to say anything else, though, as the door opens and the judges walk in followed by, to Harry's surprise, Mr. Ollivander, the wandmaker here in Britain.

Harry's glad Ollivander doesn't mention the special making of his wand during the wand inspection; Harry's wand has a phoenix feather as a core, and the only other feather that phoenix had provided was the feather that went into the core of Voldemort's wand. It's still weird to think that Voldemort was once an eleven year old boy named Tom Riddle and that he, like all other young witches and wizards in Britain, went to Ollivander for his wand.

When they're finally released, the champions leave first, heading down the stairs and out of the school together.

“Thank you,” Harry says once they're on the stairs. “For intervening with Skeeter, I mean. I really didn't want to talk to her. And, uh, Viktor, thank you for pulling Bagman off me the night of Samhain.”

“Ludo Bagman is perhaps thee most self-centeered wizard I know,” Viktor says haughtily. “I have been famous for very long time, and his hands are always places they do not need to be.”

“Let'z go to the lake,” Fleur suggests.

The four of them go out to the lake, settling under one of the trees there, but once they've sat down, none of them move to say anything to each other. It's Cedric, with his Hufflepuff friendliness, who breaks the rather awkward silence.

“So, Harry and I were talking, and we're going to work together,” Cedric says. “This whole tournament is meant to promote school unity and the chance to connect to other witches and wizards, and I was wondering if either of you wanted to make an effort to, y'know, talk and be amicable with each other.”

“I vould not mind zat,” Fleur says. “It iz clear to me, at least, that 'Arry 'ere did not put 'is name in the Goblet. 'E looks positively 'orrible about it, after all.”

Harry's not sure if he should appreciate that or not. Is she insulting him or declaring her support of him? Or is it both? Honestly, he thinks it is both.

“I agree with Fleur,” Viktor says. “We are in these together.”

“Great!” Cedric grins happily. “So, what do we think about the first task? Any clue what it might be?”

The four of them start talking about the first task, but the longer the conversation goes on, the more derailed the conversation gets. They talk about Fleur's veela ancestry; Viktor's life managing stardom; what they do here at Hogwarts; hell, even what the weather is like at Durmstrang, though Viktor still does not tell them where, exactly, the school is.

They stay under the tree until dinner time, and when it finally does roll around, they set back off to the school together.

“Hey, you two should come sit with us,” Harry says as they cross the viaduct bridge together. “Besides, I want to hear more about Beauxbatons' dance program. Do you guys seriously dance on top of towers?”

Fleur laughs sweetly, the sound echoing over the entrance hall they've just crossed into. Harry sees several boys whip their heads around at the sound. Fleur being a quarter veela explains the magnet she has on her for men, and it also explains why she spends her time so surrounded by girls from her school. Viktor stays entirely unaffected by it, Harry included, and Cedric, he thinks, already has a girlfriend, the Ravenclaw seeker, Cho Chang.

“You zit with the Slytherin's no?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Harry grins. “Besides, this way, I can introduce you to my friends. Oh, you're going to love Daphne. She dances as well.”

“I will sit with you and the snakes as long as you all agree to sit with me and my friends tomorrow morning at breakfast,” Cedric says as they walk through the open double doors of the Great Hall.

“Deal,” Harry grins.

“Alright, then.”

Together, the four of them set off to the Slytherin table where the Slytherin fourth years and the Durmstrang students are sitting. When they see the four of them approaching, there's a great scrabble for room to be made.

“How did the photos go?” Draco asks when Harry sits next to him, Viktor on his other side and Cedric and Fleur across from them, sitting between Emil from Durmstrang and Daphne.

“It went fine,” Harry shrugs. “I met Rita Skeeter, though.”

There's a general assent of oohing and ahhing in sympathy from his friends.

“She is the worst vulture the reporters have to offer,” Blaise snaps angrily. “What the hell is she doing, covering the Triwizard Tournament? They should have given that task to somebody respectable.”

“Blaise, you have issues with just about everybody in the Ministry at this point,” Harry laughs.

“Every single one of my stepfathers have died under 'mysterious circumstances', I'm more surprised that there's still a few people I can tolerate,” Blaise says. “The amount of times Rita Skeeter has tried to interview me is insane. I hate her. I have a– what is it called? A restraining order against her. She's not allowed to be near me anymore.”

“So if she walked into the Great Hall while you were in it…” Cedric starts slowly. He's turned slightly in his seat so he's straddling the bench, his back facing Emil.

Blaise scowls, then turns his head to see Rita Skeeter walking in with Ludo Bagman.

“Daph, be a dear and tell that vulture that she has to leave.”

Daphne grins wickedly, then rises from her seat, smooths out her robes, and walks up to the teachers table where Skeeter and Bagman have arrived.

“So, I see a new dynamic. Are you four all good, then?” Blaise goes on, pointing his fork at the four of them.

“Ve decided that this tournament iz for unity,” Fleur begins, “thus, ve vill work to be friends, and hopefully enspire our fellow peers.”

“It was Cedric's idea,” Harry says, wanting to praise the Hufflepuff. He's already getting overshadowed, having to compete against The-Boy-Who-Lived, a worldwide Quidditch star, and a girl who has veela in her blood. He deserves to compete but not so overshadowed, so Harry's making it his mission to talk up Cedric whenever he can. “I'm a little afraid to tell him that his Hufflepuff tendencies are clouding his brain a bit.”

“If Hufflepuff tendencies are clouding anybody's brain, it is yours,” Hermione says, suddenly appearing behind Harry and Draco; she has Ron with her. “Is there room for two more?” she asks hopefully.

Draco grins and hurriedly makes room for the two, much to the chagrin of Pansy and Tracey, who he pushes over to make room for the two Gryffindors.

“So, um… hi,” Ron says to Viktor. Despite his earlier woo's about how pretty Fleur is, she seems to be nothing in the presence of Viktor Krum.

“Harry, why is Daphne Greengrass arguing with Ludo Bagman?” Hermione asks. Harry looks up at the teachers table where Hermione is pointing. Sure enough, Daphne looks to be in a heated argument with Ludo Bagman and Rita Skeeter, though it hasn't gotten loud just yet.

Just then, Professor Snape stands up and strides over to the trio. He places one of his hands on Bagman's shoulder, leans down slowly, and whispers something in the man's ear. Bagman visibly pales, then he turns to Skeeter and says something.

Skeeter goes red, but she gathers her things, stands up, then marches out of the hall. Daphne bows to Snape, presumably saying thank you, then turns and practically skips back over to the Slytherin table. She takes her seat once more between Blaise and Fleur.

“Rita Skeeter will only be allowed on school grounds during trials,” Daphne says proudly.

“She's that blonde woman who just marched out?” Hermione asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says, then goes on to explain to the group what had happened while they were trying to get pictures and everything.

“Hold up, she put her hands on you?” Draco asks.

“It wasn't that–”

“Yes, and she would not let go,” Cedric intervenes, cutting off Harry's attempt at reassurance. “I had to pull him away from her.”

“That's so creepy,” Hermione shudders. “Harry, don't talk to her.”

“Don't worry, I wasn't planning to,” he says.

“So, what's with all of this?” Ron asks. “The whole sitting together thing, I mean.”

“We figured that since the whole tournament is about school unity and making connections, we'd start it,” Cedric answers.

“I didn't even know we were allowed to sit at tables that aren't ours,” Ron says.

“Nowhere in the Hogwarts rule book does it say we absolutely have to sit with our house during mealtimes,” Hermione tells him.

“Psh, and you'd know. You've read that book how many times?”

“Oh, shut up, Ronald. In case you don't remember, you have recently gotten really obsessed with books.”

Ron's face goes a little red. “Shut up,” he mumbles.

That causes some laughs around the table. For the rest of dinner, they all sit together and converse with each other. Harry's glad to formally introduce Hermione and Ron to the Slytherin friends that he and Draco have, and even more excited to talk to the Durmstrang students with them. It takes a while, but Ron's hero worship does eventually get overclouded with talking about wizard's chess with Viktor, who surprisingly has a great affinity for it.

—

The next day is a weekend, which is good for Harry because it means that he doesn't have to go out and actively socialize with other students. He still has that pesky little Slytherin guard around him, so a little while after lunch, Harry goes back down to the Slytherin common room and grabs his invisibility cloak. Double checking to make sure that Moody is in his office still (it's as if he never leaves it) Harry creeps out of the common room. He feels a little bad for duping his friends, since they only want what's best for him, but he really just wants some alone time.

Harry goes over to the tree he, Cedric, Viktor, and Fleur were under yesterday. Making sure there's nobody around, Harry pulls off his cloak, puts it in his bag, and then moves to sit closer to the lake, propping himself up on one of the branches that protrude over the ground from the tree.

It's nice out, the sun beating down, strangely hot for a November day, but it's warm enough to be nice and not blisteringly hot. Besides, he's mostly under the sun, and also, it's not like he can get sunburned, he only ever gets tan. Not like Draco, who is sunburn under the moon white. Sirius is the same way, honestly. He thinks it's those Black genes. The ones that give them high cheekbones, soft grey eyes, and curly hair. Yeah, Draco has his father's hair color, but the texture is all Black. Harry's so glad he stopped slicking it back by the time third year rolled around.

A shadow suddenly falls over him, and Harry leans his head back to see Emil standing there with his hands in his pockets. He's not wearing his usual Durmstrang uniform, or even robes. He's wearing a long-sleeved purple turtleneck and black trousers, as well as winter boots. The boy is always covered up nearly head to toe, even when it's warm out.

“Can I sit?” Emil asks. He looks nervous, Harry notes.

“Yeah, course,” Harry says. He moves over to make room for Emil on the root he's sitting on. “Is everything okay?”

Honestly, he's getting deja vu from his talk with George just over a month ago.

“Yes, no, yes,” Emil stammers. He groans and rubs at the back of his neck, wincing a bit as he does so. The boy groans and drops his head into his hands, mumbling. “Sorry, I've never done this before.”

“Done what?” Harry asks, then immediately freezes.

Oh.

Oh.

Emil turns his head over in his hands so he can look at Harry. Emil smiles, and suddenly, it's like a mask is being put on his face—or being pulled off his face. His eyes that had been blue before suddenly change to a poisonous yellow with thin black slits for pupils, and he suddenly has pointed canines. Through his teeth, Harry sees a forked tongue, like someone had brought a pair of scissors to the middle of his tongue and pushed them down.

“Oh,” Harry whispers.

“My father is a Naga,” Emil begins to explain. “Everyone at Durmstrang knows. I never tried to hide it from them, there was no point.”

“I've… never properly met another Parselmouth before,” Harry says, somewhat in awe. “I didn't even know about it until my first year here. I didn't know that's what I could do, I mean. I've done all the research that I can do, though.”

Emil laughs humorlessly. “My father, the one that raised me, I mean, didn't want me to know about any of it. The culture, I mean. Of Naga and Parselmouths and everything in between. My real father was murdered after I was born… by my mother's husband. It's not pretty, but despite the whole murder thing, my mother made sure to teach me about what I needed to know. She truly loved my dad, you know? Anyway, it was kind of hard not to teach me when I look like this.”

Emil reaches up to his turtleneck and pulls it down. The action reveals dark blue scales splattered around his neck. It disappears down his left shoulder. Emil lets the fabric go and then pulls up the sleeve of his left arm; the blue scales go a few inches past his elbow and then taper off. They don't wrap all the way around his arm, staying on the top of it and not spreading to the underside of his arm.

“I can use a glamour to hide my eyes and my tongue,” Emil hisses, and Harry gets a good, proper look of what his tongue looks like this time. It's a normal human tongue, but there is a slit right down the middle, traveling about an inch down his tongue before it branches back together.

“The man that raised me, my mom's husband, died a few years back. My mom took control of all his assets and reclaimed her own family assets. She used it to get me to go to Durmstrang. I was tutored when I was younger, since my mom's husband didn't want me to be seen by the public. He thought me a stain on his image, but when he died, my mum turned it all around. She didn't even care about the backlash on her for cheating on her husband. He was an abusive piece of shit, he deserved what he got.”

“I'm sorry you went through that,” Harry says.

Emil smiles wryly at him.

“For the record, I've never met another Parselmouth before either,” Emil tells him. “I assume you have your own snakes, but do you want to meet mine?”

Harry grins. “Yeah, totally.”

Emil leads him over to the Durmstrang ship. There's only two people on the deck of the ship, and when they spot Emil with Harry they yell something in a different language that makes Emil blush and yell back at them in the same language.

Emil goes below deck, heading down a long corridor filled with doors all labeled with gold numbers. The half-Naga stops outside door number 7 and goes inside.

It looks like a standard dorm room, though clearly meant for only one person. There's a bed shoved into a corner with a work desk right in front of it along the wall. On the wall above the longer side of the bed are a few cabinets. What really catches Harry's attention is the snake enclosure right next to the bed that takes up the rest of the wall. The top of the enclosure is propped open and there is a giant, thick, albino burmese python that is hanging halfway out of it, the upper half of its body curled up on the bed sheets.

“Alfredo, I have a friend I want you to meet,” Emil hisses.

“Do you?” Alfredo lifts her head, twisting around to face the pair of Parselmouths.

“Hi,” Harry greets. “My name is Harry Potter. It is well to meet you, kinship.” Harry makes sure to keep eye contact best he can with the snake.

“It is well to meet you, my kin,” Alfredo hisses. “This one has manners. So unlike the last boy you brought into here.”

Emil's face flushes red again. “Shut up,” he snaps. “I just wanted you two to meet each other. Have you got any snakes, Harry?”

“There's snakes all over Hogwarts, but the only ones I could really call mine would be Esa and Zar,” Harry tells him. “Esa is a Cottonmouth and Zar is an Adder.”

“I'd love to meet them sometime, if you would allow me,” Emil smiles at him, showing off his sharp canines.

“Totally,” Harry smiles right back at Emil.

Emil flops down onto his bed, and after a moment of hesitation, Harry sits right next to him. He toes his shoes off and pulls his legs up to sit criss-crossed.

“How come you didn't tell me about this before?” Harry asks. “I'm not, like, mad or anything, I'm just wondering.”

“I… was kind of nervous,” Emil admits. He scoots back to lean against the wall under the cabinets, Harry following right after him. “I wasn't sure how you'd react. The rumors and stuff of your Parseltongue ability don't say much, just that you can speak it. It never said whether or not you were okay with it, and I didn't want to go and tell you about me if you didn't like the fact that you're a snake speaker.”

“Oh, I love it,” Harry says. “I have this book that's in Latin. It's about the history of Parselmouths. I've written down most of the translations, have it all stuck to the book with a few spells. I could show it to you one time. I know you said your mother told you what she could, but, well, if you wanted…”

Emil reaches over and places his hand on Harry's knee. Harry looks down at his hand and then back up at Emil. “I'd love that, Harry.”

Harry can't help but smile.

Chapter Text

Harry actually, genuinely hates Ludo Bagman.

Hermione Granger, he loves. She's great. She means the world to him.

Ludo Bagman?

He can go explode in a ditch somewhere.

“The first task is what?” Cedric exclaims. He, Harry, Fleur, and Viktor are sitting under the tree by the lake once more, blissfully alone.

“Dragons,” Harry says again. “I thought it was unfair that the three of us knew and you didn't.”

“Okay, but… dragons?” Cedric pulls a face.

“Yup,” Harry says with a nod of his head. “Charlie, that was one of the tamers there, he said there's four: Common Welsh Green, Swedish Short-Snout, Chinese Fireball, and a Hungarian Horntail. He said he doesn't think we have to fight them, just get past them.”

“That iz ztill a lot of vork,” Fleur says. “Getting past a dragon.”

“We should stop working together now,” Viktor suggests. “We do not want our response to the task to be similar.”

“That's a good idea,” Harry agrees, even though he already has an idea (okay, Hermione has an idea) and he had no intention to share it with any of them. He has to keep some secrets, didn't he? It's the Slytherin in him.

—

“You don't call, you don't write–”

Speaking of secrets.

“–we have to find out through a letter from Minnie that you're even in the tournament! Here I thought you were just going through some teenage stuff and didn't want to talk to your dear old uncles anymore, but no! No! You're in the fucking Triwizard Tournament!”

“How did you two even get into the school? The task isn't until tomorrow!”

“We're Marauders, we know this school inside and out,” Remus answers shortly. “Now, Harry, why did you not tell us about this?”

“I don't know, okay?” Harry crosses his arms over his chest. He tries not shrinking in on himself, but he doesn't think he's very successful. He'd just been trying to go to Hagrid's when Sirius and Remus suddenly showed up and pulled him away from prying eyes. Even so close to the Forbidden Forest where not many students would trek, Remus had still put up a privacy ward.

“Harry, I'm sorry, but 'I don't know' is not an acceptable answer here,” Sirius says, voice uncharacteristically stern. “Did you not feel safe telling us? Did you think we'd be angry?”

“Yes? No! I don't know!” Harry groans. “I just don't want you guys to think that I actually put my name in! I didn't!”

“Harry, of course we don't think you put your name in,” Remus says soothingly, “and we are not angry with you. This is not your fault.”

“Well everybody seems to think it's my fault!” Harry yells. “That stupid article that Rita Skeeter wrote made me seem like some glory-hungry little kid! It also included a bunch of things I never said! I even told her that I didn't want her to interview me!”

“Harry, that stuff that Skeeter writes is crap and we all know it,” Sirius tells him.

“Not everybody knows it! Half the school thinks all of it is true! What, that I still fucking cry about my parents!? That's fucking bullshit! I didn't even tell her that! I didn't tell her anything because she's a fucking creep who was trying to get me alone with her in a fucking cupboard!”

Harry doesn't know why it had made him so uncomfortable; her manicured nails digging into his arm as she tried to drag him someplace alone. It made him feel like there were fire ants crawling right under his skin, though, making a home in his bones and muscles. Stupid Lugo Bagman makes him feel the same way. Viktor was right when he said that Bagman's hands were always in places they shouldn't be. Everytime Harry is near him, the man is always grabbing his arm. Viktor usually steps in, though, which Harry is grateful for.

“Wait, Harry, slow down,” Remus raises his hand, “what do you mean? What did she do?”

“Ugh, nothing, she was just being so fucking weird, grabbing me and stuff,” Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Then she wrote all that stuff about me that wasn't even true. She's not even allowed in the school unless there's a task going on, anyways. Blaise and Daphne took care of it.”

“Hold up, she put her fucking hands on you?” Sirius laughs breathlessly, one finger raised in front of him.

“It's not like she hit me or anything. She was just trying to get me alone so she could interview me,” Harry says. “I told her no, though. I–I mean, she wasn't listening, but Cedric and the other champions stepped in and they got her and Bagman to back off.”

“Bagman put his hands on you, too?” Sirius asks.

A bit hesitant, Harry nods.

Sirius laughs and turns in a half circle, but his laugh holds no humor behind it. It's dry and a little dangerous.

“I'm going to fucking kill Bagman,” Sirius swears.

“Sirius–”

“That little fucking dark wizard doesn't know what personal fucking space means and I am going to spend my fucking time teaching it to him,” Sirius bites out in a scathing voice, “and Skeeter, fuck, that fucking slut–”

“Okay, Sirius, not in front of the kid,” Remus says suddenly. He grabs Sirius' arm, which stops Sirius from gesturing wildly anymore. “Harry,” Remus turns back to Harry, “if someone does something that makes you uncomfortable, especially an adult, you tell Sirius or I. I know you Slytherin's have your own way of dealing with things, but this is not something Miss Greengrass or Mister Zabini need to deal with. This is something I or Sirius, as your guardians, deal with. Now what, exactly, did they do?”

“Nothing, really,” Harry shrugs his shoulders, “Bagman just doesn't really listen when I tell him not to touch me. He's always grabbing my arm and stuff. Viktor usually steps in, anyway, so it's fine.”

“Viktor? That's the Durmstrang champion, right? The Seeker for the national Bulgarian team?” Remus asks.

“Yeah. He's cool. The other champions and I figured we ought to look out for each other during this whole thing,” Harry says.

“Watch out for Krum, okay, Harry?” Sirius says.

“What? Why?” he asks.

“Karkaroff, their headmaster, is a Death Eater,” Sirius says coldly. “He was in Azkaban with me, but he made a deal with the Ministry to get out. He started to name names. When he got out, he went to Durmstrang and started to teach everyone who came through those doors dark magic. Don't trust him and be cautious around that Krum kid. You don't know what his intentions are.”

“Viktor's a good guy,” Harry says. “He isn't some dark wizard.”

“Harry, you really don't know what a dark wizard is and–”

“Yeah, actually, I do!” Harry snaps. He takes a step away from Sirius and Remus, who both look a little shocked at his outburst. “I–I just mean… look, Viktor isn't a bad guy. He's good. You can't just judge someone based on where they come from. That's like people judging you because you're a Black or because you're a werewolf, Remus, and you both hate it when people do that. It's not fair.”

“If you trust Viktor, we will trust your judgement,” Remus says, “we simply want you to watch out. Whoever put your name in the Goblet of Fire clearly meant to use the tournament to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” Harry crosses his arms and scoffs.

“Just… watch out, okay, Harry?” Sirius says. “Remus and I just want you to be safe.”

“I'm supposed to get past a dragon for my first task, I think “safe” went out the window a while ago.”

“Sorry, you're what?”

—

Harry's groaning as Snape leads him to his tent. His shoulder hurts like mad. He'd gotten the egg, though, which he is now refusing to let go of. Bagman had tried to take it from him when he got out of the little arena, but Harry had hissed (genuinely hissed, it didn't even mean anything) and held the golden egg close to his chest.

Sirius and Remus are both waiting in the tent Snape herds him into. Sirius wastes no time in gathering Harry into a bone-crushing hug.

“Oh, I knew you could do it, prongslet!” Sirius says as he lifts Harry up with surprising strength. “Remus and I are going to stay as long as your scores, but then we've got to go. Full moon is Thursday night and Moony isn't feeling too well.”

Harry already knew that. He'd been keeping track of the moon cycle as much as Sirius does lately. Sirius has a better hold on it, though; he has a tattoo on his inner wrist of the moon and it changes with each cycle the moon is on. Harry really wants a magical tattoo one day.

After receiving his scores—he ties with Viktor—Sirius and Remus walk Harry back up to the castle before leaving him with Draco, who's been walking with them. The two of them start to head to the Slytherin common room where, naturally, a celebration party is going on.

“You are incredibly stupid,” Draco tells him as they walk. “Honestly, jumping on a Firebolt to get past a dragon! You could have died! You are lucky you are as good of a flier as you are!”

“That is a really convoluted way of saying you were worried for me, Draco,” Harry laughs. “I had it under control, though, I knew I was going to–”

“Damn it, Harry, you don't get it!” Draco yells. “You could have died! You could have really, properly, died! In front of everybody, too, and it's like you don't even care! You're always running into dangerous situations without thinking twice! You're more Gryffindor than Ron and Hermione!”

“Being brave isn't just a Gryffindor trait!” Harry exclaims.

Draco groans and throws his arms into the air, as if Harry's missed the entire point he was trying to make. Harry's got no clue why Draco is getting on him all of a sudden, though.

“Nevermind. Forget it,” Draco snaps, then turns to the chimera and bites out the password. Draco marches into the common room, and although Harry does try to follow after him, he quickly loses the boy in the throes of a Slytherin party. He's never actually been to one; in the previous years, third years and under are all locked in their dorms whenever a Slytherin party is planned. This will be Harry's first one and he refuses to let Draco's melodramatic tendencies ruin it.

So, Harry allows the Slytherin's to drag him into the middle of the party. Blaise shows up at one point to take the golden egg from him, telling Harry that he's going to store it safely in their dorm for later. Harry tries telling him that he wants to open it, but Blaise just tells him to enjoy the party for now and that they'll deal with the second task tomorrow.

Twenty minutes into the party, Cody corners Harry by the glass that looks out into the lake and pushes a goblet of dark liquid into his hands.

“H–Harry, don't… don't tell an'one I'm givin' you these, okay?” Cody slurs in a quiet whisper as he hangs onto Harry's shoulder. “Firewhiskey. Don't… don't go snitchin' on me, a'right?”

Harry grins and raises the goblet to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me, Cody,” he says as he takes a small sip. The taste is horrid, and he nearly spits it out; would have if Cody wasn't looking at him like they'd just won the Quidditch Cup again.

“Our little secret,” he whispers as he motions between them, then Cody lets go and takes off once more, disappearing into the crowd again.

Harry dances for a good hour with his friends, not caring what he's really doing with his body. They had just told him that he had to jump up and down and that was it.

As the party starts to wind down, Harry finds himself warming up by one of the many lavish fireplaces in the Slytherin common room. He has his head back against the top of the sofa, his legs spread and his hands resting on his thighs. The exhaustion from everything that's happened today is starting to catch up to him.

The sofa sinks next to Harry.

Harry turns his head to see Draco sitting there, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other under him while his arm rests on the back of the couch, his right hand holding his left wrist to keep them together.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you,” Draco says quietly. “I just didn't like seeing you in danger. I–I know I've seen you in danger before, but it's never been so… so there, you know? So imminent, I mean. Anyways, yeah, I'm–I'm sorry.”

“'S fine,” Harry says in a slur. “Hey, Dray?”

“Yeah, Harry?” Draco asks.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” he murmurs. “You just… you're amazing. You're so cool and smart, y'know? You're so cool.”

In the dim lighting of the Slytherin common room, Harry sees Draco's face go a little red. He's not sure why his face is doing that, though. Did Harry say something stupid? He mentally catalogues what he just said, but he doesn't think he said anything stupid.

“Okay, you're drunk,” Draco decides suddenly. “Come on, let's get you to bed.”

“Shh, shh! M'not s'posed to tell an'one,” Harry leans forward and shoves his finger over Draco's lips. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

“Yeah, okay,” Draco laughs and stands up. “Your secret is safe with me. Come on, come on. Hey! Greg! Get over here!”

Harry suddenly finds himself being drawn up to his feet. He turns his head drowsily and sees Greg standing there, holding Harry up. One of Harry's arms is over Greg's shoulders while Greg's arm is around his waist, effectively holding him up.

Harry thinks that they're saying things, but he doesn't care enough to focus on it. His senses are kind of fading out, and as Harry is being lowered onto his bed in his dorm, he loses all of them.

Chapter Text

Harry is seriously debating killing his Quidditch captain.

He has the world's worst headache and no matter how still he stays, the world won't stop spinning.

“Here,” Blaise says, shoving a vial to Harry during breakfast Wednesday morning. “Drink this.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry questions as he gently picks the vial up.

“It's a hangover potion,” Blaise explains. “It'll make you feel better, I promise. I doubt you want to deal with Potions at the end of the day while still hungover.”

“Ugh, you're right,” Harry groans. He uncaps the vial and downs it quickly. It doesn't taste as bad as most potions he's had. It has kind of a sweet undertone to it.

“I added melted chocolate to make it taste better,” Blaise says.

“Thank you,” Harry says. “Did you make this?”

“No, one of the seventh years did preemptively. I grabbed a vial and added the melted chocolate because I knew you would enjoy the taste.”

“Well, I do. Thanks again, Blaise.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Later in the day, when Potions is almost over, Snape calls for the Slytherin's to stay back so that he can talk to them about something important.

“What is it, Professor?” Draco asks once the Gryffindor's are all gone.

“As you all know, part of your school list this year was dress robes,” Snape begins. Harry sees a lot of the Slytherin's perk up at his words. “With the Triwizard Tournament, a Yule Ball is additionally hosted. Fourth years and above are permitted to go; younger years are only allowed to attend on invitation from an older year. Potter–” Harry looks up from his lap, “–the champions will be required to dance in the beginning with their partner. I do pray that you know how to ballroom dance, Potter?”

“I do, Professor,” Harry says.

“Good. Find a suitable partner for the dance before December. The Yule Ball will be held on the 25th of December at 8pm. The rest of you are not required to go. I do expect every single one of you to conduct yourselves appropriately for someone in Slytherin house.”

“Yes, sir!” the Slytherin's chorus.

By the end of the next day, five girls have asked Harry out to the Yule Ball and he has turned all of them down. The most notable was a third-year Hufflepuff Harry's never talked to before, and he can't help but wonder if they're only asking him because he's a champion and because he's Harry Potter.

Harry, though, has no idea who to ask to the ball.

“Daphne?” Draco asks as they walk to Herbology the next day.

“I'm not going,” Daphne says from behind them.

“Okay, Trace?”

“Not going either.”

“Millie–”

“Already have a date,” she says, and then doesn't elaborate any further.

“Well, I'm going with Pansy, so you can't have her,” Draco says at last.

“We're going together?” Pansy asks.

“Do you want to go with me?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Of course I'll go with you, you daft idiot.”

Harry sighs as they walk into the fourth year greenhouse. The Ravenclaws are already present, though how they got their first is beyond Harry. The Defense classroom is technically closer—if you jump out the window, that is.

“At this point, I'll never get a date,” he complains as he sets his stuff down. “Everyone who's asked me so far are only asking because I'm a champion or because I'm Harry Potter. I want to go with a friend, someone I care about.”

“What about Hermione?” Greg asks.

“Mmm, no, I don't want people getting the wrong idea,” he says. “Hermione's like my sister, you know? Besides, if I asked her, I think Ron would have a brain aneurysm.”

The Slytherin's all laugh, and across the table, some of the Ravenclaws are laughing too. Harry finds his eyes falling on Padma, who has her hand over her mouth as she giggles at what he said.

“I prefer her over the two sisters,” Zar suddenly whispers in his ear. Harry jumps slightly, having completely forgotten that Zar was with him. The snake is usually doing her own thing, couldn't even bother to stay with Harry, but at least a few times of the week Harry will go to put his robes on and feel Zar and/or Esa twirling around his arms as he does so.

“Shut up, Zar.”

However, as they walk out of Herbology over an hour later, Harry jogs up to Padma and catches her attention. The girl shoo's away her friends—who are whistling under their breaths at Harry—and Harry shoo's away his own—who are rolling their eyes and sauntering off.

“So, I wanna preface this by saying that I only see you as a friend,” Harry starts, “and that you're literally amazing and this doesn't mean I like you more than your sister, I promise. Would you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Padma smiles warmly at him. She places her right hand on her side and juts her hips out.

“I'd love to, Harry,” she says. “Mami is getting Parvati and I clothing from India. What color are your robes?”

“Phthalo green with gold accents,” he tells her.

“Phthalo green, okay,” Padma nods her head. “I'll owl mami tonight, then. Thank you, Harry, for asking me.”

“Thank you for saying yes,” Harry says.

—

“How do you both already have dates!?”

Harry chuckles, hiding his smirk behind the book he's reading. Hermione scoffs from her place by the palladian windows. She's currently trying to find a book from the circular shelves.

“The ball was announced two days ago!” Ron continues.

“We're Slytherin; we're very ambitious,” Draco says with a sly smirk.

“At this rate, I'll be the only guy in fourth year who doesn't have a date,” Ron groans. “Dean and Seamus both already have dates and Terry Boot does too.”

“You could always ask Parvati,” Harry suggests. “She doesn't have a date yet, and you're friends with her, right?”

“Uh, more acquaintances,” Ron waves his hand in a so-so motion. “I could definitely ask Parvati, though. She's really pretty.”

Hermione huffs rather loudly over by the windows.

“Wait, how do you know she doesn't have a date yet?” Ron asks suddenly.

“Oh, I'm going with Padma,” Harry says with a shrug.

“Seriously?” Ron sits up in his seat—he'd gone nearly all the way down, legs far out and spread in front of him. “Not to be rude to her or anything, but are you sure she's not just going with you because you're, y'know, you?”

“I asked her, actually.”

“Honestly, Ronald, do you not think that somebody can be genuinely interested in Harry beyond his fame?” Hermione snaps.

Ron raises his hands in the air. “Hey, hey, I'm just making sure I don't have to go threaten someone. Be all like “if you're with my best friend just for his money, I'll kill you” or something, y'know?”

Harry laughs, feeling kind of comforted by the fact that Ron would stick up for him like that.

“I don't even have access to my full family vaults yet,” Harry says. “Just the ones that will get me over to being 17.”

“You do have six families to pull from, though,” Draco drawls from his seat. His book is held up in front of him and his feet are on the seat in front of him, both chairs being pushed together at the front.

“Six?” Hermione drops down into the seat next to Harry. “I get Potter, obviously, and Black, but what else is there?”

Harry grins. He recalls Sirius telling him that he should keep the Slytherin part of his heritage close to his chest, but if he can't trust Ron and Hermione, who can he trust?

“Fleamont, Gaunt Peverell,” Harry says, then pauses for dramatic effect before continuing with, “Slytherin.”

“No way!” Ron gasps. “You're genuinely the Slytherin heir!? Mate, that's bloody amazing!”

“Yeah, tell the whole school, why don't you?”

Ron scoffs and waves his hand. “Psh, you know sound doesn't carry out from here. That's wicked, though. How did Shakreh react?”

“She already knew, obviously,” Harry pulls his legs into a criss-cross on his chair and grasps his ankle with both of his hands to hold his legs where they are. “She explained some things to me, though. Mostly how I am, technically, her master. She made a vow when Salazar saved her life to serve The Cunning and Most Ancient House of Slytherin. I haven't checked to see where I'm related to him, but I think it might be from the Potter's or even the Black's. I am related to them.”

“Really?” Ron asks.

“Yeah. My dad's uncle, he married Dorea Black, Sirius'… Great Aunt, I think? Draco?”

“Yes, that's right,” Draco says. “She's my Great Grand Aunt. Family trees are weird, though, and the Black's is basically a wreath.”

“What do you– oh!” Harry gasps, Hermione and Ron doing the same. All three of them stare at Draco with slightly horrified expressions while the boy just continues to read his book. A few seconds later, he looks up at them, clearly taking note of the sudden silence.

“What?” he asks. “What!? Sirius' parents were second cousins! They both already had the name Black when they married! Stop staring at me like that!”

“Draco, Merlin, you can't just say stuff like that!” Ron exclaims.

“All old pureblood families are related in some way, though!” Draco furiously slams his book shut and swings around to face them in his chair. “Most of them through the Black family! The Malfoy's through Nonus Malfoy, the Rosier's through my mother's mother, the Potter's through Dorea Black, Lestrange through Arcturus Black the First! Tripe, uh, Parkinson, Bishwick, Flint, Burke, Gamp, Yaxley, Crabbe, Longbottom, Crouch, Weasley, Prewett–”

“Hold up, I'm related to you!?” Ron cuts in.

“How do you know all of this!?” Hermione asks incredulously.

“Grandfather forced me to memorize the Black Family Tree,” Draco says simply, “and yes, Ronald, we are related. My Aunt Walburga, her husband Orion had a sister named Lucretia, and she married Ignatius Prewett, your maternal Great Uncle. Then there was Cedrella Black, who got disinherited for marrying Septimus Weasley. They had Arthur, your father.”

Ron makes a face. “Wait, so my parents are–”

“Don't think too much into it,” Draco says quickly.

“I can't believe you guys are all related somehow,” Hermione whispers, somewhat awed. “I know that in the theory of evolution, everyone is related, whatever whatever, but that's so cool that your family has such an accurate family tree. It is accurate, right?”

“No, yeah, totally,” Draco says. “There's more than a few tapestries around at Black properties and stuff that have the sprawling family wreath on it–” Ron snorts, quickly trying to cover it up with a cough, “–and I've seen the one in the Black heirloom vaults. Mother nor I may be heir, but we still have access. We can trace blood back to when the Founders were still around, but it kind of tapers off into question marks around the late 900's. Families who can trace their families back further than that are…” Draco laughs a little breathlessly. “It's insane.”

Harry thinks back to his talk with Unroir when the goblin had brought him into that cave-like room. The 'Olde' tacked onto his family name rather than it being the Ancient House of Potter. He wonders if there is a family tree in one of his Potter vaults. If he'll look at it and see little 'B.C.'s tacked onto some of the dates.

“Unroir said my family can be traced back over 2000 years,” Harry blurts out. “He also said it's possible that I can trace it back farther and that the Potter's decided to just not share that bit with anyone else.”

The three of them stare at Harry, much like how Harry, Hermione, and Ron had just been staring at Draco.

“Surprise?” Harry shrugs helplessly. “I… I was wondering if… I don't know, maybe this isn't good etiquette or it's a bad idea, but when I go look at the Potter heirloom vault, could… could you three tag along?” Harry looks up at Ron specifically, a sort of pleading look on his face. “You–you can say no, I've got a lot of money and I don't want it to seem like I'm trying to rub it in your face, but I… well, I've got Sirius and Remus, and they knew my parents, but you three are, well… you're my band of Marauders, y'know? Just uh… try not to betray me, hm?”

“Oof, no promises,” Ron sucks in a sharp breath. “That is a pretty big ask, Harry.”

“Oh, shut up!” Harry laughs and playfully swats at Ron's arm.

Hermione laughs, then places her hand on Harry's arm. “Of course we'll go with you, Harry. Are you sure, though? That's putting a lot of trust into us, and I'm not saying you can't trust us, I just mean that you don't have to put that kind of trust into the three of us. You're allowed to do this alone.”

“I don't want to,” Harry says, and he hates how small his voice sounds to his ears.

“It's your family,” Hermione says.

“You're my family,” Harry says. His voice is still small, but it holds a certain conviction this time that he knows he can fall back on.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighs, then wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him over into a hug.

Harry kind of feels like they've been hugging and comforting him a lot lately, but he doesn't really care. The three of them are his best friends. Merlin, they're his family. He doesn't know what he'd do without them, where he would even be without them.

He'd probably be dead, a sinister voice whispers in the back of his mind, and Harry has to admit that it's probably right. He also has to admit that the idea is much less appealing than it was a few months ago.

Chapter Text

Winter break approaches in a flourish of snow and neglected school work. The moment the holiday break starts, Harry has no desire to do any work, and it seems like every other student in the school feels the same way. A thick, heavy blanket of snow settles over the school grounds, and with it, the excitement of the Yule Ball becomes more present.

Harry has never seen the school so filled with students during the winter holidays. It is a complete contrast to his second and third year, when there were only about ten kids staying behind those years—it was the basilisk attacks and then Sirius Black on the loose, but now, the students of Hogwarts have something fun to look forward to with the coming holidays.

Harry's sitting with the other champions and several other students at the Hufflepuff table—it has become a common occurrence in the past few weeks, and Harry's excited to see more mingling between houses as the days pass—when Fleur finally shows up and sinks down into her saved spot between Viktor and a Beauxbatons boy Harry doesn't know.

“I vill never find a date,” Fleur complains.

“Fleur, loads of people have asked you already,” Harry says matter-of-factly.

“None of ze boys in zis school are up to my standard,” Fleur turns her nose up. “Zey 'ave only azked me becuz I am the champion, and becuz I am beautiful.”

“Well, there is no denying that you are beautiful,” Emil jokes. Emil had been glued to Harry's side the past few weeks, and honestly, Harry quite likes it. Emil is quick with a joke, and while Harry is a bit hesitant to admit it, he loves having somebody—a living, breathing human, he means—to speak Parseltongue with, even if they haven't done so publicly just yet.

“Why don't you go with a Durmstrang boy?” Draco suggests, then looks over at Emil. “Are you taking anyone?”

Emil's tanned face goes a little red.

“I–I am, actually. It's uh, George Weasley, from Gryffindor,” Emil says.

Harry's eyes go a little wide.

Oh.

He did not know that about Emil. The Naga boy seems to be filled with secrets.

“Weasley's are hot,” Cassius Warrington says as he sits down next to Theo.

“What?” Harry exclaims. “Ew, those people are like– my second or third family, ew–”

“Cassius is right.”

“Draco!” Harry whips his head around to look at his best friend. “I swear to Merlin, you better not be talking about Ron–”

“What's this about me?”

“Oh, Salazar, can we please abandon this topic of conversation?”

“No, now I'm invested,” Ron says as he waits for Cassius and Cho Chang to make room for him.

“I ztill need a date to the Yule ball,” Fleur says, effectively steering the conversation back to its original topic.

“Would you like to go with me, Madame Delacour?” Cassius stands up, hurries over to stand behind Fleur, then flourishly bows to the girl, one hand extended. “I would be honored to be in your presence.”

Fleur studies him for a moment, then turns her head to look at Harry.

“Cassius is great,” Harry tells her. “Real gentleman, I promise.”

“I'm not asking romantically if you don't want it to be,” Cassius clarifies as he straightens up, “but you need a partner to dance with, and I think we would look good together.”

“What color are your robes?” Fleur asks.

“Warm blue,” Cassius answers.

Fleur smiles warmly. “Yes, we vill look good together.”

“I'll pick you up at 7:30 from the Beauxbatons carriage?”

“Yes, you vill,” Fleur agrees.

Cassius grins wickedly, bows once more, then skips off towards the Slytherin table.

“Who are you going with, Viktor?” Harry asks.

“Hermy-owny,” Viktor says in an extremely butchered version of what Harry thinks is supposed to be Hermione's name.

Harry and Draco both turn very quickly to Ron, who is slowly going just the slightest bit red.

“Hermione's going with–with you?” Ron stammers.

“Yes, she is,” Viktor says. “I asked her. Your friend is very beautiful.”

“Right, yeah, no, she–she totally is,” Ron stands up suddenly. “I'm going to go. I have, um, classes to get to. Yeah, classes. Goodbye.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Viktor asks, looking very worried.

“No, no,” Harry sighs and places a sympathetic hand on Viktor's bicep. “You're perfectly fine, Viktor. Ron's just, uh… a weird guy. Hey, you better treat Hermione okay, alright? She's basically my sister and I'd hate to have to break some Triwizard rule and hurt a fellow champion because she got hurt by you.”

“I vouldn't dream of hurting her,” Viktor says vehemently.

Harry grins. “Good man.”

—

“Potter! Harry Potter, hey!”

Harry turns his head in time to see Derrick jogging up to him. The seventh-year is a lot less of a giant, raging asshole than he was two years ago, but that doesn't mean Harry wants to talk to him. Nonetheless, Harry sighs and allows Derrick to stop him, Draco, and Pansy.

“What is it, Derrick?” Harry bites out. He tries to keep the Slytherin camaraderie in his voice, but based on Pansy's facepalm, it doesn't work very well.

“Over here,” Derrick nods over to a little alcove hidden between a pillar and a window. Rolling his eyes, Harry, Draco, and Pansy follow the prefect into the secluded space. Harry knows that Derrick won't attack him while they're in the middle of the corridor or hidden by a pillar, but he's still glad that Derrick is outnumbered here. Pansy and Draco are both damn good spell-casters, and Harry's not half bad himself.

“After the Yule Ball, the Slytherin's are hosting a bit of an after party,” Derrick explains, “and it's not going to just be Slytherin's that are there. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be there, as well as people from all the houses, even… Gryffindor.” Derrick bites the name out, making it clear that he is not happy with that arrangement. “Can you… is there a way to hide the heir rooms? Me and the other Slytherin prefects would like that to stay a secret, and I am sure that the rest of Slytherin House would like that too.”

“I'll talk to the snakes,” Harry promises. “See if they can hide the door but keep the rooms present. They should be able to. They have more power than you think. Thanks for asking me, Derrick. I'll tell you how it goes later.” With that, Harry turns and leaves the little alcove. Neither Pansy nor Draco had followed him in, but they're standing right outside of it, wands firmly in their hands. When they see him come out unscathed, their wands are pushed into their sleeves quickly like they were never even out.

That night, after making sure the snakes can indeed hide the doors while keeping the rooms intact, Harry sneaks out of the Slytherin common room. It had been entirely too long since he'd seen Shakreh; he'd gotten so busy he'd only been down to see her a few times since they got back from summer break.

Harry groans as he finally makes it down to the Chamber. He absolutely despises having to walk all the way up to the third floor girls bathroom just to fly down way below the school and then walk a long fucking walk to get to the main chamber.

He voices as much to Shakreh when he finally flops down onto his back on the cold ground of the Chamber of Secrets.

“That is not the only entrance to the Chamber,” Shakreh tells him.

“WHAT!?”

“Salazar placed entrances all around the school, my kin. Simply look for the small carved snakes and ask them to allow you in. I believed you to already know this.”

“Of course I didn't know this! If I knew this, do you seriously think I'd climb up four flights of stairs just to fly all the way down here!?”

“I assumed you enjoyed the travel.”

“Oh, good Merlin.”

Harry flops back onto his back once more.

“How many more secrets are you hiding from me, Shakreh?”

“More than you will ever know, my kin.”

Harry stares up at the high ceiling of the Chamber. There's no intricate designs up there, nothing special, but nevertheless, Harry finds his eyes tracing over the little bumps and indents he can see through the shroud of darkness above him.

“Hey, Shakreh?” he whispers.

“Yes, Harry?” she responds, and Harry can't see her (obviously, since her head is about a hundred feet from him) but he can sense the way her long body is coiled around him like a nesting mother, like he is an egg she is nursing. He quite likes the feeling of being so cared for.

“I like boys. I like girls too,” he admits quietly.

“That is lovely, my kin.”

“You don't have a problem with it?”

Shakreh releases a low sound not dissimilar to a chuckle.

“Did you think I would?”

“I dunno,” Harry shrugs best he can lying down. “I know some people are weird about it, and I dunno how it was a thousand years ago.”

“Snakes and basilisks do not hold such trivial prejudices,” Shakreh assures him. “Female basilisks can reproduce without the need of a male basilisk.”

“Does that mean that if you wanted, you could have babies?”

“If I so desired, yes,” Shakreh answers. “I do not live in a place that would be efficient to have babies, however.”

“If you did, though, would you want them?”

“Perhaps.”

Harry grins through his closed eyes. He imagines little baby basilisks slithering around him, tiny stares so intent to kill him but only able to petrify. He imagines he'd find them so cute that he'd have to be fed the petrifying antidote several times a week, and that's probably not good for the body, but Harry loves snakes too much to care.

“I think I would like kids one day. I'd give them a good home. I'd make them feel loved, as kids should feel. I'd never make them feel unsafe in their home. I'd make them feel like they could come to me with anything.”

“Would you?”

“I would, yeah. I'd give them a great life.”

“I'm sure you will, Harry.”

“Yeah.”

Harry smiles warmly.

“Yeah, I think I would.”

—

Padma looks beautiful.

That's the only thing on Harry's mind as the girl walks out from the ornate door that leads into Ravenclaw tower. Padma is wearing a phthalo green lehenga with gold accents on the top and embroidered gold flowers scattered perfectly over the skirt, while the choli top is embroidered at the top and bottom with gold patterns. Her dupatta is a sheer green color, the fabric falling down the left side of her body.

“Close your mouth, Harry, you will catch flies,” Blaise tells him.

“She's beautiful,” Harry whispers.

Harry stammers as he hands over the iris flower bouquet he'd owl-ordered for Padma last week. Padma smiles and thanks him for the bouquet, handing them off to a third-year who dutifully promises to see them to her dorm safely.

“You look stunning,” Harry says.

“Thank you, Harry,” Padma says, then allows him to clip the corsage to her right wrist.

“I–I also, um…” Harry fumbles for the pocket of his robes and pulls out a small, black velvet jewelry box. “A–A Yule gift. For you. Of course it's for you, you're my date, you're very pretty, someone please shut me up.”

Blaise—the literal love of Harry's life—clamps his hand over Harry's mouth and helps him hand the box over with shaking hands.

Padma laughs sweetly as she opens it, but Harry sees the clear shock on her face as her eyes catch sight of the gift he'd gotten her. They're a set of gold claw earrings bejeweled with five very tiny diamonds along each strip of gold that will connect to her ears.

He'd gotten them during their last Hogsmeade trip of the semester, as well as all of his other gifts, which had been given out a few days ago on the first day of Yule. He'd only gotten Mrs. Weasley's gift this morning—another Weasley sweater to add to the collection—as well as Sirius and Remus' gift—a golden hansli set with an emerald stone. Sirius' letter had said that he saw it and thought of him, and that it would look great with his dress robes, which it does.

“Harry, these are beautiful,” Padma whispers in awe.

She drops the jewelry box into her handbag and then clips the new accessories onto her ears.

Harry smiles at her, then offers his arm.

“May I walk you?” he asks.

Padma grins at him and wraps her arm around his. “Of course.”

Together, the group of Ravenclaws (and Blaise and Harry) make their way down to the Great Hall where the ball is being hosted. Padma and Harry have to break off when they get there, though, as McGonagall is calling over the champions. The other champions are already there: Cedric and Cho, Fleur and Cassius, and Viktor and Hermione.

Hermione looks amazing; her hair is sleek and shiny, twisted up into a knot at the back of her head and she's wearing robes of a periwinkle-blue material. She's also holding herself differently, as if she's grown more confident since Harry's last seen her. Her smile is a bit nervous, but it melts away a bit when she spots Harry and Padma.

“Hi, Harry! Hi, Padma!” she greets them happily.

“You look stunning, Hermione,” Padma says immediately.

Hermione's dark face flushes red. “Oh, thank you,” she murmurs quietly. “Your sister helped with a lot of it, really.”

“It's not her who I am complimenting, though,” Padma says easily.

Hermione's face goes a bit more red.

A group of Slytherin's come up from the dungeon entrance, and Harry finds his eyes zeroing in on ice blue robes very quickly. The constellations along Draco's robes glitter in the lighting of the entrance hall. Pansy's mauve chalk colored dress compliments his robes, and Harry can't help but stare at how her own ice blue head scarf is styled into a long braid that falls down one of her shoulders. Pansy doesn't wear her head scarves often, but every time Harry sees her in one, it is always a different color and is always styled differently. He guesses that when you can't style your own hair, a scarf is the next best thing.

Harry stares as Draco glides past them; his hair clips glint in the light of the room, reflecting beautifully off of his snow white hair.

“Harry!”

Harry turns sharply back to Padma, who is staring at him rather exasperated.

“Huh? What?” he asks.

Padma rolls her eyes and pats Harry's arm. “It's nothing, Harry,” she says, and Harry leaves it be.

Only once everyone is inside the Great Hall do the champions and their partners walk in. They enter to raucous applause and head up to a round table at the top of the hall where the other judges are sitting. The walls of the Great Hall have been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables have vanished, replaced by smaller circular tables sitting about half a dozen people each.

Harry's startled to see that Mr. Crouch is not present, instead replaced by Percy, who is sitting there beaming in brand new navy blue robes.

“I've been promoted,” Percy tells him the moment Harry sits down next to him with Padma on his left. He's just glad Bagman is on the other side of the table and nowhere near him. “I'm now Mr. Crouch's personal assistant, and I'm here representing him.”

“Is Mr. Crouch alright?”

“I'm afraid to say that Mr. Crouch isn't feeling all that well,” Percy says, then doesn't elaborate any further.

The feast starts quickly, and Harry keeps up conversation with Padma and Viktor and Hermione, who are on their left. Cedric, Cho, Fleur, and Cassius are, unfortunately, across the table being forced to deal with Ludo Bagman.

When the feast is over, Harry and the other champions travel to the floor to open up the dancing.

The dance isn't as bad as Harry thought it would be. He's danced before, but never with so many people just watching him. Padma is clearly having the time of her life, though, giggling and allowing Harry to spin her around gracefully. Eventually, other people begin to join the slow dancing of the champions.

“May I cut in?” Cedric asks at one point.

Harry looks over at Padma, who nods her head.

“Of course,” Harry says, and the two boys switch in mid-turn, Cedric winding up with Padma while Harry ends up dancing with Cho, who laughs and promises to kick Harry's ass next year in Quidditch. Harry grins right back, of course, and tells her that he'd like to see her try.

Cedric and Harry switching dance partners seems to set off a chain reaction, and by the time the Weird Sisters starts to play more upbeat music, Harry's danced with Padma, Cho, Hermione, Fleur, Lavender Brown, Millie, Emil, Blaise, Professor McGonagall, George, both Patil twins at the same time, and Angelina Johnson, Fred's date.

Once the dancing becomes a bit more disorganized, Harry goes off and begins to mingle with his friends. He has a lot more than he did last year, partly due to the heir meetings they've been hosting the past few months. It's still mostly just study sessions, but Harry can tell that Susan has something up her sleeve that she's planning to release soon.

A few hours into the dancing, Harry escapes from the Hall and to the courtyard outside. The snow is beautiful on the grounds, little flakes flowing down onto him.

“Heya, Harry,” Draco says, sliding up to Harry where he's standing at the beginning of the viaduct bridge. Harry is leaning against the stone wall there, staring down at the way the mountain and trees fall in beneath them.

“Having fun?” Harry asks Draco, who's taken one of his crutches out of the clips.

“Yeah, I am,” Draco admits. “My leg is starting to hurt, though, so I'm taking a break.”

“Your robes are beautiful,” Harry says abruptly.

Draco's face goes red and he ducks his head down and away from Harry.

“Right, yeah, you've said,” he mutters.

“I mean it. They look beautiful on you,” Harry says.

“Uh huh, yeah,” Draco murmurs, seemingly incapable of saying more than a few words at a time.

“Draco, can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“I'm uh… I'm bisexual,” Harry looks away from Draco, turning back to the wall and resting his arms on the old stone, hands hanging over the edge. “I like girls and boys.”

“Wait, really?” Draco swings his head around to stare at Harry.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry swallows thickly. “George is the only one who knows. Well, and–and Shakreh, but she's a giant basilisk, I don't think she counts, um… are you okay with that?” he rushes out hastily.

Draco laughs, the sound echoing off the pillars and towers around them. It pierces through the calm, silent night.

“Of course I don't have a problem with it,” Draco tells him. The boy steps closer and brushes his and Harry's shoulder lightly. “Come on, Harry, you're my best friend. Sirius is literally gay.”

“I just didn't know how you would feel about it being… me, y'know? Someone you've shared a bed with before and been sharing a dorm room with for the past four years…” Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Do you remember what you said about the Dursleys being… abusive and stuff? Sometimes I–I think that what they did to me… the things I'd heard them say about other people, that it's stuck on me more than I act like it does.”

“Harry.”

Draco places his hand on Harry's arm, and it's such a warm source of comfort in the cold night of the December air. Which is strange because Draco's hands are perpetually freezing, but right now, they're warm as a fire.

“Harry, you are a good person,” Draco says with conviction bleeding in his voice. “Merlin, you're one of the best people that I know.”

“Yeah, you think that, but not everyone does,” Harry sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if they're right.”

“They aren't,” Draco swears. He grabs Harry's arms and forces the boy to turn to him. “Harry, they are not right. Anyone who says you are a bad person clearly doesn't fucking know you. Matter fact, point me in the direction of these bastards. I'll fucking show them. You may not be a bad person, but I have fucking capacity for evil. I'll show all those bastards. I'll start hurting them and you'll come in and stop me and that'll fucking prove to them that you, Harry Potter, are a good fucking person. I'll show it to all of them.”

Harry smiles stupidly at Draco, who is still holding onto his arms.

“Have I told you that you're really pretty tonight?” Harry whispers into the snow.

Draco lets go of him abruptly and smacks his arm, causing Harry to laugh loudly.

“Shut up, you can't say that right after you've come out to me!”

Harry only laughs harder.

—

The Slytherin party from after Harry's first trial is nothing compared to what Harry walks into a few hours later with Ron, Theo, Blaise, and Millie at his side.

There is music echoing loudly from all corners of the room, filling every crevice of the common room. There's tables of self-serving drinks and finger foods but no plates to put them on. Harry spots a crowd of people in front of the snake fountain at the entrance sharing brownies between them and wisely decides to steer away from that.

Padma and Parvati both decided not to come with them, so Harry and Ron had walked the girls up to their respective common rooms before coming down here—Ron mostly going up to Gryffindor to change out of his frilly dress robes. Harry's been trying to be a good friend and not make enormous fun of him for his robes but he is very glad when Ron comes back to the entrance hall not wearing them.

The redhead has changed into more muggle clothing: jeans, a graphic tee, and a studded belt Harry knows does not belong to him because he saw Bill wearing the same belt a few months ago after the Quidditch World Cup.

Nearly the entire school is present in the packed Slytherin common room. Harry didn't even know that this many people could fit into the common room, or how people still have the energy to party after the ball. Nonetheless, Harry finds himself getting amped up again, so after dropping his robe and jewelry off in his common room, as well as changing his shirt, Harry ventures into the throng of people screaming and jumping up and down to music, most of which are either drunk or high or both.

Harry's dragged all over the common room by his friends. He ends up playing some strange game of trying to float a cup of firewhiskey to yourself without spilling it (nearly everyone participating is drunk already and he ends up being the only one to succeed), he's brought over to talk to the mermaids at one point, and he somehow finds himself being held upside down on top of a keg stand by George and Fred (he honestly has no idea how such a muggle thing got into the heart of Wizardry, but it's whatever).

Over the course of the night, Harry has more drinks than he can carry shoved into his hands until he is stumbling around and slurring his words, much worse than it was the night of his first trial. He eventually finds himself sprawled out on his bed with his blanket half over himself and fumbling for the two-way mirror Sirius had given him.

“Sirius Black!” he yells into the mirror.

It takes only a few seconds for Sirius' face to show up in the mirror.

“Hey, pup! Shouldn't you be partying your–”

“I'M GAY!”

And then he passes out on the mirror.

Chapter Text

“You look like shit.”

“I don't remember anything from after the keg stand,” Harry groans.

“Here, have a hangover potion.”

Harry doesn't bother looking at the vial Blaise is handing him. He uncorks the top and then gulps down the contents of the vial. The potion has a dim chocolate-like taste, but Harry doesn't even care for appreciating it, he just wants it to work and sober him up. He's not even drunk anymore but he still feels all floaty and disoriented, like he's trying to force his way through a vat of viscous honey.

“We found you passed out on your bed at around 2 AM,” Theo says with a shit-eating grin. “Your face was directly on top of some mirror. Seems even drunk you're worrying about your looks, Harry.”

A mirror?

Harry looks up, horrified, at Draco, who grimaces and nods his head minutely.

Oh, god. Oh, Merlin's fucking beard, had he called Sirius?

He has to get back to the dorm and call Sirius, but he doesn't think he'd be able to deal with any embarrassment of what could have possibly been said. He'd been so drunk last night. That has to be some sort of rule, right? Never let your guardian know you're underage drinking and he'd gone and done exactly fucking that.

Harry lets out a rather pathetic whimper and then drops his forehead onto the table. A warm hand starts rubbing circles on his back, and Harry recognizes it as Blaise's due to the rings he can feel through the fabric of his shirt. He didn't bother putting on his uniform this morning, wearing instead a slightly oversized graphic tee that once belonged to Sirius when Sirius was still a teen and a pair of dull jeans that have more than a few creative rips in them.

“I'm too young to be drinking,” Harry moans pathetically.

“I did tell you not to accept the firewhiskey,” Blaise says.

“What? When? When did you do that?” Harry demands without lifting his head because it's still pounding despite the potion Blaise had just given him. Harry feels Blaise shrug through the hand on his back.

“You seriously don't remember? How much did you have to drink, my heir?” Theo asks him.

Great. Theo was there too when that happened.

“Too much.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Emil's voice coos from somewhere to Harry's right. “Who even gave you drinks? You're too young.”

“I'm too young to be participating in a death tournament, too, but that doesn't stop anyone from making me. Might as well break some more rules while I'm at it.”

“This is why I like you,” Emil says with a small little laugh.

“I like you too, Emil.”

“Thanks.”

—

Harry avoids Sirius until the New Year. He does this by firmly ignoring the buzzing mirror at the bottom of his trunk; he'd shoved it there the fifth time Sirius had tried calling him the day after the Yule Ball.

Sirius' growing insistence in trying to get ahold of him through the mirror—and two letters that Harry also shoves to the bottom of his trunk and refuses to open—is proof enough that Harry did or said something inordinately stupid while drunk off his mind.

There's a Hogsmeade trip the first day of 1995 and Harry goes with Draco, Ron, and Hermione (like he always does) while also stopping by and talking to some of his friends. Even some kids from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons come up to him and strike up short conversations.

He, Draco, Ron, and Hermione are sitting in the Three Broomsticks when two very familiar people walk in and Harry has the sudden urge to do what he'd done last year and dive under the table to hide.

“Shit, shit, I have to–”

But Sirius and Remus are sliding into the booth already, effectively trapping the four of them. Ron looks very nervous next to Sirius and Draco is pressing as much into Harry's side as he can, nearly crawled into his lap with how little space there is now with Remus next to the two of them.

“Hi, lovelies,” Sirius greets with a wide grin. “I got the absolutely strangest call last Sunday night. Can you guess what it was?”

Draco, Ron, and Hermione all snap their heads to Harry. He'd shared his turmoil over this whole thing earlier in the week and while Ron was laughing his ass off about Harry not knowing what really happened, Hermione and Draco had both been trying to urge him into calling Sirius back through the mirror.

Ron's not laughing now, though, and neither Draco or Hermione are speaking up about the importance of “communication” anymore.

“You three, leave.”

Ron doesn't waste a second. He quite literally flips himself over the back of the booth, landing in the empty one next to them, and his head pops up a moment later from it.

“Harry, I love you, your people are scary,” is what he says before he stands up and takes several steps away from the booth.

Hermione sighs, then waits for Sirius to stand up to allow her out. Draco looks like he wants to stay firmly where he is (still half on Harry's lap) but Remus rather forcibly pulls the boy away.

“Go. We're not going to kill the boy,” Remus says, and he doesn't sound even a hint of mad, which relaxes Harry quite a bit.

Once his three best friends are gone—four tables over because despite Ron's reaction, they'd never really leave him behind—Sirius and Remus sit down on the bench across from Harry and Sirius even casts up a privacy ward.

“Look, about last Sunday, I–I don't even remember what happened.” Harry runs a strangled hand through his messy hair. “The Slytherin's, we held a party after the Yule Ball and Fred and George got me on top of a keg stand and it was insane but I don't remember anything after that point. Everything was just kind of a blur of noise and–and colors and I don't even remember calling you on the mirror, but I know I did because the other boys found me passed out on top of it and Draco said it was the two-way mirror and that's why I've been ignoring your calls and the letters and I'm really sorry for anything stupid that I did or said and I'm sorry for drinking. Everyone was doing it and I'd already done it before–”

No, no, no, back-fucking-track.

“I–I mean, I, um…”

But Harry has lost his voice.

Sirius and Remus share an indecipherable look.

“Okay, Harry,” Remus starts slowly, “we're sorry for bursting in here like that, but we were growing worried for you. Especially after what you said to Sirius the night of the Yule Ball.”

A big ball of dread fills Harry's stomach.

“What… what did I say?” he whispers.

Sirius and Remus share another look and Harry really wishes they'd just say it.

“Well, um, you gave me a right fright,” Sirius begins, “calling me at almost 2 AM Monday morning. Your hair was a mess and your eyes were all–” Sirius gestures to his own face, “–wild-like. I said hello and I tried asking or saying or whatever that you should be partying, but you cut me off by yelling, um…”

Sirius sends a panicked look to Remus, who groans and rolls his eyes.

“You yelled 'I'm gay' and then passed out on the mirror,” Remus says quietly.

Now, Harry knows he has problems with repetitiveness, but he really wants someone to try to Avada him again because there is no fucking way that he did that.

Oh, but he fucking did, didn't he? Because neither Sirius or Remus are laughing and pointing and saying “Aha! Gotcha!” and then throwing up party favors for a prank well done.

“Bisexual, actually,” Harry admits in the smallest of voices. “Girls are still pretty, but… but boys…”

“That's fine. That's perfectly fine,” Remus assures. “I know it's–it's likely obvious, but Sirius and I have no issue with that. We're happy that you've figured this out for yourself, though we do wish that you… remembered telling us or that you'd… been sober while doing so, but we're–we're happy that you did tell us.”

“I was going to tell you guys after the first task, but with everything that happened, I–I just… couldn't, and then I was gonna wait til the second task but, well…”

Harry trails off. Merlin, he is mortified that he had done that.

“Cub.”

Sirius' hand closes over Harry's, and the bit of tension in Harry's shoulders melts away at the warm, comforting contact.

“Remus and I love you,” the man says softly.

Harry smiles at Sirius, something warm that is reserved for those he loves.

A giant burst of wind washes through the Three Broomsticks, and Harry whips his head around to the door to see Viktor and Emil walking in with a few other Durmstrang students.

“Oh, oh, drop the privacy ward!” Harry tells Sirius, who listens immediately. “Emil! Viktor!” Both boys look over at him, and although Viktor's face doesn't change, Emil grins wildly and saunters over, the rest of his (Viktor's) Durmstrang entourage following him.

“Harry! Hey!” Emil slides into the seat next to Harry and throws his arm over Harry's shoulders. “I've been trying to find you! Who are these two?”

“This is Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, my godfathers,” Harry says, motioning to the two men as he speaks. “They're just here visiting in Hogsmeade, had to speak to me. Viktor, come on, sit down.”

Viktor moves the table next to the booth against the booth and then sits down. Harry's confused, but then he sees Draco, Ron, and Hermione approaching them again, seemingly noticing that Harry's conversation with Sirius and Remus is finished. Draco sits down right next to Emil, which surprises Harry because the boy usually preferred to sit at the end so that he still had room to stand up easily. Ron sits next to Draco at the table and Hermione sits next to Viktor, much to Ron's dismay.

The other Durmstrang students sit in the booth behind Harry and Emil and Madam Rosmerta comes over to take their orders. Once she is done, Sirius turns to Viktor.

“So, Viktor, you're the Durmstrang champion?” Sirius asks.

“Yes,” Viktor says simply.

“Vikky's not much of a talker–”

“I vill gut you, Krause.”

“–but he's great once you get to know him! You'll warm up, don't worry! Or maybe I'll warm up, hahah! He has threatened to set me on fire thirty-five times since we arrived here.”

That last bit Emil says with a completely straight face and a slightly nervous edge to his voice, which makes those around the table laugh, though he does not look like he's joking. Viktor rolls his eyes from his seat.

“Well, Harry, I'm glad you're making friends,” Sirius tells him.

“Yeah, Emil's great,” Harry says.

“Oh?” Remus raises an eyebrow. “And uh… what're your intentions with our kid?”

“What?” Emil moves his arm away from Harry's shoulder. “Um, I'm not gay.”

“Yes you are!” Viktor says quickly.

“Okay, yes, sorry, I am, but not for Harry, don't worry.” Emil laughs and gently places his arm around Harry's shoulders again. “Harry's not gay either, and I, well… I like redheads.”

And then, to Harry's absolute horror, Emil grins wickedly and roams his eyes up and down what he can see of Remus.

“And brunettes.”

The only girl Durmstrang student behind them leans over and smacks Emil upside the head.

“Stop flirting vith older men!” she says harshly.

“Ah! Katerina!”

“This is why you cannot be left alone,” Katerina scolds. “Viktor, stop him from flirting with everyone he sees.”

Harry laughs, then looks over at Sirius and Remus. Remus looks rather shocked, but Sirius has his arms around Remus' shoulders suddenly and he's glaring intently at Emil, who seems entirely unphased by it. He's better than Harry, at least, because if Harry had that glare directed at him, he thinks he'd wilt under the pressure.

Madam Rosmerta comes around with their drinks and the unlikely group spends the rest of the Hogsmeade trip swapping stories with Remus and Sirius of what's been going on this year. Emil has great fun in describing Harry's many blunders and embarrassing feats while he was drunk the night of the Yule Ball, but thankfully, Draco does the very same thing back to Emil, not pausing even once in calling Emil several scathing names and making immense fun of him.

Harry's not sure why Draco is so short with Emil, but he likes hearing the stupid stories coming from Draco's mouth. He ends up propping his chin on his elbow to better look at Draco as he talks about Emil trying to visually interpret to the mermaids that had shown up at the glass wall to the lake while the party was going on.

Only a few days later, Viktor calls the other champions down to the tree under the lake. To Harry's surprise, he's holding his egg in his lap when they get there.

“Did you figure it out?” Harry asks as he, Cedric, and Fleur sit down on the roots protruding from the ground.

“It is a mermaid,” Viktor says. “You can only hear it vhen it is under the water.”

“How'd you figure that out?” Cedric asks.

Viktor's face goes a little red. “Ah, it was… knocked off the bow of the ship.”

“'Knocked off'?” Harry asks disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Viktor says, and it doesn't seem like he's going to go with any other story. “I jumped in after it and I heard the song coming from the egg.”

“What iz the zong?” Fleur asks.

Viktor produces a piece of paper and hands it over to them to read.

“'Come seek us where our voices sound, we cannot sing above the ground, and while you're searching, ponder this: We've taken what you'll sorely miss. An hour long you'll have to look, and to recover what we took. But past an hour—the prospect's black. Too late, it's gone, it won't come back.'” Cedric reads. “'Taken what you'll sorely miss'? Are they going to take one of our valuables?”

“Our wands?” Fleur suggests.

“We have to use our wands for the task though, right?” Harry says. “Maybe a piece of jewelry?”

“I don't really wear jewelry, though,” Cedric says. “Maybe it's just something we hold dear. I very much like my boots, there's those.” Cedric raises up his foot, showing off the black dragonhide boots he's wearing.

“Wait, they said we have to get what we've lost from them. That means we have to go into the lake. In February.” Harry stares at the other champions. “It's freezing out! How can they expect us to do that!?”

“Warming charms?” Cedric suggests.

“They're really trying to kill us,” Harry groans.

—

“Oh my god! Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!”

Harry snaps his head up, unused to such Muggle words at Hogwarts, no less from Hermione Granger, who makes it a point to not curse. Then again, they're in the Founders library and nobody can really find them here. It's not like sound carries out from the door, either.

“What is it? What happened?” Harry asks, standing up and crossing over to the circular table. Hermione's not sitting there, but it's like there's a sort of barrier separating the dark and the light side of the room that they all instinctively know not to pass. Hermione stands up and hurries over to the circular table and drops the heavy book down.

Light Declarations: Everything You Need To Know is the title.

“Ron! Ron! Get over here!” Hermione yells, urging the boy over by waving her hand. Draco comes over as well, and once they've all sat down, Hermione points at the page she's open on. “So, I'm going to do my rite of intent on Ostara, right? And I'll finish on the summer solstice right before we leave Hogwarts for the year. I've been looking at declaration rites and… Ron…” Hermione looks up at Ron with wide, shocked eyes.

“What?” Ron asks. “What is it, 'Mione?”

Hermione looks down at the pages and begins to read aloud, running her finger along the words as she does.

“'Among the many Light families out there, the Proficient and Most Ancient House of Prewett is one of the most famous. It has been rumored that the House of Prewett was blessed by the Light when their founder, Moria Prewett, saved a young girl from drowning in a rushing river late at night. The stories say that the Light descended down and blessed Moria with its magic. Every child with Prewett blood is born with Light in their soul. Below are the Prewett declaration rites.' Ron!” Hermione turns the book around and shoves it over to Ron, tapping furiously at the page. “Ron, this is your family! You can use these to declare on Ostara with me!”

Ron makes a strained face.

“Uh, that's great and all, Hermione, but I… I'm not declaring on Ostara,” he says slowly.

“What!?”

“I just… I'm not sure if that's what I want to do,” Ron shrugs helplessly. “I–I know it's a great thing and that I have an affinity, but I just don't know if–if I want to do that.” Ron leans over and begins to read the page. “Besides, look at this, I need to start on Litha, the summer solstice.”

“So you could start right as I finish!” Hermione says earnestly.

“Hermione! You're not listening!” Ron hits his fist onto the table and it thoroughly shocks Harry; Draco and Hermione too. “I don't want to do this!” Ron stands up sharply and marches over to the light table. He grabs his robe and furiously clips it on, then slings his bag over his shoulder and stomps out of the room, slamming the antique door behind him.

“What…” Hermione looks over at Draco and Harry, looking very close to tears. “Did I do something wrong?” she asks quietly, tears in her eyes, but Harry has no answers.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE – Ron

Since he was a child, Ron has felt this difference in him. He tried to ignore it, to ignore the pounding and the things in the corner of his eyes, but as he's grown older, as he's matured more and more, the difference has become more prevalent.

Ron didn't know how prevalent until the night of Mabon.

He was so, so happy for Hermione and that she was finding her place, and he was happy for himself, too. Proud, even. He was going to succeed in something his brothers hadn't done, he was going to be the second person to do a light rite of affinity in over 900 years. He didn't mind Hermione going first. Encouraged it, even. Ron knew how ecstatic she was for this and he didn't want to stomp on that by demanding he go before her. He didn't even want to go before her. This was her thing, after all.

When he did his rite, though, when he fell to the ground, he saw something and that difference slammed full force into him.

It's not that he doesn't want to declare. He desperately wants to declare, to do something so groundbreaking, but the things he saw keep showing up behind his eyes and he can't help but feel as if if he does this, it will create a catalyst. He doesn't know how to stop it, though. He barely even understands it.

Flashes of green light; Harry and Cedric's Diggory's faces; a high pitched voice.

When Harry's name erupted from the Goblet of Fire, this great sense of dread opened up in Ron's gut and he feels as if it's just been widening ever since.

The thing is, Ron is scared. He's a Gryffindor, he knows he is, but he doesn't think that that bold bravery has ever been much for him. Ron is scared—terrified, even—that if he does his rite of intent, he will be shown something again and it'll be beyond the flashes of things he couldn't make out or understand that night of Mabon. He's terrified that he'll see something he won't want to see and that it'll worsen the strange nightmares he's currently having.

Ron didn't mean to blow up at Hermione, but he's just so scared and he doesn't know how to work past it. He doesn't want to tell anyone about this either because what if they start thinking he's insane? Or what if something happens and they blame him for not stopping it?

Ron finds himself recalling a conversation from the year prior, and before he can psych himself out of it, he's going into the library to hunt down the only person he knows that might have any insight to this stuff. He finds her sitting alone at one of the tables, nose buried in a book in a different language.

“I can notice you staring, Weasley,” she drawls when he doesn't say anything for several moments.

“Can I sit?” Ron asks.

“Can I stop you?”

“You could kill me.”

“Hmm, a tempting option,” she muses, then closes her book and sets it aside.

Ron pulls out the seat across from her and sits down, then folds his hands on top of the table. He read somewhere in the Founders library that keeping your hands visible is used as a sign of trust between two wizards, to show that neither is armed, though he knows Pansy Parkinson, like almost all the other Slytherin's, have one of those handy wand holsters in her sleeve. He really oughta get one for himself if he ever gets extra money.

“Look, Parkinson, I–I know we're not really friends. I mean, it's really just some mutual friends that we have and you have no reason to help me or anything but I didn't know where else to go–”

“Get on with it, Weasley, or I walk away from this table and pretend this conversation never happened.”

“What do you know about seers?”

That catches her attention. Parkinson snaps her head to him and her hand that she was slowly examining the nails of curl into a fist. Her hazel eyes are so wide Ron can see his reflection in them.

“Why are you asking?” Parkinson demands.

“I–I can't tell you the whole story, but a few weeks ago, I–I did… something and when I did this something, I saw something,” Ron says slowly. “I saw… I saw Harry… and Cedric. Parkinson, I saw this before the tournament names were called. Way before October, even. I heard something, too. A–A voice, a loud voice almost… almost cackling, and I saw these flashes of–of green light, like spellfire. I've been trying to ignore it but when Harry's name came out of the goblet, it's like this great big wound just opened in my chest and it's been growing wider and wider each day and I keep having nightmares of what I saw but they keep changing, showing me more or less or different things—I don't know what's happening to me.”

Parkinson stands sharply, her bag already slung over her shoulder. “Come, let's go somewhere more private,” she says. Parkinson doesn't wait for an answer as she turns and exits the library, her head held high and ignoring the stares she is receiving. After a second of sitting there like an idiot, Ron grabs his own bag and breaks into a jog after her.

“Parkinson–”

“Quiet.”

“But I–”

“Wait.”

“Where are we–”

“Shut up.”

Ron smartly shuts his mouth.

Parkinson leads him to the bottom of the Astronomy Tower, and then she starts to hurry up the stairs, her short heels clacking and echoing on the loud steps. Ron has to hurry to catch up with her; for a girl her size, she is very fast.

Climbing up seven flights of stairs, by the way, is not fun. In fact, Ron has no idea how Draco does it once a week and especially after walking around all day.

Parkinson goes right up to the lookout tower and she lugs the trapdoor there shut after them—Ron's never seen it closed, honestly, and it kind of makes him feel trapped. Oh, if Parkinson decided to try to kill him right now, he has no idea how he'd be able to get away from her.

The Slytherin sets her bag down on one of the many boxes up here and motions, rather impatiently, for Ron to do the same. Ron hesitantly sinks down onto the box across from her.

“Okay,” Parkinson crosses one leg over the other then clasps her hands in front of her knee, “explain this better.”

“A few months ago, in September, I did this… magic thing that I can't tell you about, but when I did it, I saw Harry and Cedric and there was this green spellfire and a voice that was laughing,” Ron says. “That's what I saw then, but since that night, I've been having these… horrible nightmares about it and I can't even tell what's my own imagination and what's–”

Ron cuts himself off. He won't call them visions. That would give them credibility and he refuses to do that. Calling them visions would mean admitting that they're real and could actually happen and although Ron has no idea what is happening in it, he knows that it's bad.

“Okay…” Parkinson says slowly. “Ron, I know you absolutely hate that class, but what do you think of divination as a whole? Not as a class, because we all know Trelawney is not the best teacher, but what do you think of the practice of divination?”

“I mean, I–I don't think it's a whole crack thing,” Ron says with a shrug of his shoulders. “I know it's real. I know there have been many credible seers and prophecies and stuff over the centuries, but I don't think it should be used as a very reliable source, you know? I've read that it's hard to control your visions. That you need immense practice and skill and raw power to do so, so you should take what you see or hear or whatever with a grain of salt.”

“Do you know if there is any Seer blood in your family?” Parkinson asks him.

Ron thinks back to what Hermione had said about the Prewett's being blessed by the light and how every child with Prewett blood in their veins has light in their soul. He wonders if Seer's have anything to do with that, if they're specified for either light or dark. Then again, Parkinson had said her grandmother was a True Seer and Ron is fairly sure the Parkinson bloodline is dark.

Perhaps they're more of a grey area. After all, seeing the future isn't a specific dark or light thing. It has capacity for evil and good and light and dark have a capacity for good and evil both. He can't risk asking Parkinson about it though; he can't risk revealing the light magic thing. It wouldn't be just him he'd be putting at risk of discovery by that, after all. It's Hermione, too, and even Harry and Draco.

No, he can't risk it.

“I don't know,” Ron decides. “Mum doesn't talk much about her family. I think it… it brings up too many memories of Uncle Fabian and Gideon. As for dad… I've honestly no idea. They never really gave us family history lessons when we were kids. Not like your parents did, I'm sure.”

“My parents made me memorize my history,” Parkinson says plainly.

“Right, well, mine didn't,” Ron snaps, then winces. “Sorry, sorry, I don't mean to snap, I'm just… Everything looks so scary. I've been… I've been different since I was young, I've always known there was something different about me but I didn't know how different it was until I did m– uh, the thing.”

“Ron.”

Ron snaps his head up when his name falls from Parkinson's mouth. They're not close enough to call each other by their first names, but he thinks she's just trying to be friendly.

“Yes, there is something different about you, but it is not bad,” she says earnestly. “I know that it is scary and not at all what you are used to, but this is not a bad thing. If you are a seer, truly a seer, you can teach yourself to better understand and even possibly control it. You were right, before, when you said we aren't really friends, but you're Harry and… and even Draco's best friend, so I will help you. You're a Slytherin-in-law, okay?”

Ron chuckles at the choice of wording, and it pulls a little smile at Parkinson's lips.

“I'm going to owl my mother and ask her to grab some of the books that my grandmother used to use,” Parkinson promises. “We're going to figure this out, Ron, I promise.”

Ron smiles hesitantly at the girl.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” he says. “Really, I mean it. This… this means a lot.”

“Happy to help, Weasley.”

And they're back to Weasley. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

—

Ron goes up to Hermione during their first History of Magic lesson of the new year. Professor Binns is drawling on about something nobody cares about and, well, his class is the easiest to get away with stuff in—such as talking.

“Hermione, I want to apologize for yelling at you the other day,” Ron whispers. “It wasn't fair, I just… I'm not sure if this is what I want to do, you know?”

“I understand completely, Ron,” Hermione says quickly. “I was pushing too much and I didn't take into account how you might feel. I know it's your family, but it's your mothers family and I know that what happened to them was–was horrible, and I'm so sorry. I would have liked to do our rites together, but I understand that you want to figure out if you really want to do this. It's completely okay.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Ron sighs. “Really. And I'm going to declare, I want to, I just… not yet.”

Hermione smiles at him, and suddenly, Ron feels a lot better. And he doesn't know why, but that open wound in his chest feels like it's closed in just a bit.

Later, during Care of Magical Creatures, Ron is shocked to see that Hagrid isn't here. Instead, they're met by a stout little woman who introduces herself as Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Where's Hagrid?” Harry asks the woman.

“Never you mind,” she says shortly.

“I do mind, actually,” Harry says, looking just a bit agitated. “He can't seriously listen to Skeeter's fucking words.”

“Language, Mister Potter, and three points from Slytherin,” Grubbly-Plank says, and then she begins to lead them away, talking about unicorns.

“What's wrong? What happened?” Ron asks, walking up to Harry and the other Slytherin's with Hermione right behind him. She doesn't look all that interested in unicorns.

Harry reaches into his school bag and thrusts out a newspaper. Ron is shocked to see the front page and he feels anger bubbling up in his veins.

'DUMBLEDORE'S GIANT MISTAKE' is the title, and to Ron's horror, the article goes on to expose how Hagrid is a half-giant on his mother's side.

“And do you see these quotes?” Parkinson points at the page. “I didn't say any of this stupid stuff! 'Nobody likes Hagrid'? Hagrid is great! Now, I would never say so on paper where my father could read it, but I certainly wouldn't say this! Especially to Skeeter.”

“It's alright, I believe you, Pansy,” Ron says assuringly. “Ah, sorry. I meant Parkinson.”

“No, you're fine,” Parkinson—Pansy—shrugs her shoulders.

“How did she even find out about this?” Hermione asks suddenly, moving just a bit closer to Ron to read the newspaper better.

“I heard Hagrid talking to Madame Maxime about this during the Yule Ball,” Nott admits, “fucking idiot, saying it where anyone could walk by. But I would have seen Skeeter if she was nearby, and I'm sure Hagrid wouldn't have told her all that. He's obviously done some work to keep it a secret.”

“How did she find out, then?” Harry snaps angrily. He snatches the newspaper away from Ron and shoves it into his bag. “That fucking cow, I swear to Salazar above, I'm going to sic my fucking basilisk on her.”

“Woahkay, Harry,” Draco says nervously. “Maybe tone down the psychopathic tendencies a bit, hm?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then goes off to where Grubbly-Plank is, and the rest of them follow.

“Boys, keep back!” Grubbly-Plank yells as the class approaches the flock of unicorns crowded at the edge of the forest. “They prefer the woman's touch, unicorns. Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it…”

“I've never seen so many unicorns in one place before,” Terry Boot from Ravenclaw tells the boys. “They don't usually crowd together like this. Especially not in front of an audience.”

“How do you know anything about unicorns?” Michael Corner asks, just a bit of rudeness tacked onto the end of his voice.

“My mum works with them,” Boot shrugs, then starts practically infodumping about everything he knows about unicorns. Ron rolls his eyes, then leans against the fence, his back to the girls and the unicorns. He finds his mind drifting to Pansy; more specifically, the things she'd said about seer magic after she promised to owl her mother for books.

She'd started by warning him, and she didn't sugarcoat any of it. Ron's not sure if he's thankful for that or not, though. She was very blunt when she told him that seer magic has driven people to insanity before because they saw or heard horrible things. Ron's already seeing and hearing horrible things, but he considers himself lucky that he can't really understand any of it.

Pansy told him that once he gets the books the first thing he should do is look through them for ways he can understand his visions. He doesn't like calling them visions, but there's really no better word for it. Ron also really doesn't want to understand the things he saw, but maybe if he does that he can try to prevent anything bad from happening. He thinks that thinking is what drives people to go insane; desperately trying to prevent things and then failing in the end, but if he doesn't tell himself that he can't prevent it, he really will go insane.

A part of him doesn't want this ability to see the future because if that really was the future, well… Ron has a bit of a theory about what that flash of green light was and he really, really doesn't fucking like it.

Sighing heavily, Ron lifts his gaze from the leaves under his feet and sees that all the boys have backed away from him and they're all staring at him with varying looks of terror on their faces.

“What? What's wrong?” Ron asks. “Is there something on my face?”

Ron reaches his hand up to his face, but just then, he feels a warm breath sliding against the back of his head. The hairs on his arms stand on end, and slowly—agonizingly slow—Ron turns around.

Standing behind him, in all its brilliant glory, is a large horse. Except, on a further glance, Ron notices that it is a unicorn. He'd seen it earlier; the biggest of its pack with its flowing iridescent colored hair and a white coat. Its purple eyes are staring down at Ron, boring into his very soul.

Despite the size and intimidating nature of the unicorn, Ron isn't scared. He feels as if nothing can touch him. Not when he has this unicorn in front of him.

“Boy!” Grubbly-Plank screams from the other side of the clearing. “Boy, get away from the unicorn! Get away!” She begins to run towards him, but Ron isn't really listening to her yelling at him.

Slowly, Ron bows his head to the unicorn, and after a second, the unicorn takes a step away and then bows to him, its head touching the forest floor. The unicorn rises once more and neighs, as if it's urging Ron forward.

He barely hesitates. Ron climbs under the gap of the fence and runs his hand over the unicorn's mane. The unicorn beckons him further and Ron follows it over to the flock of unicorns waiting with the girls. He passes a flabbergasted Grubbly-Plank on the way, but he pays her no mind.

“Joining the girl squad, Ron?” Hermione asks when he approaches.

Ron shrugs his shoulders, his hand not moving from the unicorn's mane. “I've always thought skirts were pretty. Not sure how well they'd look on me though.”

“Hm, you never know,” Hermione says with a little giggle. “Maybe Ginny has some that can fit you. She'll finally be able to pass on her clothes to her sibling!”

“Oh, hahah,” Ron rolls his eyes.

The unicorn turns its body and bows to Hermione, going just as low as it had with Ron.

“Amazing,” Professor Grubbly-Plank says as she approaches the two Gryffindors. “Unicorns don't ever tolerate men. Not that I have ever heard of, at least.”

Ron shrugs, then motions for Hermione to rub her hand over the unicorn's mane. “I dunno, I must just have that kind of charm.”

But over the unicorn's back, he and Hermione make eye contact, and it's clear they're both thinking the same thing.

After Transfiguration, Hermione and Ron both sneak into the Magical Theory classroom and use the dungeon entrance there to get downstairs. It's right around the corner of the Founders library and Ron and Hermione hurry over there. Hermione, the brilliant girl that she is, brings out the book she knows Ron is looking for immediately. She drops the book onto the rectangular table by the light bookshelves.

Creatures of the Light.

“U… U… U…” Hermione mumbles as she flips through the rather thin book. Ron sees several flashes of drawn creatures that he's never even seen before, no less heard of. “Here! Unicorns!” Hermione slams the book open onto the page she's got to. Ron crowds against her until their shoulders are touching.

“'Unicorns are the most pure light creatures in the known Wizarding World. Second only to the Caladrius, the Unicorn was a creature created by the light at the beginning of time. Unicorns are famed for the magical and medical properties they possess in their horns, but this has also put them at risk for wixen who desire to hunt them for the properties they possess. Their hair is made of a very thick material and it has, in certain situations, been used as an emergency bandage for an injured wixen.

“'Unicorns prefer a woman's touch, but being a creature of the light, they are naturally drawn to those wixen that are of the light, no matter their sex. Unicorns can sense those that are of the light and those that are of the dark. Naturally, they prefer not to be touched by those that are of the dark, although they will generally allow a female dark wixen to touch them.' This explains why that unicorn went up to you!” Hermione looks up at Ron, the excitement clear in her eyes and voice. “It recognized you as of the light.”

“That's bloody amazing,” Ron mumbles. “Everyone looked so shocked that it came up to me.”

“I was very shocked,” Hermione says, “but when it bowed to me, it kind of made sense. I wonder why it went to you first, though, and not me.”

“Yeah, I wondered the same thing,” Ron tells her. “You were way closer than crossing the whole bloody clearing.”

“Maybe it wanted to make a point?” Hermione suggests. “Whatever it was, I think it's brilliant.”

Ron grins at Hermione, a strange sense of pride blooming in his chest at the idea of Hermione thinking something he was involved in was great.

—

“Alright Weasley—Ron—what the hell was that the other day?” is the first thing Pansy asks him when he gets up to the top of the astronomy tower, as his note had told him to. “And again today during Care of Magical Creatures!”

“I really don't know,” Ron says, the lie falling off his tongue easily. She is far from the first person to ask him what all of that with the unicorn was about, but she's the first one he actually feels kind of guilty for lying to. The twins and Ginny were easy. They're his siblings and he's lied to them loads of times and everybody else that had asked isn't close enough with him for him to care about lying. Pansy, on the other hand, is someone he can see himself being friends with, for one, and for two, she is going out of her way to help him with this seer stuff he's been wondering about.

Pansy keeps her hands on her hips, her face very close to his. The only thing stopping her entire body from being pressed into him is the hands he has up between them acting as a barrier.

“Hmm…” The girl hums as she studies his face for any giveaway. He won't let her see any of that, though. For some reason, he's gotten inexplicably better at lying with Harry and Draco as friends. He's sure they have absolutely no contributing factor to it, though.

“Fine.”

Pansy turns and marches over to the boxes she was sitting on before Ron climbed up the spiral staircase that leads up here to the lookout tower. Ron rolls his eyes almost affectionately, then follows her and sits down on the boxes across from her.

“Did your mother send back some books?” Ron asks.

“She did,” Pansy says. The girl heaves her bag onto her lap, then drags over a box to put between her and Ron. She turns her bag upside down and, if Ron is counting right, five books fall out. “I told her in the letter that I can't tell her what this is for, so don't worry about that. Does anybody in your little entourage know about this?”

“You mean Harry, Hermione, and Draco?”

“No, I mean Gandalf and Saruman.”

“What– how do you know about Gandalf?”

“Oh, just answer the question.”

“No,” Ron presses. “They don't know. I didn't want to tell them. I didn't want to scare Harry, mostly, especially since Cedric shows up in that… vision.” A shiver dances along Ron's spine when he calls it a vision and it makes him want to pitch himself off the tower. He hates this feeling and he hates how scared he is of all of this.

“Right, well, then this'll be our little secret,” Pansy says as she begins to sort through the books she's just dumped out of her bag. “Alright, this one is a basic introduction to divination. It goes in a lot more depth than the books Trelawney made us get last year. This book is specifically about prophetic dreams and how to interpret them, as well as things you can do to better navigate them. This one is for conduits: crystal balls, runes, wands, etcetera etcetera. All stuff you can use to navigate your prophetic dreams, and I'm assuming that's what you've got going on. Here, this book is about the different types of seers. How their seer abilities develop, I mean. Some hear things, some see things, some feel things, etcetera. And this book…”

Pansy trails off, her hand over the cover of the final book she's faced to him.

“These… are my grandmother's notes,” Pansy says slowly. “I am putting a lot of trust in you, Ron Weasley, by handing this over to you. Every single note she made about things she saw or cautionary tales for other seers are in here. My grandmother was one of the very last True Seer's to be recognized and so she had a lot of knowledge. I want this back by the end of the school year. If absolutely anything in here is misplaced or damaged, I will kill you, Ron Weasley.”

Ron leans forward and places his hand atop Pansy's.

“I will take the utmost care of your grandmother's property, Pansy,” he promises. “I swear it, and should the gods find I've lied, they may strike me where I stand.”

Pansy makes a jerking motion with her hand, but she doesn't move it away.

“Did you just…”

The clouds partially cover the sun, the rays created cascading down on the two of them.

“How…”

“Thank you, Pansy,” Ron says, then begins to gently gather the books into his own bag. “This means a lot to me, and I owe you.”

Pansy's eyes are as wide as they were the previous week when Ron first approached her asking about seers and what she knew about them.

The Gryffindor places the last book into his bag and then stands up. He bows his head to Pansy, then leaves the astronomy tower. He wants to get started reading these books as soon as possible. Which, wow, if first year him could see him now he would be absolutely appalled at how much of a bloody book nerd he's turned out to be.

He thinks he just didn't have anything interesting to read before. Now, though? Oh, now he has plenty of interesting things to pour over, and he couldn't be more glad.

Chapter Text

Harry considers himself a Slytherin. He is ambitious, cunning, and sly. He is, quite literally, the Heir of Slytherin. Through and through, he is a Slytherin. A more forgotten aspect of Slytherin house, though, is a deep loyalty to those they consider family.

Hagrid is, no matter what, family to Harry. He can't imagine where he'd be without the man. So, when Harry spots Rita Skeeter walking into the Three Broomsticks the Saturday after school starts up again, he feels a very sudden urge to curse the woman.

She’s wearing a very ugly pair of banana-yellow robes; her long nails are painted a shocking pink, and she is accompanied by her photographer. They buy drinks and sit at a table nearby; Harry glares at her the entire time.

“…didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo?” Skeeter’s saying. “Now, why would that be, do you think? And what’s he doing with a pack of goblins in tow anyway? Showing them the sights… what nonsense… he was always a bad liar. Reckon something’s up?” Is she talking about Bagman, who had just been in here talking to goblins? “Think we should do a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman…’ Snappy start to a sentence, Bozo—we just need to find a story to fit it–”

“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” Harry calls over to her.

Beside him, Draco clamps his hand down on Harry’s knee, nails digging into his trousers, but Harry doesn’t bother to heed the warning.

Skeeter swivels around, and she beams when she spots Harry. He also sees a look in her eyes that reminds him of a predator getting its eyes on prey; it makes his skin crawl.

“Harry!” she exclaims. “How lovely! Why don’t you come and join–?”

“I would quite literally rather have my soul sucked out by dementors than come near you,” Harry snaps. What did you do that to Hagrid for?”

“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my–”

“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry asks with a derisive laugh. “It’s not like there’s anything wrong with him! Besides, I never see anyone calling out you for being a goddamn predator.”

The words leave his mouth without even meaning to. He didn’t realize how off-kilter he felt until he saw her walk into The Three Broomsticks just now, but he has felt off-kilter. Strange, ever since Skeeter put her hands on him.

The whole pub has gone silent, and everyone is looking between Skeeter and Harry, who has stood up from the booth despite Draco attempting to pull him back down.

Skeeter’s smile flickers very slightly, but she hitches it back almost at once; she snaps open her crocodile-skin handbag, pulls out her QuickQuotes Quill, and says, “How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid you know, Harry? The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?”

Harry almost takes out his wand, but in that split-second, he reminds himself of two things: They are in a pub of witnesses and what is he even wanting to do to her?

Hermione stands very abruptly.

“You horrible woman,” she says through gritted teeth, “you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and anyone will do, won’t they? Even Ludo Bagman–”

“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Skeeter bites coldly, her eyes hardening as they fall on Hermione. “I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl… not that it needs it,” she adds, eyeing Hermione’s hair.

“Let’s go,” Hermione says, reaching out and grabbing Harry’s wrist, stopping him from advancing on Skeeter as he had been getting ready to do. Before Harry turns away from the vulture of a woman, he swears he sees something flicker in her eyes.

They leave; many people stare at them as they head towards the door.

“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” Ron warns in a low voice as they quickly make their way back up the snow-covered street.

“Let her try!” Hermione exclaims; she is shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I? Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid…”

“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” Ron goes on nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up something on you–”

“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet. She can’t scare me into hiding!” Hermione says as she continues on quickly, though slow enough so that Draco can still keep up with them. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore! He should never have let that excuse for a human being upset him! Come on!”

Hermione leads the them to Hagrid’s hut, where the curtains are still drawn. They can hear Fang barking as they approach.

“Hagrid!” Hermione shouts, pounding on his front door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being dramatic!”

Harry pushes Hermione aside and bangs his own fist against the door.

“Hagrid!” he yells. “Hagrid, open up! None of us give a damn if you're half-fucking-giant! Not showing your face is just giving into Skeeter! That's exactly what she wants! Hagrid! Open the door! Open the damn–”

The door swings open suddenly, but it's not Hagrid who greets the group of four.

“Good afternoon,” says Headmaster Dumbledore pleasantly.

“Headmaster!” Harry steps back suddenly. “Where's Hagrid?” he asks, steeling himself.

“Yes, come in,” Dumbledore says as he steps aside.

The four of them step into the cabin. Fang bounds up to them immediately, lapping at their heels and nearly toppling Ron over. Fang is a very smart dog, though, since he never goes to tackle Draco.

Hagrid is sitting at his table, a large mug of tea in his splotchy hands. He looks an absolute mess. His hair is as unkempt as ever and his eyes are red-rimmed.

“Hi, Hagrid,” Harry says quietly.

“'Lo,” Hagrid mumbles.

“Hagrid, we don't care about you being half-giant,” Draco says earnestly. He stands right in front of Hagrid, and it's clear he's not going to allow himself to be turned away. “Nobody who actually matters does! My mother certainly doesn't! She sent me a very detailed letter about how she remembers you from her school days and how you were nice to everyone! Even the Slytherin's.”

“Living proof of what I have been telling you, Hagrid,” Dumbledore steps in. “I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it–”

“Not all of 'em,” Hagrid says hoarsely. “Not all of 'em wan' me ter stay.”

“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time,” Dumbledore says sternly, his eyes peering over his half-moon spectacles now. “Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven't had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?”

“Yeh–yeh're not half-giant!” Hagrid says croakily.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin!” Draco rolls his eyes dramatically. “Look at what I've got for family! Nearly my entire family were Death Eaters! My own Aunt trotured the parents of a boy in my year to insanity, but does that stop me from moving on with my bloody fucking life!? No!”

Harry stares, shocked, at Draco. He didn't know that about Draco, but that's not really what he's focusing on. He's never heard such vulgar words spill from Draco's mouth before. Harry can't tear his eyes away from Draco's determined face, the silver-haired boy's hands on his hips and a fierce determination in his eyes.

“Mr. Malfoy makes a very good point,” Dumbledore says. “My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his business as usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so that may not have been bravery…”

“Please come back to teaching, Hagrid,” Hermione pleads. “The whole class misses you!”

Dumbledore clears his throat, then rises to his feet. “I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday. You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all.” Dumbledore exits the hut.

The four of them spend the rest of the evening in Hagrid's hut, listening to him tell them stories about his father and his early days at Hogwarts. He doesn't mention his third-year at all, which Harry is grateful for. He still doesn't really know if Hagrid knows who Tom Riddle turned out to be, and he does not ever plan to ask.

Later, during dinner, Harry is surprised to be approached by Neville Longbottom. They're sitting at the Gryffindor table this time. The group they've made—the champions, a few Slytherin's, Hufflepuff's, and Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students—has been moving through the tables in the Great Hall for weeks now, mingling with other students. This has, as Harry had intended, made many of the Hogwarts students begin mixing their seats, and now, when walking into the Great Hall, it is fairly common to see a mix of colors at each table.

“Um, Potter?” Longbottom stammers just a bit as he speaks.

“Huh?” Harry turns in his seat.

The Gryffindor boy is standing there, nervously shuffling from foot to foot. Despite his and Harry's friendship that has been stricken up from the heir meetings, he still seems a bit scared to talk to Harry, especially with so many Slytherin's present.

“Yeah, what is it, Longbottom?” Harry asks.

“Can I talk to you?” Longbottom points behind him. “Um, privately?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says. He climbs up from the bench and waves goodbye to his friends. “I'll be right back, guys.”

Longbottom leads them down the corridor, and they duck into one of the empty classrooms after a few minutes of walking.

“What is it you need? Is everything alright?”

“Is it true you guys are going into the lake for the second task?” he asks.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Rumor mill at Hogwarts doesn't stop for anything,” Longbottom shrugs. “Is it true, then?”

“Yes, it is,” Harry says slowly.

“Do you have a plan, then?”

Harry narrows his eyes down at Longbottom, and for his part, the boy doesn't flinch.

“No, I don't,” Harry says after a moment of hesitation.

“I think… I think I have an idea for you,” Longbottom tells him. He slowly reaches into his robes and pulls out a brown pouch. “In the pouch is gillyweed. It'll allow you to breathe underwater for up to two hours. It'll give you gills and webbing between your fingers and toes. Like a half-mermaid.”

Harry looks up from the pouch to Longbottom.

“Why would you help me like this?” he asks. “We're not exactly friends. Sure, we've been getting along in the heir meetings, but we haven't really talked much outside of that.”

At this, Longbottom's round face goes a little pink. He begins shuffling from foot to foot, his eyes downcast.

“He doesn't think we've noticed,” the Gryffindor starts slowly, “but the past few months, ever since your name came out of the goblet, Ron's been having nightmares. He puts up silencing charms around his bed but they're not very good. He keeps waking up yelling your name and I can see how scared he is for you. I just know he'd be heartbroken if anything happened to you, I mean. Besides, it's not like I want you to die or anything. So… here.”

Longbottom thrusts out the pouch, a somewhat desperate expression on his face.

Harry slowly takes the pouch from his hands, a little caught off guard at the revelation that Ron's been having nightmares about him and the tournament. The boy had been so supportive of him these past few months, even when everyone else in the school was against him. He's the most loyal person that Harry knows, but he hadn't really thought about what he must be feeling about Harry being in a death tournament.

“Thank you, Longbottom,” Harry says. “I owe you.”

Longbottom's eyes go a little wide, clearly understanding the undertone of magic in Harry's tone. Harry inclines his head and then exits the room, heading back to the Great Hall, the pouch safely tucked away in his robes. At least now he has a way to get to survive the trip to the merpeople’s kingdom, though he still has no idea what he possibly needs to retrieve.

At the very least, being a Slytherin, they have a direct view into the lake. While the merpeople Harry has asked have all refused to help him, stating that the rules dictate he must do it himself, his previous years at Hogwarts have given him a general idea of where the kingdom is.

Chapter Text

The next month passes rather dully, and before Harry even knows it, he's got less than 24 hours until the second task.

“You'll do fine,” Draco assures him as he, Harry, Ron, and Hermione settle down into their little library nook.

“Look, Harry, you know how you're going to survive underwater,” Hermione says, “and you know, roughly, the way to the merpeople's kingdom. You'll do fine.”

“I still don't know what they're taking from me,” Harry says as he drops his head down onto the table.

“Your wand?” Ron suggests.

“Ronald, he needs his wand for the task!” Hermione exclaims, clearly exasperated. “They wouldn't take it! Viktor's been worried about that bit, too.”

Ron scowls and crosses his arms at the mention of Viktor Krum. Ron's awe of his stardom had worn out the moment it came out he was courting Hermione. Harry's sure they're not correlated.

There's a sudden scuffling noise from the entrance to the nook, and Harry looks over to see Fred, George, and Blaise making their way through the narrow little corner to get into the library nook.

“Shit, this place is cool!” Fred exclaims.

“I– what?” Harry asks, incredibly confused. “What are you guys doing here? How did you find us?”

“Tracking spell,” Blaise answers; he's holding up his wand, and the tip of it is illuminated blue. He waves his wand and the glow goes away. “What is this place?”

“Um…”

“A library nook, obviously!” George says, hands on his hips as he looks around. “Fred and I found it on the Map way back in our first year, but we never actually used it because… who cares about books?”

Hermione makes an offended noise in the back of her throat.

“Ah, Hermione!” Fred yells, clapping his hands together. “Just the girl we've been looking for?”

“Why?” Hermione asks skeptically.

“McGonagall is looking for you,” George says.

“And Snape is looking for you, Draco,” Blaise says.

“Why?”

“No idea, but we were told to escort dear Miss Granger to McGonagall's office.”

“Same here.”

Hermione sighs, but she begins to gather up her things, Draco doing the same.

“I'll see you back in the common room, Harry,” Draco says as he stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He picks up his crutch from where it had been leaning against the table.

“I'll see you tomorrow at the task, Harry,” Hermione says before she leaves with Fred and George, and Draco with Blaise.

“I gotta go, too,” Ron says in a strange tone of voice. “I have, um… work.” Then, Ron leaves, too.

Harry elects to just go down to the common room, where people call out their support and tell him he's gonna do great tomorrow. Several ask him his plan, but ever the Slytherin, he keeps it close to his chest.

He and the others in his year wait in the common room, but by ten o'clock, almost everyone has retreated to bed except for Pansy, who arrived back in the common room way too close to curfew.

“You do have a plan for tomorrow, right?” Pansy asks as she curls against him, a blanket pulled over her body. Harry, too, is sitting against the arm of the sofa with a blanket over his arms. “You're not just feigning your confidence or anything, right?”

“I have a plan, don't worry, Pans,” Harry assures her with a light chuckle as he moves his arm around her shoulders, so that both she and him can be more comfortable curled against each other as they are.

“Good,” she says. “I'd hate to get out to the lake tomorrow and for you to drown or get eaten by merpeople or get attacked by grindylow because you didn't plan thoroughly.”

Harry laughs more.

“I'll be fine,” he promises, and before he even knows it, his eyes are drooping.

He dreams of exactly what Pansy said: Drowning. He dreams of water pouring into his mouth like a funnel, getting into his lungs and him desperately trying to struggle to the surface, but something drags him farther down each time and his head feels as if it is going to explode if his lungs don't get air. Grindylow wraps around his ankles and thighs and torso like hands connected to arms. Then, from the darkness, something long and fast comes towards him, and then a trident is sticking from his chest and the water is staining red around him and he can't breathe and–

“Harry!”

Harry shoots up, startled.

Blaise is standing in front of him.

Had he fallen asleep on the couch?

Pansy is nowhere to be seen.

“What–what time is it?” Harry chokes as he kicks the blanket off of himself.

The common room isn't too full, which saves Harry the embarrassment of having been seen gasping for breath a moment ago.

“8 in the morning,” Blaise tells him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says belatedly as he rubs his head. “Nightmare about getting skewered by merpeople.”

Blaise chuckles, then steps back a few feet.

“Well, I doubt they are allowed to kill you,” Blaise tells him.

“Where's Draco?” Harry asks.

“Um…”

“Blaise… where's Draco?” Harry repeats.

“He wasn't in the dorm when I woke up,” Blaise says, then quickly adds, “But I'm sure he's fine!” when he spots Harry's alarmed expression. “Look, he probably woke up early. You know him, he's an early riser and all that.”

In his panic, Harry almost wants to say, “No he's not!” Except Draco is an early riser, not at all compared to Harry, who, if he could, would sleep way past noon.

“Come on,” Blaise says, grabbing Harry's arm. “We gotta go down to breakfast, then go out to the lake. You'll do fine. You have your gillyweed from Longbottom?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and taking it out. He's been so worried about losing it, that for the past week, he's had it with him at all times.

They head up to breakfast, where there is still no sign of Draco. When Ron joins them some time later, he says that Hermione had not shown up in the Gryffindor common room last night either.

“Okay, now might be time to worry,” Blaise says when he hears this.

“Are they on the map?” Ron demands, but Harry quickly shushes him.

He looks around nervously, then turns back to Ron and says in a hushed voice, “Don't say that so loud!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“Oh, holy shit,” Theo says from across the table.

Harry turns to him.

“What?” he demands.

“What?” he presses when Theo only gapes like a fish.

“'Taken what you'll sorely miss!'” Theo exclaims, hands flat on the table in front of him. “They took Draco! He's what you have to get back from the lake!”

Theo says it so loud that several people whip their heads around, then Harry hears a clattering noise as Cedric stands up a table over and frantically goes over to the Ravenclaw table, where Harry cannot see Cho Chang, Cedric's girlfriend, in sight.

“That's why Hermione's gone!” Ron exclaims, then scowls as he realizes that Hermione being gone means that she's Viktor's person.

“They took Hermione!?” Emil exclaims from a few seats over, then swivels his head around to look at Viktor, who, for the first time since Harry has met him, looks incredibly angry. Viktor snaps his gaze up to the teacher's table, where the professors are clearly just now realizing that something is up.

Viktor is looking straight at Ludo Bagman, who looks nervous. If looks could kill, Bagman would drop dead.

As for Harry? Well, Harry officially, undoubtedly, without hesitance, despises Ludo Bagman.

—

“You're gonna do great, cub!” Sirius exclaims as he tackles Harry in a hug on the lakeside. He's wearing a Slytherin-green shirt and is holding a little flag with the symbol of Slytherin House on it.

“Woah, what's up?” Remus asks as he approaches the two of them and catches sight of Harry's incredibly displeased expression.

“The thing I have to get from the merpeople?” Harry asks. “It's Draco.

“What!?”

Harry startles and looks past Sirius and Remus, and sees Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Mrs. Malfoy is nearly shaking with rage.

“I–I'll get him back,” Harry stammers as he approaches the husband and wife.

“Oh, we know you will,” Mr. Malfoy says in an incredibly composed voice. “In the meantime, I am going to have a few choice words with Ludo Bagman.” He lets go of his wife's arm, waves her away when she tries to leave with him, then goes towards Bagman, who Harry sees flinch when he notices Lucius Malfoy striding towards him.

“Who else is down there?” Sirius demands of him.

“Hermione, Cho Chang, and Fleur's little sister,” Harry rattles off. Fleur, like Mrs. Malfoy right now, had been shaking with rage once she deduced who had been taken.

After waiting for twenty minutes, Bagman and the other judges approach the deck where the champions had been herded towards. Bagman looks a little shaken, Harry notes happily.

Bagman does not spare any of them a glance, and instead places the tip of his wand to his throat and calls, “Sonorus!” When he speaks next, his voice is amplified enough for everyone on the waterfront to hear. “Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… three!”

The whistle sounds shrilly.

Harry shrugs off the coat Remus had generously offered him to wait in, leaving him in only his swimwear: A black swimshirt and a pair of dark green swim trunks. He opens the pouch of gillyweed and stuffs it into his mouth, then takes his wand out of the holster on his sleeve (thank you Millicent, for reminding him to wear it so he doesn't have to hold his wand the whole time) and casts a warming charm on himself (an idea from Vincent), then begins to wade into the water.

Despite the warming charm, Harry can still feel how absolutely frigid the lake is. At the very least, his body is not going numb. His feet, however, clad in water shoes courtesy of Mrs. Malfoy, are slipping on the slit and flat, loose, slimy stones in the water.

Harry pushes his wand back into the holster, steels himself, and then dives beneath the water. He holds his breath for a few moments, still unsure, but when he can't hold it any longer, he opens his mouth and finds that there is no problem.

Harry brings a hand to his numb neck and feels gills. Oh, well, he had clearly gone beneath the water at the right moment.

As he takes in a great gulp of the icy water, he finds that the water is not so cold anymore, and he knows it is not because of his warming charm. The gillyweed must do more than allow him to breathe underwater, then.

They went into the water near the deck right beside the road to Hogsmeade, which means…

Which means he doesn't remember which way is which.

“Shit!” Harry curses, then slams his hands over his mouth. Bubbles have erupted from his mouth and are now floating upwards towards the surface.

Harry frantically kicks upwards, and when he submerges, he finds that he cannot breathe. Gasping desperately, Harry looks around. He's a good fifty feet from the shore now, and that's that way, so if he turns to his right, then he'll be heading in the direction of the kingdom.

His way figured out, Harry dives back beneath the water.

He's only ever gone swimming a few times in his life. The Dursley's didn't have a pool and it's not like he could ever go to any public pools, or like he had any friends with pools in their homes.

He does know how to swim, though, because last summer, when he was at the Malfoy's for a month, he went swimming a few times with Draco watching from the pool deck, usually tanning. Not that he does tan; he's too white for it.

He's also been in the lake a few times, but never deeper than where his feet couldn't touch.

Harry swims for about twenty minutes, and then he begins to hear the song.

“An hour long you'll have to look, And to recover what we took…”

Harry swims faster and soon sees a large rock emerge out of the muddy water ahead. It has paintings of merpeople on it; they're carrying spears and chasing what looks like the giant squid. Harry swims past the rock, following the mersong.

“…your time's half gone, so tarry not Lest what you seek stays here to rot…”

He's seen the merpeople before, but he's never not amazed by how wildly different they look from Muggle depictions. They have grayish skin and long, wild, dark green hair. Their eyes and teeth are both yellow, and they're all wearing thick ropes of pebbles around their necks. Something the Muggle's did get right is how little clothing they wear.

Many of the merpeople emerge from their cave-homes as he passes, some jeering and feigning jumping at him. Nearly all of them hold spears, which does nothing to calm his nerves.

Soon, the dwellings become more numerous, gardens of weeds and other water plants in patches of green seagrass. The closer he gets, the more welcoming it seems, although the spears do not disappear. He recognizes a few of them from the giant glass window that looks into the lake, and he's sure he's spoken to a few of them before.

A lot of Slytherin's know sign language, and he thinks it might be because of the merpeople. While he's never been able to grasp, it doesn't stop him from holding conversations, although usually short, with the merpeople.

Harry finally reaches the square of the kingdom, or at least this part of it. He is sure there is much more.

A choir of merpeople are floating side-by-side, singing the song and calling the champions to them. Behind them is a rather crude statue of a merperson carved into a giant boulder, and there, tied to the tail, are four people.

Draco is tied between Hermione and Cho. There is also a girl, no older than eight, with long silvery hair floating above her head, and Harry recognizes her from the pictures Fleur has happily shown him, Cedric, and Viktor before: Gabrielle Delacour. All four of them appear to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads are lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of bubbles keep issuing from their mouths.

Knowing that the merpeople are going to be of no help, Harry looks around for something sharp. He wishes he had brought a knife, but there's no time to dwell on that. He's not sure how well he can use magic underwater, so he doesn't want to risk it.

After a moment, he sees, some odd twenty feet below them, a jagged rock. Harry turns and begins to dive further down. He grasps the rock—almost drops it—and then makes his way back up.

He knows he cannot save the others, but he doesn't want to leave Hermione. Viktor, though, is a skilled wizard, and had shared that he had a plan, though not one he would disclose. He doesn't exactly want to leave Cho or Gabrielle either, but he has to. Draco has to be his priority right now.

Harry begins to cut at the ropes binding Draco. There is some instinct in the back of his mind telling him not to leave, but he has to.

It'll be fine.

Once he's got Draco free, Harry grasps Draco around the waist, bows to the merpeople—he's not sure how well it conveys given the fact that he's holding Draco with one arm—and then begins to swim away.

He passes Cedric when he exits the kingdom, and Harry pauses a moment to point in the correct direction. Cedric grins, then takes off. He had used a bubble-head charm, which is genius, but Harry has not learned that yet.

Harry takes the exact same route he took to get to the kingdom to get back out, and before long, the muddy terrain below them begins to rise, and the mud begins to get replaced by silt and rocks.

He's gasping for breath the moment his head breaks the surface of the water ten minutes before the hour mark is up. He may be able to breathe underwater, but Draco can't and you know what else Draco can't fucking do?

Swim.

“Harry! Harry!” Draco yells, hands immediately latching onto Harry's neck and shoulders.

“Hold on, Draco, hold on,” Harry tells him. “You're okay, you're okay.” He hopes he's being reassuring, but Draco's cold breath is still dusting over his neck in a panic.

Harry struggles over to the shore, gasping erratically, given the fact that he cannot breathe in the air.

Harry finally finds his footing and he and Draco begin to stumble up the bank, Harry frantically gasping for breath.

Suddenly, Sirius runs into the water, then raises his wand and points it at Harry. He says nothing, but Harry feels his breath returning to him. Sirius meets Harry and Draco halfway down the bank and takes Draco's other arm.

“Harry–” Draco gasps, “–you're dead to me.”

Harry laughs.

“You still got your gills,” Sirius tells Harry as the three of them make their way to the edge of the water, where the crowd is screaming and cheering. “You'll still be able to breathe underwater until the gillyweed is up, but now you can breathe in the air.

“You're the first one up!” Ron yells ecstatically as he wraps a heavenly warm blanket around Harry's shoulders.

“Well, not really,” Theo grimaces on Harry's other side.

Harry stops walking immediately.

“What? What does that mean?” Harry asks desperately, and for a moment, he thinks he should have listened to that instinct.

Theo looks over his shoulder, and Harry follows his gaze.

Fleur is sitting on the edge of the dock, her arms wrapped around her knees and her face vacant of any emotion. She's staring vacantly at the lake. Her arms and legs are covered in blood and scratches and bites. Nobody, it seems, has dared to approach her, not even her Headmistress, Madam Maxime.

“She's refused to let Madam Pomfrey take her,” Blaise whispers, “and nobody from her school has been brave enough to go up to her. Even Madame Maxime is staying away.”

The crowd erupts again as Cedric and Cho come out of the war. The two of them swim over quickly

Harry finds himself being taken from Ron's arms, and when he looks over, he sees that it is Madam Pomfrey.

“Come, Potter, let's go,” she says briskly.

“Wait, wait, what about Fleur?” Harry asks, pushing back just a bit on the woman.

“Miss Delacour is not your business right now, Mister Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says sternly. “Let's get you someplace warm. Come.”

Madam Pomfrey isn't making an effort to help anyone else along, only Harry, and he's pretty sure it is because he has a tendency to wind up in the hospital wing a lot and then never wants to actually stay.

And, well, that streak is not going to end now.

“I am very sorry,” Harry says sincerely, then springs out of Madam Pomfrey's arms, throws off the blanket, and runs down the dock before diving right back into the frigid lake. He knows a lot better where he is going this time, and it takes him much less time to reach the kingdom. The only one still present is Gabrielle, and Harry gets a trident pressed against his throat for trying to grab her.

“You have already taken your hostage,” the merman holding the trident hisses.

Harry grabs the trident's handle and twists it over, then tosses it away (the best he can in the water), whipping out his wand in the process and digging it into the chin of the merman that was previously holding the trident.

The merpeople stare at him, and Harry has the sudden fear that he's just gone and gotten himself and Gabriella killed, but then a merperson drenched in gold jewelry swims forward.

“Take her, child,” the merperson says. “Do not ever come into our waters again.”

Harry doesn't risk a response. He frees Gabriella from her binds and then wraps his arm around her small waist. He doesn't waste any time swimming back to the surface, battling against the heavy water and the fact that his gillyweed is likely running out.

When he surfaces again, it's to a moment of silence, and then, like the roaring of a lion, cheers. He barely even gets halfway up the bank of the lake before Fleur is barrelling into him and gathering him and Gabriella into a hug.

“Oh, you saved her! You saved her!” Fleur is babbling, tears springing in her eyes. She suddenly grasps Harry's face in her hands and kisses his cheeks, much to Harry's shock, then gathers Gabriella in her arms, picking up the little girl with ease.

Madam Pomfrey is waiting for him at the top of the sand, her arms crossed and her face set in a scowl. That's nothing new, though. Every time Harry sees her, she's always glaring at him because he did something stupid again. The two people next to her are new, though. Remus is holding pretty much the same exact stance and face as Madam Pomfrey, but Sirius looks pretty proud. He's trying to hold a stern face, but he keeps grinning at Harry before schooling his face again.

Madam Pomfrey and Remus grab each of his arms and, with surprising strength, quite literally lift him up so that his feet can't touch the ground and they're just holding him a few inches off the ground. They don't let him go until they get to the medical tent right near the bank and deposit him on the bed right next to Draco's.

“You're stupid,” Draco says immediately. The boy is still bundled up in blankets, but the shivering has gone down considerably.

“Oh, you love me.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“You know, if you keep agreeing with me every time I say that, you're going to get my hopes up,” Harry says jokingly, trying for his best playful smirk.

Draco rolls his eyes and looks away from Harry, who grins and settles back onto the bed.

Harry only stays as long as his scoring takes place. He winds up tied with Cedric for first place with Viktor in third and Fleur in fourth. The girl doesn't look all that angry at her placement, but rather about the fact that she got points at all for the second task.

Sirius and Remus walk him back up to the castle again, though this time they have Hermione, Ron, and Viktor with them too.

“So, Harry, are you sure you're sold on being a Slytherin?” Sirius asks him. “Diving back into the lake back there—that was pretty heroic. Very Gryffindor.”

“Hey! Don't try to poach my fellow snake!” Draco yells, looping his arm through Harry's. “I'm already halfway outnumbered in this group with how many Gryffindor moves he does. I refuse to lose him completely.”

“Oh, don't worry, Dragon, I'm a Slytherin through and through,” Harry promises, and he does mean it. Sure, he acts rather impulsive and brave at times, but who says Slytherin's can't ever be brave? Besides, Harry doesn't think he'd look all that good in red and gold.

They have another party in the Slytherin common room that night—Harry's pretty sure they'll take any excuse to party—but Harry doesn't stick around for it. He bids everyone goodnight pretty quickly and then immediately sneaks back out of the crowded common room under his Cloak of Invisibility.

He starts to head out of the dungeons when he remembers what Shakkreh had said a few weeks ago. He's been slowly finding the tiny carved snakes and using them to get to the Chamber, but he hasn't looked through the dungeons for them just yet. Considering that he's not on a time limit, Harry begins to walk through the dungeons.

He finds a tiny little jutted snake inside the Room of Protection. Which, as far as Harry knows, the room doesn't actually protect anything, it's just called that for some reason. Harry's never actually been in here before, and he thinks that's because the room is rumored to only show up to those it likes, and Harry, well, he doesn't know anyone who's been in this room before.

Harry stares at the snake and quietly whispers, “Open.”

The wall moves aside, revealing a dark alcove that goes down on some spiral steps. Harry begins to descend the steps; as he goes, mounted torches flame to life and above him he can hear the sound of the stone sliding shut once more.

The climb down is very short, so Harry assumes that it has some sort of charm or spell on it that shortens the length. Harry puts his hands over his eyes when he finally steps out of the stairwell, parseltongue on his lips to announce his presence to Shakreh, but just a few steps in, he finds his foot hitting something hard and distinctly wooden.

Slowly, and praying to Merlin he doesn't die from this, Harry uncovers his eyes, though they stay fixed on the ground.

The ground has a carpet in the left corner of his eye and the wooden leg of what seems to be a table of some sort. Hesitantly, and still oh so slowly, Harry looks up and sees, to his astonishment, an antique wood table covered in scrolls. There's an inkwell on the other end, half melted candles right in front of Harry, and a green-hilted dagger with a blue stone embedded into it in the middle of the table.

Harry turns to his right and is further shocked when he sees two bookshelves taking up the entire wall, every single shelf filled with books and scrolls and crystals and even some skulls and old, old potions with peeled and fading labels.

Harry begins to reach his hand out to the giant skull taking up a quarter of the shelf in front of him, but right before he touches it, a voice interrupts him that has his entire body freezing.

“Oh, hello.”

Chapter Text

Harry almost can't believe that this is happening. On the wall opposite the bookshelves is a large, life size portrait with a golden, ornate frame around it. Harry recognizes the background as the very office he is in, though it does look a bit different—there are books and scrolls on the floor, the chair is on its side, and the giant skull Harry had just been trying to touch is gone completely.

None of this is what catches Harry's attention so thoroughly.

The man has a short white beard but long white hair and his face is aged with his years. He is wearing dark green robes, the color identical to the robes Harry was wearing the night of the Yule Ball. There is a silver snake necklace around his neck, but it doesn't connect in the middle of his sternum, the head and the tail being just a few inches away from each other.

The man also, quite shockingly, just spoke Parseltongue.

“Hello,” Harry greets.

“What is your name?”

“Harry Potter? And you are?” he asks, though he already has a very prominent suspicion of who this man is.

“My name is Salazar Slytherin,” the man says. He bows his head to Harry. “I notice you are wearing my house colors. I am glad that my heir is in my house as well.”

“How did you know?”

“You could not have found my office without being my heir, whether that be recognized or simply for being a Parselmouth. I have a suspicion it is by blood, however.”

“Not sure, but I did a line test and the Cunning and Most Ancient House of Slytherin was a part of my Houses.”

“'Houses'? Plural?”

“Potter, Gaunt, Peverell, Black, Slytherin, and Fleamont.”

“Potter? Hmm… I don't believe our lines have passed before. Perhaps it occurred after my time.”

“Yeah, probably. So, uh… this is happening.”

Salazar seems to take note of his awkwardness. He walks around the desk in the portrait and brings the chair around to the front, placing it right in the middle of the portrait. He sits down in it and crosses one leg over the other, his hands clasped around his knee.

“What year is it?”

“1995,” Harry answers.

Shock makes itself clear on Salazar's face. “19? My, the last time an heir visited me, they said that it was 1891.”

“That's a long time to be alone.”

“Oh, I always have my books,” Salazar says, motioning to the bookshelf behind him. “I must have read everything on this shelf thousands of times now. I sat down for this portrait in 1069. It was self-made, created by my own magic, of course. I didn't want anyone down here.”

“Yes, I've heard.”

Harry sits down on the chaise along the wall he just came out of.

“So, um… I–I've got nothing to say, I'm sorry. I can't believe I'm talking to you. History says there's no real portraits of you. Or any of the other Founders, actually. Are there? If there's one of you, right here in front of me, there has to be some of the other Founders, right?”

Salazar makes an almost pained face.

“I… am afraid not,” the man says solemnly. “I remember, I used to tell Rowena to sit down for a portrait, but she passed before I could convince her. As for the others…” Salazar trails off, a nostalgic expression on his face. He shakes his head suddenly. “Never mind events of the past, hm? If you have found my office, I am sure you have found the Chamber. How is my dear Shakreh?”

“She's… fine,” Harry says slowly. He can't help but think about all the things Shakreh has said about Salazar—a smart, sophisticated man, but it's always been clear she held a certain grudge towards him for leaving her trapped down here, cut off from the world and the possibility of a bond with another Parselmouth, no less another basilisk. “I've been keeping her company the past few years. I'm in my fourth year, and I met her at the end of my second year. Our meeting wasn't exactly nice, though.”

“How do you mean?”

Harry sighs, and he resigns himself to staying up all night again—this time, though, he's updating a thousand year old wizard on the recent events of the past century, which, for some inexplicable reason, takes a tad bit longer than updating Esa on his summer activities.

—

They have another Hogsmeade trip the first weekend of March, and Harry's glad that he doesn't have to dread any guardian interruptions this time around. Like most Hogsmeade weekends, Harry plans to spend the time with Draco, Ron, and Hermione. They go all around the village, despite having walked up and down it so much by now they could likely do it in a blizzard.

Eventually, they wind up in front of the Shrieking Shack.

“Oh, haven't been here in a minute,” Ron says as they stare past the picket fence at the tall, leaning house in the distance.

“Yeah, yeah, um… can I tell you guys something?” Harry says, completely disregarding what Ron had just said.

“Oh, of course, Harry,” Hermione says softly, ever the most emotionally mature of them.

“Right, yeah, um… so, Draco already knows about this,” Harry says, and he sees Draco snap his head up as understanding dawns on his face. Ron and Hermione both look over at him, but they're too late because his face is set in stone by the time their heads turn. “I'm um… I'm bisexual. I like girls and boys. Especially boys.”

“Oh!” Hermione gasps, and Harry finds himself looking at her first. Wizards, as far as he knows, don't have much of a problem with that stuff, and he knows Ron doesn't care. At least, he assumes so because three of his older brothers (as far as Harry knows) are gay and nobody else in his family has a problem with it.

Hermione, though, is a Muggleborn. She was raised as a Muggle and he knows that homophobia runs rampant in the Muggle world. He doesn't know what Hermione's parents had said about gay people and what she may think about them. Logically, he knows her parents are obviously okay enough to let her stay the night in the home of two gay men and their teenage boy, along with two other teenage boys they didn't know very well.

“Harry, oh, thank you for trusting us with this,” Hermione says. She steps forward and envelops Harry into a hug, and he hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until he lets it go. “We love you. Don't we, Ronald?” She accentuates this with a sharp glare in Ron's direction, but the redhead only raises his hands in the air.