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Chapter Text

Living at Number Four, Privet Drive was pretty much the worst thing in Harry’s life. He hated it here—hated the Dursleys with every bit of him.

Uncle Vernon cleared his throat like he was some big important wizard about to give a prophecy. “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”

Harry looked up, almost shocked Uncle Vernon might actually say something actually important for once.

“Today, I might be making the biggest deal of my career,” Uncle Vernon said proudly.

Harry bit back a snort and went back to his toast. Of course. What else would it be? For two whole weeks there’d been only one topic in this stupid house: the Masons. The rich couple coming over for dinner. Uncle Vernon was hoping for a huge order for his drill company.

“I think we should review the evening plan one more time,” Uncle Vernon said, sitting up straighter. “We all need to be in position by eight o’clock sharp. Petunia, you’ll be…?”

“In the living room,” Aunt Petunia said quickly. “Greeting them gracefully.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I’ll open the door.” Dudley grinned, looking as dopey as ever. “May I take your coat, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

“They’re going to adore Dudley!” Aunt Petunia squealed, looking like she might cry.

“Excellent, my boy,” Uncle Vernon beamed, then turned to Harry. “And you?”

“I’ll be in my room, silent as a ghost, pretending I don’t exist,” Harry said flatly.

“Exactly,” Uncle Vernon said with satisfaction. “I’ll bring them in, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them some drinks. At a quarter past eight…”

“I’ll announce dinner is ready,” Aunt Petunia finished.

“And Dudley, you’ll say…”

“May I show you to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” Dudley said sweetly, offering his pudgy arm to an invisible guest.

“My perfect little gentleman,” Aunt Petunia whispered, touched.

“And you?” Uncle Vernon barked at Harry again.

“I’ll be in my room, silent as a ghost, pretending I don’t exist,” Harry repeated, bored out of his mind.

“Exactly. That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Uncle Vernon snapped. “The Masons don’t know you exist, and it needs to stay that way. After dinner, Petunia will take Mrs. Mason back to the living room for coffee, while I steer the conversation toward drills. If everything goes well, the deal will be done and the contract signed before the Ten O’Clock News. And tomorrow night, we can celebrate by buying a holiday home in Majorca.”

Harry didn’t feel even a bit excited about that. He knew the Dursleys wouldn’t like him any more in Majorca than they did here.

“Right—I'm heading into town to pick up the dinner jackets for me and Dudley,” Uncle Vernon said, getting to his feet. He shot Harry a threatening glare. “And you—don’t you dare bother your aunt while she’s cleaning the house.”

Harry slipped out the back door. The weather was ridiculously bright, the sun beating down on the too-neat, too-boring Privet Drive. He crossed the yard, flopped onto the garden bench, and sang quietly under his breath, like he didn’t want even the wind to hear.

“Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…”

No cards. No presents. And tonight he’d spend his birthday pretending he didn’t exist. He stared emptily at the hedge, chest tight like someone was pressing down on it from the inside. He’d never felt this lonely before.

More than anything at Hogwarts—more than flying lessons, more than Quidditch, more than warm dinners in the Great Hall—Harry missed his friends. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, even Crabbe and Goyle. But none of them had sent him a single word all summer. Not one letter. It was like the entire wizarding world had quietly shut him out.

More than once, Harry almost opened Hedwig’s cage with magic—almost let her fly off and carry a letter to anyone who remembered Harry Potter was still alive. But the risk was too big. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to do magic outside school. And even though he’d never explained that rule, the Dursleys were still terrified of him—terrified he might actually turn them into dung beetles.

For the first two weeks, Harry still got a bit of fun out of scaring Dudley with fake spells—just whispering “abracadabra” was enough to make the big lump bolt out of the room screaming.

But eventually, even that wasn’t funny anymore. With no news, no voice, nothing from the wizarding world, it all felt like it was drifting further and further away. Harry felt stranded in some strange dimension, trapped in strangers’ house, slowly being forgotten by the world that once felt real.

And today—even his birthday—was forgotten.

He would’ve given anything for a letter from Hogwarts. From anyone.

Even bad news would’ve been fine. Even Voldemort showing up right in front of him—at least that would prove the world was still real. That he was still part of it.

All his magical things—books, wand, robes, cauldron, his Nimbus Two Thousand—were locked in the cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon. Harry was pretty sure the only reason they hadn’t locked him in there too was because they were scared of him.

Good thing Uncle Vernon didn’t know about the potion Snape had given him before he left; the one Harry drank every night in secret. That potion was the reason he could stay healthy even with the horrible excuse for food in this house. Without it, he’d probably look like a ghost of himself.

Harry was grateful for that. At least when he went back to Hogwarts, he wouldn’t look weak in front of anyone—especially not Draco.

And that’s when his thoughts slipped again.

That name—Draco Malfoy.

Harry let out a sharp, angry huff at himself. But it was useless. The moment he tried to stop thinking about Draco, the blond’s image came back even stronger. Everything about Draco haunted his mind without mercy. The longing felt like a sickness that crept from his chest into every corner of him.

Every night, he tried to distract himself: by thinking of Ron, Hermione, the other Slytherins, anything except those grey eyes and that stupid, perfect hair.

But the more he pushed it away, the worse it got. Like his soul was rattling under his skin, begging to release something—magic, emotion, maybe both.

Day after day, he waited for a letter from Draco. But it never came.

Not a single owl.

Not a single message.

And that’s when things really started breaking.

His magic, normally obedient, began to twist and surge on its own. Aunt Petunia’s plants wilted and died overnight—she cried so loudly the neighbors probably heard. Dudley screamed when the cake in his hand exploded into a cloud of sugar—he hiccupped and sobbed for half an hour. The bathroom mirror shook and cracked, pulsing in time with Harry’s anger.

Harry tried to hold everything in—swallowing every spark, every tremor of magic desperate to burst out, biting his lip until it bled just to keep the energy from jumping out of his fingertips.

But no matter how hard he fought it, his longing for Draco burned hotter, wilder, like embers doused in gasoline.

He knew that if he let his mind drift to Draco again, even for a second… something inside him might explode.

And still, he slipped.

One second. That was all it took. Draco’s face flashed through his mind—sharp, sudden—and it felt like someone reached inside his chest and crushed his heart with their bare hands. His breath hitched, his eyes stung, and his ribs felt like they were going to crack open. He almost cried—not because he was weak, but because the longing hurt so much his body had no idea what else to do except fall apart.

That was when he felt it—his magic pulsing, trembling, strung tight like a bowstring about to snap.

And right at that perfect, horrible moment, a heavy, annoying voice sliced through the air.

“I know what day it is,” Dudley sing-songed as he waddled toward him.

Harry wiped his eyes fast, trying to shove the magic firestorm back down. At least Dudley’s interruption kept him from blowing up the whole street.

“It’s your birthday,” Dudley sneered. “Why didn’t you get a single card? Don’t you have any friends at that freak school?”

In an instant, the sadness twisted into pure fury.

“Say one more thing about my friends and I’ll roast you alive,” Harry growled. His eyes flashed, his voice shook, and magic buzzed at his fingertips like static begging to burn.

Dudley stumbled back, face pale, shaking. “B-but Dad said you’re not allowed to use magic! He said he’ll kick you out! You don’t have anywhere else to go—you don’t have any friends who actually want you—”

“Jiggery pokery,” Harry snapped. “Hocus pocus. Squiggly wiggly.”

“MUMMMMM!” Dudley screamed, tripping over his own feet as he bolted for the house. “MUUUM! He’s doing the freak stuff again!”

Harry let out a loud, sharp breath, trying not to scream. His magic thrashed around him like a storm barely held in place. He forced himself to calm down—but even his heartbeat felt like a spell about to explode.

Aunt Petunia punished him ruthlessly that day, without a shred of mercy. Harry took it without fighting back. At least it drowned out the ache in his chest.

By the time night came, he’d finished cleaning the whole house.

“Eat! The Masons will be here any minute!” Petunia snapped, pointing at two slices of bread and a pathetic lump of cheese. She was already wearing her salmon-pink evening dress.

Harry washed his hands, ate his sad excuse for dinner, and was immediately sent upstairs. As he passed the living room, he caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in tuxedos and bow ties, looking like overgrown circus clowns. He’d barely reached the stairs when the doorbell rang.

“Remember—one sound…” Vernon hissed.

Harry slipped into his room, shut the door quietly, turned around—

—and froze.

Because someone was already sitting on his bed.

Harry managed not to scream—barely.
The tiny creature sitting on his bed had huge bat-like ears and big, tennis-ball-sized green eyes staring right at him.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds—long enough for Harry to hear Aunt Petunia greeting Uncle Vernon’s guests downstairs.

Then the creature slid off the bed and bowed so low its long, thin nose actually touched the carpet. Harry finally got a good look at what it was wearing: an old pillowcase, patched up everywhere, with rough holes ripped for arms and legs.

“Uh—hi,” Harry said carefully.

“Harry Potter!” the creature squeaked, voice so shrill Harry was positive everyone in the living room heard it. “Dobby has wanted to meet you for so long, Sir… such a great honor!”

“Th-thanks,” Harry stammered, pressing himself against the wall and dropping into the chair next to Hedwig’s cage. His owl was still fast asleep, completely unfazed by the chaos.

Harry really wanted to ask What are you?, but that felt rude, so he went with, “Who are you?”

“Dobby, Sir,” said the creature, eyes shining like he was looking at a legend. “Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf.”

“Oh… okay,” Harry murmured. “Um—not that I’m trying to kick you out or anything, but… this is, like… a really bad time for me to be hosting—uh—house-elves in my bedroom.”

From downstairs came Aunt Petunia’s fake, high-pitched laugh, followed by the scrape of chairs. Harry knew that meant Uncle Vernon’s guests were getting drinks.

Dobby’s head drooped instantly, his big ears flopping down like wet cloth.

“It’s not that I’m not happy to meet you,” Harry rushed out, not wanting to crush whatever feelings the elf had, “but… uh… is there a special reason why you’re here, Dobby?”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Dobby said excitedly. “Dobby came to warn you, Sir… hmm, where should Dobby start…”

“Go ahead, sit down,” Harry said politely, pointing to the bed.

He nearly choked when tears immediately streamed down the elf’s face—Dobby burst into loud sobs.

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never in my whole life…”

Harry heard the voices downstairs suddenly go quiet.

“Sorry,” he whispered quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend Dobby!” the elf cried, barely able to talk through his hiccups. “Never has Dobby been asked to sit by a wizard—like we’re equals…”

Harry panicked, waving his hands, desperate to calm him down before the whole house heard. Thankfully, after a moment, Dobby slowly settled.

“You probably just haven’t met many polite wizards,” Harry said, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head. Then—without warning—he jumped up and started smashing his head against the window.

“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

“Stop—what are you doing?” Harry hissed, leaping forward and dragging Dobby back onto the bed.

Hedwig jolted awake, screeching loudly and flapping her wings like the world was ending.

“Dobby has to punish himself, Sir,” the elf said, eyes a bit crossed. “Dobby almost spoke badly about his family, Sir…”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Dobby serves, Sir. Dobby is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…”

“Do they know you’re here?” Harry asked, curiosity creeping in.

Dobby shuddered violently. “Oh, no, Sir. No… If they find out, Dobby will have to punish himself terribly for coming to see you, Sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door if they ever knew…”

“Why don’t you just leave? I mean—run away?”

“House-elves can only be freed if their masters free them, Sir. And that family would never free Dobby. Dobby will serve them until he dies, Sir…”

Harry’s eyes widened.
“And here I was thinking my situation was bad because I have to live here for another month,” he muttered. “Your story makes the Dursleys look almost human. Isn’t there anyone who can help you? Can I help you?”

The moment he said it, he regretted it.
Dobby burst into tears again—this time because he was touched.

“Quiet—please,” Harry whispered urgently. “Please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear… if they find out you’re here…”

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby…” Dobby sobbed, voice shaking. “Dobby has heard of your greatness, Sir, but your goodness… Dobby never knew…”

Harry’s face went hot. “Whatever you heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish,” he said fast. “I’m not even the best in my class. The real champion is Hermione, she—”

But his voice cut off, like something in his chest jerked hard.
That sudden, sharp longing slammed into him again—the flash of pale blond hair he couldn’t stop seeing.

“Harry Potter is humble and pure,” Dobby said in awe. His huge eyes gleamed like two green gemstones. “Harry Potter does not brag about defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Voldemort?” Harry said without thinking.

Dobby clapped both huge ears with his hands and squealed, “Ahh! Don’t say his name, Sir! Don’t say it!”

“Alright, alright—sorry,” Harry said quickly.

“Dobby has heard,” the elf continued hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord again a few weeks ago… and that Harry Potter escaped him once more.”

Harry nodded slightly.
Dobby’s eyes filled with tears—and weirdly, Harry’s own eyes stung too. That same blond shadow flickered painfully in his mind.

“Ah, Sir…” Dobby sniffled, scrubbing his face with the corner of his worn pillowcase. “Harry Potter is so brave! Has faced so much danger! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter… to warn him… even if it means Dobby must later shut his ears in the oven door.”

His eyes went round with fear.

“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. The only sounds were the faint clinks of forks and knives from the dining room downstairs, and the distant drone of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“W–what?” Harry stammered. “But I have to go back! School starts on September first! It’s the only thing keeping me sane here. You don’t understand what it’s like living in this place. I don’t fit in with them! I belong in your world—at Hogwarts! I want to see my friends!”

His voice wobbled dangerously close to yelling, but he forced it down.

“No, no, no!” Dobby squealed, shaking his head so hard his ears slapped his cheeks. “Harry Potter must stay where it’s safe! He is too great, too noble… such a waste if the world were to lose him!”

He gasped sharply. “If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, his life will be in terrible danger. There is a wicked, secret plan—Dobby has known for months, Sir. Harry Potter must not put himself at risk.”

“What horrible plan? Who’s behind it?” Harry asked quickly, every muscle tensing.

Dobby let out a strangled noise—half choke, half sob—before suddenly slamming his head into the wall again and again.

“Alright!” Harry yelped, grabbing the elf’s arm. “You can’t say it, I get it! But why warn me? You know Dumbledore’s there—you do know who Dumbledore is, right?”

But before Harry could stop him, Dobby sprang off the bed, snatched the desk lamp, and started whacking himself on the head with it while screaming at the top of his lungs.

Downstairs, everything went silent.
Two seconds later, Harry’s heart lurched as heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Uncle Vernon’s voice bellowed, “That useless boy has left the TV on again! I told him about the electricity bill—”

“Quick! Closet!” Harry hissed, shoving Dobby into the wardrobe, slamming the door shut, and diving onto his bed just as the doorknob turned.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Uncle Vernon snarled, face inches from Harry’s. “You just ruined my joke about the Japanese golfer. If you make one more sound, you’ll wish you were never born!”

He stomped out, slamming the door so hard the wall shook.

Shaking, Harry rushed to open the wardrobe and pulled Dobby out.

“Now you see what it’s like here?” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you get why I have to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I have—well… I thought I had friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby asked, voice suddenly sly.

Harry glared at him. “I think they—wait.” His voice dropped, brows knitting. “How do you even know they didn’t write to me?”

Dobby squirmed, feet tapping nervously. “Harry Potter must not be angry—Dobby did it for your own good…”

“You mean…” Harry froze, his voice tightening. “You took my letters?”

“Dobby took them, Sir,” the elf blurted, jumping back out of Harry’s reach. With shaky hands, he dug into his filthy pillowcase and pulled out a whole stack of envelopes. Harry recognized the handwriting of his friends—Hagrid’s too… and one more, written in that familiar slanted script that made his stomach drop.

Draco.

Dobby looked up at him, terrified.

Damn it.

Harry knew he wasn’t supposed to get mad. He had to stay calm. But how the hell was he supposed to do that? For weeks he’d been choking on loneliness in this house, clinging to the hope someone—anyone—still remembered him. And this tiny elf from nowhere had stolen it all.

Even Draco’s letters.

Draco’s letters.

Magic roared in his chest like something waking up angry. The air around him practically vibrated.

“Give them to me,” Harry hissed, the words sharp as a blade.

His eyes weren’t soft anymore—they were dark, heavy, dangerous.

Dobby squeaked, feeling the pressure in the air—not enough to hurt a house-elf, but enough to terrify one. “Harry Potter must not be angry… Dobby only hoped… if Harry Potter thought his friends forgot him… then Harry Potter would not want to return to school…”

But Harry wasn’t listening.

His magic surged, thick and buzzing in the air.

“I’ll give them to Harry Potter, Sir,” Dobby whispered, voice shaking, “if Harry Potter promises he will not return to Hogwarts. Please, Sir! It is danger you must not face! Tell Dobby you won’t go back!”

“No!” Harry snapped, his voice trembling with fury. “Give me back my friends’ letters!”

Dobby stared in horror—but it was too late.

Harry’s magic exploded.

He felt it blast out of him—wild, uncontrollable—and the entire room erupted. Wind whipped around violently, papers spinning like frantic birds, curtains snapping, the wardrobe shuddering like it might jump to life. Hedwig screeched from her cage, and the windowpanes rattled so hard they sounded ready to shatter.

Dobby felt the magic ripple through the floor, racing downstairs.

“No—no, Dobby must fix this!” he cried, and bolted out of the room. He just wanted Harry safe here; at least here Harry Potter wouldn’t walk straight into misery.

Harry, still shaking, ran after him. He thundered down the stairs, heart pounding so loudly it drowned his thoughts.

But it was pointless.

By the time he reached the living room, everything seemed to freeze for one impossible second—
and then all hell broke loose.

Aunt Petunia’s giant pudding suddenly crashed to the floor.
It hit with a boom that sounded way too much like a tiny explosion. Thick cream splattered everywhere—across the window, all over the fancy woman’s dress, straight onto Uncle Vernon’s tie. The porcelain plate shattered into pieces, and Mr. and Mrs. Mason froze with identical looks of absolute horror.

Harry stood on the stairs, shaking, his face drained of color. He tried to breathe, tried to pull himself together, tried to hold back the leftover magic crackling around him like static.

Dobby popped into existence near the dining table, looking completely panicked, arms reaching out. With one blink, the mess vanished—floor spotless, plate whole again, cream gone like it never existed. But the mood? Yeah, that wasn’t fixable.

“Harry Potter will not be returning to Hogwarts,” he whispered shakily, before disappearing into thin air.

Harry collapsed onto the steps, legs giving out. He could hear Uncle Vernon in the living room desperately trying to calm their guests.

But the disaster wasn’t done with him yet.

THRAKK!

A hoarse owl smashed its way through the dining-room window, dropping a letter right onto Mrs. Mason’s head before swooping back out.

Mrs. Mason let out a full-on horror movie scream, staring around like she’d just been cursed.
“This house is insane! You’re ALL insane!”
She bolted out the front door, shrieking, and Mr. Mason followed, face black with fury.

“My wife is terrified of birds!” he barked at Vernon before storming off. “If this is your idea of a joke—you people are absolutely unhinged!”

The door slammed behind them, leaving a silence so tense it hurt to breathe.

Harry stared at the half-wrecked living room—then at the trainwreck his future had just become.

He curled up on the stairs, terrified—of his magic, of himself, and of Uncle Vernon, who was seconds away from erupting.

Uncle Vernon stomped into view with a face that could’ve scared a banshee.
“Read this!” he snarled, waving the letter the owl had dropped. “Go on—READ IT!”

Harry took it with numb fingers.
It definitely wasn’t a happy birthday card.

Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.
As you know, under-age wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and any further magic on your part may lead to expulsion (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).
Please also remember that any magical activity likely to attract the attention of members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense, under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.
We hope you enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic

Everything officially fell apart after that.
And of course, the Dursleys immediately figured out the whole “no magic outside school” rule.

Uncle Vernon stared at Harry like an angry bulldog ready to bite, his lips stretching into a grin that was way too wide to be normal.

“Well, I’ve got great news for you…” he said, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “I’m locking you up. You’re never going back to that school. Not ever. And if you even try to magic your way out— they’ll expel you!”

His laugh burst out loud and metallic, like steel scraping on steel. He dragged Harry upstairs, ignoring Harry’s protests, ignoring how pale he’d gone.

The next morning, some handyman showed up to bolt bars over Harry’s window.
Uncle Vernon installed a cat-flap on his door himself—just big enough to shove in a plate of cold food three times a day. They only let him out twice, morning and evening, to use the bathroom. Other than that, total lockdown.

Perfect. He’d ruined everything.
Now he really couldn’t go back to Hogwarts—couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t protect anyone.

Harry stared out at the sky through the bars, a tightness clawing up his chest, squeezing the breath out of him.
And as much as he tried not to think about it, one name kept echoing in his head.

Draco.

The ache hit hard.
Sharp.
Constant.

Like a spell gnawing at him from the inside, one he had absolutely no defense against.
He missed Draco so badly it scared him. And if this kept going, he knew perfectly well—

He was going to lose his mind.

Three days passed, and the Dursleys still hadn’t shown a shred of mercy.

Harry saw no way out.
He just lay on his bed, watching the sun sink behind the bars on his window. The orange light faded into grey—exactly how his hope felt.

He kept replaying the incident in his head—how the Ministry only detected a simple Levitation Charm, even though his magic had exploded way bigger than that, wandless and wordless.
Weird.
And honestly, a little scary.

At least the two potion bottles he had left kept him going. The liquid was running low, but the stuff gave him strength—kept his body steady even though he was barely eating.
Drinking it on an empty stomach burned like fire, like his body hated it, but Harry had long gotten used to ignoring that kind of pain.

The cat-flap scraped open. Aunt Petunia’s hand shoved a bowl of cold canned soup into the room.

Harry, starving and shaky, practically dove for it.
The soup tasted like nothing and was still half-frozen, but he gulped it down anyway, then shuffled to Hedwig’s cage.

“For you,” he murmured, pouring the mushy leftovers into her little dish.

A few minutes later he drank more potion. A thin warmth spread through his veins, giving him just enough strength to stay awake—but not calm.
Night dragged him into confusing nightmares: Draco’s face, Dobby’s terrified eyes, a whispering voice behind a locked door.

When he jerked awake, the moon was already high.
Silver light filtered through the bars, hitting the dusty floor of his bedroom.

And behind those bars… someone was there.

Freckled face.
Messy red hair.
Long nose and wide, curious eyes.

Harry froze.

Ron Weasley stared back at him from outside the window—like this was both the craziest and most normal thing in the world.

“RON!” Harry gasped, scrambling to the window and shoving it up as far as the bars allowed. “Ron, how—what—?”

Then Harry finally registered the whole scene.
Ron was leaning halfway out of the back window of an old turquoise car… parked in midair.
Fred and George were crammed in the front seats, grinning like maniacs.

“Alright there, Harry?” Fred called.

“What’s going on?” Ron demanded. “Why didn’t you answer any of my letters? I’ve sent, like, twelve! Then Dad gets home and says you got a warning from the Ministry for doing magic in front of Muggles—”

“Well, yeah, that— wait, how’d he know?”

“He works at the Ministry,” Ron said. “And you know we’re not supposed to do magic outside school…”

“I’ll explain, I swear. It’s just—this is so weird,” Harry said, staring at the floating car.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” Ron said with a shrug. “We just borrowed it. It’s Dad’s car, not ours that’s enchanted. But using magic in front of Muggles, in your own house— we had to come get you.”

“But you can’t exactly magic me out of here…”

“No need,” Ron said, jerking his thumb toward the front seat and grinning. “Forgot who I brought with me?”

“Tie this around the bars,” Fred said, tossing the end of a rope to Harry.

“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” Harry muttered, tying the rope tight around one of the bars while Fred mashed the gas pedal as hard as he could.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said. “Back up now.”

Harry scrambled back to the dim corner near Hedwig. The owl seemed to get just how serious this was—she didn’t make a sound. The car roared louder, and then, with a clattering bang, the bars finally popped out of the window as Fred shot the car upward—Harry sprinted back to the window and saw the bars dangling about a meter from the ground. Gasping, Ron grabbed him into the car.

Harry held his breath, listening, but no sounds came from the Dursleys’ bedroom.

Once the bars were safe in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed the car as close as possible to Harry’s window.

“Get in,” Ron said.

“But all my Hogwarts stuff… my wand… my broom—”

“Where are they?”

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t leave my room…”

Fred and George climbed carefully through the window into Harry’s room. Harry stared, amazed, as George pulled a regular Muggle hairpin from his pocket and started fiddling with the cupboard lock.

“Lots of wizards think learning Muggle tricks like this is a waste of time,” Fred said, “but we think it’s worth it, even if it’s a bit slow.”

There was a soft click, and the door swung open.

“Alright—grab your trunk. Take whatever you need from your room and hand it to Ron,” George whispered.

Harry moved quickly, gathering his things and passing them to Ron.

“Okay, we’re off,” George whispered.

But as Harry climbed the window ledge, a loud scream cut through behind him, followed by the thunderous voice of Uncle Vernon. “DAMN OWL!”

“I forgot Hedwig!”

Harry dashed back across the room as the loft light flicked on. He grabbed Hedwig’s cage and handed it to Ron. He was climbing onto his trunk when Uncle Vernon pounded on the now-unlocked door—it burst open with a boom.

For a second, Uncle Vernon froze in the doorway, then let out a bellow like a wounded bull and lunged for Harry’s ankle.

Ron, Fred, and George all grabbed Harry’s arms and hauled with all their might.

“Petunia!” Uncle Vernon roared. “He’s escaping! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

The Weasley twins yanked so hard that Harry wrenched free from Vernon’s grip. As soon as he slammed the car door shut behind him, Ron shouted, “Step on it, Fred!”

And the car shot off—straight toward the moon.

Harry couldn’t believe it—he was free. He rolled down the car window, letting the night wind whip through his hair. He watched the rooftops of Privet Drive shrink behind them. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all frozen in the window of Harry’s room, staring.

“See you next summer!” Harry shouted. The Weasley twins howled with laughter, and Harry leaned back in his seat, grinning from ear to ear.

He let Hedwig fly free, the owl enjoying the wind she’d surely missed as much as Harry had.

“Tell us everything,” Ron pressed, eager for the story. Fred and George leaned in, ready for every juicy detail.

Harry took a deep breath and started from the beginning—arriving at Privet Drive, Hedwig locked up, his things confiscated, waiting endlessly for letters that never came, and finally discovering that Dobby had been hiding them all. He explained how the house-elf had warned him about danger at Hogwarts, and how his anger had exploded, sending magic through the Dursleys’ house in chaos.

“Sounds suspicious,” Fred said finally.
“Totally made up,” George agreed. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who was behind all this?”
“I don’t think he could,” Harry replied. “Like I said, any time he almost spills a secret, he bangs his head against the wall.”

Fred squinted. “Okay, forget that for now. I wanna know something else. You said… your magic came out without a wand? Without words? And two of them didn’t even get noticed by the Ministry?”

George leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You do realize how insane that is, right? Even adult wizards struggle with that.”

Ron looked curious too, though not shocked. Harry didn’t even know how to explain—he didn’t have the answers himself.

“Last year, when I was still stuck in the hospital because of Quirrell, Dumbledore told me my magic is unusually strong, and the trigger… is Draco,” Harry said quietly.

A hush fell over the trio. The twins were suddenly serious, letting Harry speak without a single joke.

“Since then, I decided to learn to control my emotions and my magic so it wouldn’t hurt anyone. At first, I thought it would be easy with books and letters from all of you—especially Draco. But I failed… mostly because I got frustrated that Draco never wrote to me.”

“I didn’t know the magic I released wasn’t being detected. I assumed it wasn’t strong enough to be noticed. But the last time… I got really angry at Dobby for hiding your letters. I don’t know exactly why it triggered detection in the end.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance, remembering all the stories Ron had told them about Harry. This wasn’t exaggeration. It was real.

“But I’m glad we came to get you,” Ron said. “I was really worried when you didn’t reply to a single letter. At first, I thought it was Errol’s fault…” He trailed off, changing the subject—he knew there was no easy way to explain Harry’s magic.

“Who’s Errol?” Harry asked, curious.

“Our owl,” Ron said. “He’s really old. Not the first time he’s passed out while delivering a letter. So then I tried borrowing Hermes…”

“Who?”

“The owl Mum and Dad got Percy when he became a Prefect,” Fred chimed in from the front seat.

“But Percy wouldn’t let me borrow him,” Ron added. “He said he needed him himself.”

“Percy’s been acting super weird all summer,” George said, frowning. “Sending tons of letters but locking himself up in his room a lot… I mean, how many times do we really need to polish the Prefect badge? You’re steering too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at the compass on the dashboard. Fred twisted the wheel.

“Does your dad know you’re flying this car?” Harry asked, already guessing the answer.

“Uh, no,” Ron said. “He’s working tonight. Hopefully we can get it back in the garage before Mum notices we flew it.”

“What does your dad even do at the Ministry?”

“He works in the most boring department ever,” Ron said. “The Muggle Artifacts Misuse Office.”

“Excuse me?”

“Anything to do with putting spells on Muggle stuff. Yeah, Dad’s obsessed with all things Muggle. Our garage is full of Muggle stuff. Taking it apart, enchanting it, putting it back together. If he raided our house, he’d probably arrest himself. Mum’s not happy about it either.”

“Oh, by the way—happy birthday, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. Harry grinned, genuinely happy to hear it.

They’d finally arrived at the Weasley house. The day had turned, the sun shining again as the moon tucked itself away.

“Landing!” Fred called out as the car bumped lightly against the ground.

They landed beside the almost-crumbled garage in the small yard, and Harry got his first proper look at Ron’s home.

It looked like it had once been a giant pigsty, with extra rooms haphazardly added here and there, giving the house multiple crooked levels—as if it were only standing thanks to magic (which, Harry reminded himself, was probably true). Four or five chimneys jutted out from the red roof. A slanted board staked into the ground near the front door read The Burrow. Boots and rusty cauldrons were scattered around the entrance, and a few fat brown chickens pecked at the yard.

“Not bad,” said Ron.

“This is amazing,” Harry said cheerfully, thinking of Privet Drive.

They climbed out of the car.

“Alright, we sneak upstairs,” Fred whispered, “and wait until Mum calls us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you go down and say, ‘Mum, look who turned up last night!’ She’ll be thrilled to see Harry, and no one needs to know we flew the car.”

The plan seemed perfect—but Harry was too busy gawking at the house to notice the three Weasley kids going pale.

He realized their silence when Mrs. Weasley came striding across the yard, scattering the chickens. For such a short, plump woman with a kindly face, it was shocking how fierce she looked now, like a tiger baring its teeth.

“Where have you lot been?” Mrs. Weasley barked at her three children.

“Morning, Mum,” Fred and George said, trying to sound innocent.

Mrs. Weasley glared at them for a moment before softening her gaze toward Harry. “Harry, it’s so lovely to see you, dear.”

But as her eyes fell back on her children, her anger returned. “Empty beds. No notes. The car gone. You could have been killed. You could have been seen!” Her voice was sharp, but she softened again as she faced Harry. “Of course, I don’t blame you, Harry.”

“They starved him, Mum. There were bars on his window,” Ron said pitifully.

Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms and said, “You’d better hope I don’t put bars on your window, Ronald Weasley.”

Ron swallowed nervously.

“Come on, Harry, breakfast time!” she said cheerfully, turning to him.

The kitchen was small and a little crowded. A wooden table and chairs sat in the middle, and Harry perched at the edge of a chair, looking around. He’d never been inside a wizarding home before.

The clock on the wall in front of him had only one hand and no numbers. Around the edges were little notes: Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late. Piles of books were stacked on the mantelpiece—titles like Conjure Your Own Surprises, Spells for Baking, and One-Minute Meals—all utterly magical! And, if his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced the next program: Witching Hour, featuring the famous female wizard singer, Celestina Warbeck.

“There you go, Harry. Now, eat up.”

Just then, a small red-haired figure in a long nightgown appeared in the doorway, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Mother, have you seen my sweater?”

“Yes, dear. It’s on the cat.”

The little figure caught sight of Harry and glared, startled. Harry awkwardly said, “Hi.”

The figure ran off again, leaving Harry a little insulted and confused. “What did I do?”

Harry glanced at Ron. “That’s Ginny. She’s been talking about you all summer. Honestly… a little annoying.”

“Good morning, Weasley,” a deeper voice interjected, drawing Harry’s attention. He assumed it was Mr. Weasley.

“Morning, Dad.”

It seemed the figure hadn’t noticed Harry yet. He chatted a bit about his work before kissing Mrs. Weasley on the cheek and sitting down.

“Who’s this?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Sorry, sir. I’m Harry. Harry Potter,” Harry hurriedly introduced himself.

Mr. Weasley looked surprised and impressed. “Blimey. You really are Harry? Ron must’ve told us about you. When did he arrive?”

Neither Harry nor Ron answered. Mrs. Weasley spoke up: “This morning. Your children flew the car to Surrey and back last night.”

“Really? How’s the car?” Mr. Weasley asked eagerly.

Mrs. Weasley elbowed him. “What I mean, dear, that was completely wrong, children. Very wrong indeed.”

Harry and Ron grinned—turns out Mr. Weasley wasn’t as scary as he’d imagined.

“Harry, you live in the Muggle world. Tell me—what does a rubber duck really do?”

“Uh… umm…” Harry stumbled, completely unprepared for that question.

“Let him eat in peace, dear,” Mrs. Weasley interrupted.

Once breakfast was over, Ron hurried Harry along. “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”

They sneaked out of the kitchen and down a narrow hallway to a crooked, zig-zagging staircase. On the third landing, a slightly open door revealed a pair of bright brown eyes before it slammed shut.

“That’s Ginny,” said Ron. “You have no idea how shy she’s gotten. Normally, she can’t stop talking…”

They climbed two more steps until they reached a peeling door marked with a small sign: Ronald’s Room. Harry ducked inside, his head nearly brushing the slanted ceiling. He blinked. The room glowed like a fireplace: everything bathed in warm orange—sheets, walls, even the ceiling.

Then Harry noticed that Ron had plastered almost every inch of his drab walls with posters of seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, holding brooms, and waving enthusiastically.

“The room’s kinda small,” Ron said quickly. “Not like your Muggle room. And it’s right under the attic ghost’s spot. He’s always banging pipes and groaning…”

But Harry grinned wide. “This is the coolest house I’ve ever been in.”

Ron’s ears instantly turned bright red.

Chapter Text

Life at The Burrow was nothing like life at Privet Drive. The Dursleys wanted everything neat and in perfect order; the Weasleys’ house was full of strange and unexpected things. Harry was completely shocked the first time he looked into the mirror above the kitchen fireplace and it yelled, “Tuck your shirt in, young man!”
The ghost in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever things felt too quiet, and little explosions from Fred and George’s room were basically normal.

But for Harry, the most incredible thing about living with Ron’s family wasn’t the talking mirror or the noisy ghost—it was the fact that everyone there actually seemed to like him.

And yet, in the middle of all that warmth, his mind kept drifting to one name: Draco.
There was this strange pause in his head every morning when he woke up and realized there was still no word from him. Sitting at the kitchen table while Mrs Weasley fussed about his socks, or when George blew something up on the second floor, Harry always felt the same pull—he wanted to write a letter.

More than once he’d already sat at the table, quill in hand, a clean sheet of parchment in front of him.
How was he supposed to explain what happened at the end of last year? How could he apologize? How could he even ask if Draco was okay?

But Harry remembered what Ron said the first time he tried to send a letter.

“Harry… I know you want to write to Draco,” Ron had said one afternoon, in a tone he barely ever used. “I wrote to him once. At the start of the holidays. Draco replied saying… his father found out. And Lucius told him never to answer any letters from people who ‘aren’t worthy’.”

Harry lowered his head and slowly rolled up the parchment.
The need to write stayed there, burning like guilt and longing that he couldn’t put into words.
But every time he pictured that letter landing in Lucius Malfoy’s hands, his quill froze.

Mrs Weasley kept fussing about his socks and tried to feed him three extra servings at every meal. Mr Weasley insisted Harry sit next to him at the dinner table, just so he could bombard him with questions about Muggle life—asking how things like electric plugs or the postal system worked.

“Brilliant!” he said after Harry explained how to use a telephone. “Really clever—Muggles have found so many ways to live without magic.”

Harry got news from Hogwarts on a bright morning about a week after he arrived at The Burrow. When he and Ron came downstairs for breakfast, Mr and Mrs Weasley were already at the kitchen table—with Ginny. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally dropped her bowl of porridge onto the floor, making a loud clattering noise.

Ginny had become strangely good at dropping things whenever Harry walked into a room. She ducked under the table to fetch the bowl and came back up with her face glowing red like a sunset. Pretending not to notice any of it, Harry sat down and took some toast Mrs Weasley offered.

“Letters from school,” said Mr Weasley, handing Harry and Ron the same yellowish parchment envelope, the address written in green ink.
“Dumbledore already knows you’re here, Harry—bloke knows everything. You two got letters as well,” he added as Fred and George showed up still in their pyjamas.

They all fell silent for a few minutes while reading their mail. Harry’s letter told him he’d be taking the Hogwarts Express as usual from King’s Cross on the 1st of September. There was also a list of new books required for the coming school year.

Second-year students will need:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk

Duelling with Dracula by Gilderoy Lockhart

Gossiping with Goblins by Gilderoy Lockhart

Haunting with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart

Trekking with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart

Vacations with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart

Wandering with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart

Yearning with Yetis by Gilderoy Lockhart

“Those books aren’t cheap,” George muttered, glancing at his parents.
“Lockhart’s stuff costs a fortune....”

“We’ll manage,” said Mrs Weasley, though she looked worried. “I think we can get some of Ginny’s things second-hand.”

“Oh—you’re going to Hogwarts this year?” Harry asked Ginny.

She nodded, the red creeping right up to the roots of her flame-coloured hair, and accidentally dipped her elbow into the butter dish. Luckily no one saw except Harry—because right then, Ron’s third brother, Percy, walked in.
He was already dressed with his Hogwarts Prefect badge pinned proudly to his knitted jumper.

“Morning, everyone!” Percy said quickly. “Lovely day.”
He took the only empty chair—but jumped right back up when he found a scruffy grey… duster? At least, that’s what Harry thought it was, until he noticed it was breathing.

“Errol!” said Ron, grabbing the limp owl from Percy and pulling a letter from underneath its wing. “Finally—Hermione’s reply. I told her we were trying to break you out of the Dursleys’ place.”

Ron carried Errol to the perch by the back door and tried to set him there—but the owl slumped straight off again. So Ron laid him on the draining board instead, mumbling, “Poor thing.” Then he tore open the envelope and read Hermione’s letter out loud:

Hello Ron—and Harry, if you’re there.
I hope everything’s going well and that Harry’s okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would make things worse for him too. I’m really worried, and if Harry is fine please tell me right away, but maybe use a different owl next time because if this one has to deliver another letter I think he’ll just drop dead. I’m studying loads, of course—and we’ll be going to London next Wednesday to buy my new schoolbooks. How about we meet in Diagon Alley? Tell me what’s happened as soon as you can.

Love from Hermione.

“Great—we can get all your stuff while we’re there,” said Mrs Weasley, starting to clear the table.

Harry hoped so too—and somewhere deep down, he wished he could meet Draco there as well. Maybe explain everything. Maybe even apologise.

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George had already planned to head to the Weasleys’ little patch of open land—surrounded by trees so nobody in the village below could see them. That meant they could practise Quidditch as long as they didn’t fly too high. They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls—hard to explain if one escaped and shot over the village—so instead they threw apples for each other to catch.

They took turns riding Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, an excellent broom. Ron’s old Shooting Star was so slow that butterflies sometimes overtook it.

Five minutes later they were climbing the hill, broomsticks resting on their shoulders. They asked Percy if he wanted to come, but he said he was busy. Harry had only seen him during meals so far—Percy had been locked up in his room almost the entire time.

“I wonder what he’s really up to,” said Fred, frowning. “He’s normally not like this. His exam results came out a day before yours—and he got twelve OWLs. Didn’t look happy at all.”

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George said, spotting Harry’s confused face. “Bill got twelve as well. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up with another Head Boy in the family. Tragic, honestly.”

Bill was the eldest Weasley sibling. He and his brother Charlie had already graduated from Hogwarts. Harry had never met them, but he knew Charlie was in Romania studying dragons, and Bill was in Egypt working for the wizarding bank, Gringotts.

Mrs. Weasley woke them all up early the next Wednesday. After demolishing six bacon sandwiches each, they threw on their coats. Mrs. Weasley reached up to the mantelpiece, grabbed a flower vase, and peeked inside.

“Almost out, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll need to buy more today… ah, guests first! Harry, go ahead!”

She held the vase out to him.
Harry stared at everybody watching him.

“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered.

“He’s never used Floo powder,” Ron blurted. “Sorry—I totally forgot.”

“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “Then how did you get to Diagon Alley last year to buy your school stuff?”

“I took the Underground…”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes lit up.
“Really? Does it have eskapa—eskapa-what was it—eskapators? How does it work?”

“Not now, Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley cut in. “Floo powder’s much faster, dear, but if you’ve never—”

“It’s fine, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, just watch us.”

He took a pinch of glittering powder, stepped into the fireplace, and tossed it into the flames. With a loud whoosh, the fire turned emerald green and shot higher than his head. Fred walked straight into it and yelled:

“Diagon Alley!”
And disappeared.

“You have to speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley warned as George reached into the vase. “And make sure you come out the right fireplace…”

“Once you’re in, say where you’re going,” added Ron.
“And tuck your elbows in,”
“And close your eyes,”
“But don’t freak out,”
“Or move around,”
“Or you’ll end up somewhere wrong—”
“Just wait till you see Fred and George,” Ron finished.

Trying to remember all of it at once, Harry grabbed a pinch of powder and stepped forward. He took a deep breath, threw the powder into the flames, and walked in.

The fire rushed over him like warm wind.

Harry opened his mouth—
and instantly swallowed a mouthful of hot ash.

“D-Diagon Alley!” he coughed.

It felt like Harry was being yanked into a giant drain. Everything spun way too fast—roaring in his ears, the kind that rattled your skull. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the swirl of green flames made him dizzy. Something hard jabbed his elbow, so he jammed his arms tight against his sides and kept spinning… and spinning…

Then came the icy slaps—like cold hands smacking his face. Through his glasses he caught blurry glimpses of fireplaces flashing by—rooms behind them for a second before disappearing again. His bacon sandwiches churned dangerously in his stomach. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, praying this would end—

—and it did.

He crashed face-first onto a cold stone floor. His glasses snapped.

Head aching, covered in soot, Harry slowly pushed himself up, holding his broken glasses in front of his eyes. He was alone—but wherever he was, it definitely wasn’t Diagon Alley. He stood in a different fireplace now, inside what looked like a dim, shadowy wizard shop… but nothing here would ever appear on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case stood beside him, displaying a shriveled hand on a cushion, a pack of bloodstained cards, and a staring glass eyeball. Mask after creepy mask grinned from the walls. Human bones—actual bones—sat scattered across a counter. Rusty, spiked tools hung from the ceiling like trophies.

And worse—the narrow street outside the dusty window was clearly not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. His nose still burned from the fall when Harry started hurrying quietly toward the door. But halfway there, two figures appeared outside—and one of them was literally the last person Harry wanted to meet while lost, covered in soot, and with broken glasses.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry spun around, heart slamming against his ribs, and spotted a tall black cabinet to his left. He darted toward it, slipped inside, and left just enough space to see through.

A bell rang as Draco walked in.

The man following him had to be his father. Same sharp pale face, same cold grey eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the room, glanced over a few items, and rang the bell at the front desk before looking at Draco.

“Don’t touch anything, Draco.”

“Yes, father.”

An old, hunched man emerged from behind the counter, wiping his greasy hair off his face.
“Mr. Malfoy—so good to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin, voice as slick as his hair. “Delighted to have the young Malfoy here as well—how can I help? We’ve just had a shipment in, excellent prices—”

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy calmly. “I’m selling.”

“Selling?” Borgin’s smile faltered a little.

“You’ve heard, of course, that the Ministry’s been doing raids again,” Mr. Malfoy said while pulling out a roll of parchment from his coat pocket. He opened it and held it out for Borgin to read. “I’ve got a few—ah—items at home that would be… embarrassing, if the Ministry walked in.”

Mr. Borgin clipped a monocle to his nose and squinted at the parchment.
“The Ministry won’t trouble you, Sir, I’m sure?”

Harry held his breath, eyes fixed on Draco’s outline.
The longing he’d shoved down all summer—buried under loneliness, nightmares, and ridiculous daydreams about Draco—surged up like it had only been waiting for a crack.

His hands shook. Half of him wanted to burst out from the cabinet and just—grab Draco and hold him until the world stopped. The other half knew that was insane.

“I do hope my son becomes something better than a thief or scavenger, Borgin,” said Lucius Malfoy, his voice as cold as steel.
“Although if his grades don’t improve, that might be all he’s suited for.”

Draco stiffened. “I was only behind Hermione Granger,” he said quietly—but Harry could hear the sting in it.

Lucius leaned forward, voice sharpening like a blade.
“I would think you’d be ashamed a Muggleborn girl beat you in every exam.”

That was it.
Anger slammed into Harry like a wave of ice.

What kind of father talks like that to his kid? Draco looked down, his jaw tight, like he was holding back a pain he shouldn’t even have to feel. Harry growled under his breath—quiet, but dangerous.

And that was a mistake.

His magic—always too quick to answer—slipped loose. A burst of heat, invisible but real, reached Draco. Harry saw Draco’s shoulder jerk slightly.

Oh no.
No no no—don’t come this way.

But Draco turned. His brows furrowed. He was looking right at the cabinet.

He stepped closer—slowly—reaching toward the handle—

“Come along, Draco.”

Lucius’s impatient voice cut through the air.

Draco froze. Hesitated. Then pulled his hand back and turned away, following his father toward the front of the shop.

Harry stared after him, swallowing hard.
The yearning inside him felt… slightly less painful. Just slightly. Like a thin layer of dust over something still burning underneath.

Borgin muttered something under his breath and disappeared into the back room. Harry waited a whole minute, just in case he came back. When it stayed quiet, Harry slipped out of the cabinet, crept past the glass shelves, and hurried out of the shop without looking back once.

Still holding his cracked glasses to his face, he looked around. He was standing in a filthy alley full of shops—and every single one of them clearly sold stuff for Dark magic. The place he’d just escaped, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the biggest one—but across from it, there was a window showing shrunken heads, their faces twisted in horror. Two shops down, there were giant cages filled with massive spiders crawling everywhere.

Two ragged wizards were watching him from a doorway, whispering to each other—and that was enough to make Harry walk faster, trying to keep his glasses straight and praying he’d find a way out of this place. A rusty sign above a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was on Knockturn Alley.

That didn’t help at all, because he’d never heard of Knockturn Alley before.

Maybe he hadn’t said Diagon Alley clearly enough… he’d had a mouthful of hot ash when he spoke. He tried to stay calm and think about what to do next—

“Not lost, are you, dearie?”

The voice was right by his ear. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

A witch stood in front of him, holding a tray that looked like it was filled with actual human fingernails. She grinned, showing teeth that seemed to be growing moss. Harry took a step back.
“I—I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I was just—”

“HARRY! What’re yeh doin’ down ‘ere?!”

Harry’s heart leapt. The witch jumped too—her tray of fingernails spilled all over her feet as Hagrid strode toward them, his beetle-black eyes blazing over his beard and wild hair.

“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I got lost—Floo powder—”

Hagrid grabbed Harry by the collar and yanked him away from the witch, knocking her tray to the ground. Her curses echoed through the narrow, twisting alley as Hagrid dragged him around a corner—until bright sunlight hit them.

Far ahead, Harry saw the familiar marble-white building of Gringotts Bank. They were back in Diagon Alley.

“Look at yeh—yer a mess!” Hagrid grumbled, brushing ash off Harry so hard he nearly sent him flying into a tub of dragon dung outside an apothecary. “Wanderin’ ‘round Knockturn Alley—outta line, that place! Yeh don’ wanna be seen there, Harry—”

“I know that,” Harry said quickly, ducking as Hagrid tried to dust him off again. “I told you—I got lost! What were you doing there?”

“Lookin’ for Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” Hagrid replied with a scowl. “They’re destroyin’ the school cabbages. You’re not here alone, are yeh?”

“I stayed with the Weasleys,” Harry explained. “We got separated.”

The two of them walked side by side.

Harry flinched when Hagrid asked, “Why didn’t you ever write me back?” He jogged beside him—he needed three steps just to keep up with one of Hagrid’s. While they walked, Harry told him about Dobby and the Dursleys.

“Harry! Harry! Over here!”

Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger at the top of Gringotts’ white steps, waving at them. She ran down toward them, her thick hair flying behind her.

“What happened to your glasses? Hi, Hagrid… Oh, I’m so glad to see you both… You going to Gringotts, Harry?”

“If I can find the Weasleys first,” Harry said.

“You won’t have to wait long,” Hagrid grinned.

Harry and Hermione glanced around. Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley were already pushing through the crowd, heading their way.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted, “we hoped you were only one fireplace off…”

He wiped his shiny bald head. “Molly’s beside herself—that’s her there.”

“Where’d you come out?” Ron asked.

“Knockturn Alley,” Harry muttered.

“Brilliant!” Fred and George chimed at the same time. “We’ve never been allowed in there,” Ron said, sounding almost jealous. “And you shouldn’t be,” Hagrid growled, still annoyed.

Mrs. Weasley came running, handbag swinging wildly, Ginny being practically dragged along at her side.
“Oh, Harry, dear—you could’ve ended up Merlin-knows-where…!”

Before Harry could say a word, she pulled out a clothes brush and started dusting him off more thoroughly than Hagrid ever could. Mr. Weasley took Harry’s glasses, tapped them with his wand, and handed them back—good as new.

“I’ve got to head off,” Hagrid said.

Mrs. Weasley grabbed his hand, still scolding, “Knockturn Alley! Imagine if you hadn’t found him, Hagrid!” “Yes, yes… see you at Hogwarts!” Hagrid waved them goodbye, his head and shoulders towering over the crowd.

Harry followed the Weasleys into Gringotts. He grabbed a few handfuls of coins quickly—standing too long in front of his own hoard felt wrong when the Weasleys were right beside him.

Once outside, the three of them—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—walked down the busy cobblestone street. Gold, silver, and bronze jingled in Harry’s pocket like it was begging to be spent. And he didn’t fight it—he bought three huge strawberry-and-nut ice creams, and they ate them on the go, laughing and window-shopping.

Ron froze in front of the Quality Quidditch Supplies window, staring at a Chudley Cannons robe like he was silently wishing it into his arms. Hermione dragged him away to buy ink and parchment.

But when they left the stationery shop, it was Harry’s turn to pull them toward a little store on the corner. Its window displayed a shiny metal mini-dragon statue—sleek and glowing.

“I’ve wanted that one for ages,” Harry blurted—almost too fast.

Hermione and Ron exchanged a quiet glance. They didn’t say a word… but they understood.

An hour later, they headed to Flourish and Blotts. They weren’t the only ones going there. As they got close, they were stunned—people were packed in front of the door, trying to get in.
The reason was stretched across a banner hanging between the top windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
signing his autobiography
MAGIC ME
today, 12:30–4:30 PM

“We get to meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I mean—almost every book on our list is written by him!”

The crowd was mostly witches around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A confused-looking wizard stood by the door, saying, “Easy, ladies… don’t shove… mind the books, please…”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed their way in. A long line snaked all the way to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. Each of them grabbed a copy of Gadding with Ghouls and slipped through the queue until they reached the Weasleys—along with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

Lockhart finally came into view, sitting behind a desk surrounded by giant photos of his own face—all of them winking and showing off teeth that sparkled way too much.
The real Lockhart was wearing a forget-me-not blue robe, matching his eyes perfectly. His pointed wizard hat sat stylishly on top of his perfectly wavy hair.

A short, annoying-looking man darted around with a massive black camera—each flash bursting with purple smoke.
“Move it, kid,” he snapped at Ron, stepping back to get a better shot. “Daily Prophet coming through.”

“Show-off,” Ron muttered while rubbing his foot—the photographer had just stepped on him.

Lockhart heard that. He looked up. He spotted Ron—and then he spotted Harry. His eyes went wide.
In the next second, he shot up and yelled, “Is that—IT CAN’T BE—Harry Potter?!”

The crowd split open, gasping and whispering. Lockhart charged forward, grabbed Harry’s arm, and dragged him to the front. Applause exploded around them. Harry felt his face burn as Lockhart shook his hand and posed for the photographer, who was snapping pictures like he’d discovered treasure.

“Big smile, Harry,” Lockhart said, showing off his blinding teeth. “You and I—we’ll look stunning on the front page.”

By the time Lockhart finally let go, Harry’s fingers were numb. He tried slipping back to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Lockhart called, waving his arms as the shop quieted down again. “What a moment! The perfect moment for me to reveal something I’ve been keeping for quite a while! When Harry walked into Flourish and Blotts today, he only came to buy my autobiography…” Lockhart raised his voice, “…which I will gladly give him for free!”

More applause.
“…But what he didn’t know,” Lockhart continued, shaking Harry by the shoulders so hard his glasses slid to the end of his nose, “is that very soon he’ll get much more than my book Magic Me. He—and his classmates—will get the real thing. Yes, dear witches and wizards, I am proud to announce that this September I will be joining Hogwarts as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!”

The crowd exploded in cheers. In no time, Harry was practically buried under every single book Lockhart had ever written. Staggering under the weight, he managed to slip away to the edge of the room—where Ginny stood beside her brand-new cauldron.

“This is for you,” Harry mumbled, dumping all the books inside. “I’ll buy my own later…”

“Bet you’re loving this, Potter?”

The voice—sharp, cold, and way too familiar—cut into Harry before his brain could even process the words.

He straightened up slowly, like someone waking up from a dream.

And there he was.
Draco Malfoy. Just a few steps away.

For one strange second, the world shrank into a single point.

Harry froze.

Actually froze.

Something was pounding in his chest—hard and fast—and he didn’t even know why. Ever since he’d seen Draco in Knockturn Alley that morning—since the wild magic between them had almost sparked again—something had been pushing at him. Trying to get out.

Draco stood there in his usual proud stance, chin lifted—but there was a flicker of annoyance on his face. A kind that made Harry want to pull him away from everything that hurt him.

And Harry… still couldn’t speak. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because his voice simply wouldn’t move. Like his body had stopped answering to him the moment Draco appeared.

“You ignored my letters three times,” Draco said quietly. “And now you ignore me to my face? What am I to you, Potter—some kind of toy?”

Harry didn’t answer.
He just stood there, every second of Draco’s gaze feeling like air he’d been missing all summer.
Not that he’d ever admit that.

“Leave him alone—he didn’t want any of this!” Ginny snapped.

Draco visibly noticed her for the first time. His eyes narrowed as he sized her up, and his lips curled into a slight, annoyed smirk.
“Oh. So you already have a girlfriend, then?”

Ginny’s face went crimson.
Ron and Hermione were forcing their way toward them, arms full of Lockhart books.

Harry stayed frozen, just swallowing hard, like the words he wanted to say were way too big to let out.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Draco could hear it.
Magic under his skin simmered—hot little threads crawling, like they wanted to touch Draco again, just like in Knockturn Alley.

"Oh, you," Ron said, staring at Draco, a little shocked. "You must be surprised to see Harry here. Harry? Draco’s here." He gave Harry a quick, firm pat on the shoulder to snap him out of it.

"Nice to see you, Weasley, Granger," Draco said, a bit smug, which made Ron and Hermione frown.

“Mate—why ‘Weasley’? Why the formality? Unless—hang on, Harry—whoa!” Ron nearly fell as Harry instinctively pushed past him—Harry didn’t even notice.

Harry moved toward Draco like gravity had just changed direction.

“Draco! I—sorry, I didn’t reply—I was just really—Draco, listen… I didn’t mean to ignore your letters, I didn’t even know you sent me any. Draco, believe me, I wasn’t ignoring you,” Harry blurted, panicked. He grabbed Draco’s shoulders pretty tight, just holding him felt so good, like it made some of the longing from the morning vanish.

"Let go of me, Potter," Draco said, uncomfortable with Harry’s tight grip.

"No, don’t call me Potter, I’m sorry, I—" Harry jerked back as Ron and Hermione tried to pull him away.

"WHAT? Why are you pushing me?!" Harry protested, annoyed.

"Mate," Ron whispered.

Not without reason—Ron and Hermione were pulling Harry back. Lucius Malfoy, Draco’s dad, was behind Draco, unaware of what had just happened.

"You hug me when you already have a girlfriend, Potter? Pathetic."

Harry frowned. Girlfriend? What girlfriend? What was he talking about?

Lucius Malfoy tapped Draco lightly on the shoulder to remind him of his presence. "Enough, Draco. Be polite. Remember your manners. You represent the Malfoy name.”

Draco stepped aside slowly. He quietly pulled Hermione a bit away from his dad’s line of sight. Hermione looked confused. "My dad doesn’t like you," Draco whispered.

Sure enough, Lucius didn’t notice Hermione, so he didn’t say anything about her being Muggle-born. His attention was all on Harry.

"Mr. Potter. Lucius Malfoy. Finally we meet," Lucius said, his voice slick with cunning. "Forgive me."

Suddenly Lucius grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him closer. Hermione held Draco’s arm tightly, worried his dad might do something to Harry.

"Your scars are legendary. Exactly like the kind of wizard who gave them to you," he said.

Harry glared at him, full of dislike. Lucius was making Draco miserable, and Harry knew Draco’s current attitude had to be because of his dad. “Voldemort killed my parents.”

Lucius and Draco both froze. Harry cursed himself for saying the name that made Draco flinch.

“You’re very brave to say that. Maybe a little foolish,” Lucius said.

Draco nudged Hermione slightly. “Dad,” he called. “Let’s go. I can’t stand being here.”

Lucius looked at his son and gave a slow nod.

“Ron!” Mr. Weasley called, squeezing through with Fred and George. “What are you doing? This is crazy, come on, let’s get out of here.”

Too bad, Draco’s attempt to drag his dad away wasn’t working.

“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley.”

“Lucius,” Mr. Weasley said with a curt nod.

“Busy at the Ministry, I hear,” Lucius said. “Raids all the time… I hope they pay overtime?”

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and pulled out, from between the glossy Lockhart books, a very old and worn Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

“Definitely not,” said Lucius. “Blimey, what’s the point of getting a bad name among wizards if they don’t even pay you properly?”

“We clearly have very different opinions on what gives wizards a bad reputation, Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley said, his face bright red.

“Clearly,” said Lucius, his pale eyes now flicking to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching anxiously. “Looking at the friends you’ve chosen, Weasley… I thought your family couldn’t sink any lower…”

“Dad,” Draco said quietly.

The clang of metal rang out as Ginny’s cauldron toppled. Mr. Weasley had lunged at Mr. Malfoy, sending him stumbling backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks crashed down, thudding across everyone’s heads.

“Hit him, Dad!” yelled Fred and George.

“Don’t, Arthur! Don’t!” shouted Mrs. Weasley.

The crowd scrambled back, bumping into more bookshelves.

“Gentlemen, don’t fight—please, don’t fight!” shouted a shop assistant. And then, louder than anything else, “Stop, hey, stop—”

A massive book fell off a shelf from the chaos, aimed with terrifying precision—right at Draco’s head.

“DRACO!” Harry shouted. Before he even thought, he lunged, wrapping Draco in a tight hug, making his own body a living shield.

Harry’s magic responded instantly. Hermione’s eyes went wide as she watched Harry throw up a Protego charm without a wand or word, as if it just came naturally to him.

He’s getting stronger, Hermione thought.

“Draco, are you okay?” Harry asked, worry thick in his voice.

Draco, still stunned by Harry’s sudden action, hadn’t even realized the book was falling.

“Are you hurt?” Harry asked again.

“I-I’m fine,” Draco said quietly. Harry exhaled, relief flooding through him that he’d managed to protect Draco.

“Draco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you… I never got your letters, Draco, and that—”

“Potter,” Draco cut him off coldly.

“I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. I’m disappointed in you. You should know how hard I fought to send you letters when my dad forbade me from writing to you, Weasley, or Granger. I even got in trouble for it because of you! Did I get anything back? No. All that Gryffindor effort you inspired in me—it was wasted. And that’s enough for me to stay away from you. Oh, and by the way, you’ve got a girlfriend now, so focus on her.”

Harry froze, and Draco slipped out of his arms easily. Harry’s whole body trembled. No. Draco couldn’t push him away. He wouldn’t.

Harry looked at him, shaking, trying to control the magic bubbling under his skin. “I’m sorry. Really. Please, don’t push me away, Draco. I beg you… just listen to me,” he pleaded, voice raw and desperate.

Draco suddenly remembered the week he’d ignored Harry—his magic had been so heavy back then. Now it hit him again. No matter how hard Harry tried to hold back, his magic still radiated this thick, wild aura.

But this time, Draco didn’t try to calm Harry. His own heart was hurt and full of disappointment because Harry had ignored him completely, and then Harry had just tossed him aside and gotten himself a girlfriend. Draco did his best to communicate, but Harry had thrown him away like garbage.

Hagrid moved through the sea of falling books, a giant among chaos. In a blink, he had separated Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Weasley’s lip was split, and Mr. Malfoy’s eye was swollen, crushed under a Mushroom Encyclopedia. Ginny still held her old transfiguration book. Hagrid handed it to her with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Here, take your book—this is the best your dad could get you…”

Breaking free from Hagrid’s grip, Draco gave a sharp nod to Harry and strode out of the shop, head high, not planning to look back.

Harry bit his lip hard, trying to hold everything in.

Then, out of nowhere, a huge book toppled onto Lockhart, and he let out a shrill, pitiful scream.

All eyes turned to Lockhart, cringing at the humiliating scene. Some felt sorry for him, others couldn’t believe how ridiculous it was—definitely not the glamorous image from his books.

“I’m fine! Just a little slip,” Lockhart said, trying to sound confident, with a tiny whimper, desperately trying to save face.

Ron let out a long, exhausted sigh. He was stunned at how Harry was holding himself back, keeping from exploding after Draco had just acted cold.

Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing… well, Ron had no idea.

The end of the hot summer holidays came fast. Harry was super excited—he couldn’t wait to get back to Hogwarts, where explaining everything to Draco would be way easier.

After that crazy day at the bookstore, Harry always seemed down, a little gloomy. Ron kept glancing at him, worried. He was glad Harry had kept his magic under control, but he could tell it was tough—Harry looked like he was on the verge of tears a lot of the time.

Ron and the Weasleys did their best to cheer him up. Fred and George cracked jokes, with Ron backing them up. Ginny even tried to help, though she got flustered and clumsy just being near Harry. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley kept him talking, asking about this and that, making sure he felt welcome.

Harry was so grateful to be here—the Weasleys were warm, funny, chaotic, everything he’d ever needed. He felt jealous of how normal they were, but happy too, like he finally belonged somewhere.

On the last night of the holidays, Mrs. Weasley enchanted a fancy dinner, laying out all of Harry’s favorite foods, topped off with sticky, mouthwatering caramel pudding. Fred and George finished the evening with a Filibuster fireworks display that filled the kitchen with bouncing red and blue stars for at least half an hour. Then came the perfect ending—a quiet cup of hot chocolate before bed.

They arrived at King’s Cross just before a quarter to eleven. Mr. Weasley dashed across the street, grabbed a trolley for their trunks, and they all hurried into the station.

Harry had ridden the Hogwarts Express last year, so that part wasn’t new. The tricky bit was getting to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, which Muggles couldn’t see. All you had to do was walk straight through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but you had to be careful, or a Muggle might see you vanish suddenly.

“Percy first,” Mrs. Weasley said nervously, glancing at the clock. Only five minutes left to casually slip through the barrier.
Percy strode forward and disappeared. Mr. Weasley followed, then Fred and George.

“I’ll take Ginny, and you two follow right after,” Mrs. Weasley said to Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand and stepping through. In an instant, they were gone.

“Come on, let’s go together, we’ve got like a minute,” Ron said to Harry.

After making sure Hedwig’s cage was securely fastened on top of his trunk, Harry pushed the trolley toward the barrier. He felt confident—way better than using Floo powder. They both bent low over the trolley handles and headed straight for the barrier, picking up speed. About a meter from it, they ran faster and faster…

CRASH!

Both trolleys slammed into the barrier and bounced back. Ron’s trunk hit the ground with a loud thud. Harry tumbled, and Hedwig’s cage skidded across the slippery floor, spinning. Hedwig shrieked in outrage. People stared, and a nearby guard yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry panted, clutching his ribs as he stood up. Ron dashed to grab Hedwig, who was squawking so loudly the crowd muttered about animal cruelty.

“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron.

“No idea…”

Ron looked around nervously. About a dozen people were still staring at them, curious. “We’re gonna miss the train,” he whispered. “I don’t get why the entrance gate’s locked…”

Harry’s chest sank. They were running late, might not even make it onto the platform. And he wouldn’t get a chance to see Draco if he stayed frozen like this.

“We have to get to Hogwarts, no matter what. Let’s talk in the car,” Harry said, trying to keep calm.

Ron’s eyes went wide, then he grinned. “The car! That’s it! We can use it to get to Hogwarts!”

Harry’s panic flipped instantly into excitement.
“You can fly it?”
“No problem,” Ron said, turning the trolley toward the exit. “Come on, quick! If we hurry, we can still catch the Hogwarts Express.”

They pushed through the curious Muggles, out of the station, and back to the roadside where the old Ford Anglia was parked. Ron popped open the huge trunk with a few wand taps. After some juggling, they got the trunks back in, Hedwig safely on the back seat, and themselves in the front.

“Check if anyone’s watching,” Ron said, starting the engine with a wand tap too. Harry leaned his head out the window. The main road ahead was busy, but the street they were on was clear.
“Okay,” he said.

Ron pressed a small silver button on the dashboard. The other cars around them vanished—so did they. Harry could feel the seat beneath him, hear the engine hum, sense his hands on his knees, his glasses perched on his nose—but it felt like he’d become nothing more than a pair of floating eyeballs, hovering about a meter above the ground in the narrow street filled with parked cars.

“We’re off!” Ron’s voice came from beside him.

The dirty streets and buildings on either side dropped away as the car lifted into the air. Within seconds, all of London stretched out below them, hazy and sparkling.

Then came a pop, and the car, Harry, and Ron flickered back into view.

“Uh-oh,” Ron muttered, poking the Invisibility Buster. “Looks like it’s broken…”

They banged on the buttons a few more times. The car vanished again—and then reappeared.

“Hold on!” Ron shouted, pressing his foot to the gas. They shot straight into the low clouds, everything turning grey and misty.

“What now?” Harry asked, peering into the thick wall of clouds pressing in on them from every side.

“We need to spot the train so we know which way to go,” Ron said.

“Dive down—quick!”

They plunged below the clouds and squinted, trying to see below.

“I see it!” Harry yelled. “There—it’s there!” The Hogwarts Express slid beneath them like a red snake.

“North,” Ron said, checking the compass on the dashboard. “Okay, we just need to check every half hour. Hold on…”

They plunged through the clouds again, and a minute later, they emerged into bright sunlight. The world had transformed. The car’s wheels skated over a sea of fluffy white clouds, and the sky stretched out blue under the dazzling sun.

“The only thing left to worry about is the plane,” Ron said.

They exchanged glances and started laughing, and couldn’t stop for what felt like ages. It was like falling into the most amazing dream. Harry thought: this was definitely the only way to travel—through swirling snow-white clouds, in a sunlit car, with a big bag of sweets tucked in the compartment, and imagining the look on Fred and George’s faces when they landed perfectly on the grass in front of Hogwarts.

They kept checking the train as they flew further north. Every time they dove below a cloud, the view shifted. London shrank quickly behind them, replaced by green fields, stretches of purple-tinged earth, tiny villages with houses and churches like toys, and a bustling city with cars darting around like multicolored ants.

Even so, after hours of nothing happening, Harry had to admit some of the excitement had worn off.
The sweets had made them horribly thirsty, and they had nothing to drink. He and Ron had taken off their jumpers, but Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the seat and his glasses kept sliding down his sweaty nose.

He’d stopped staring at the cool shapes of the clouds by now, and his mind was stuck on the train miles below them.
Down there, he could’ve bought cold pumpkin juice from the trolley pushed by that plump witch.
Why couldn’t they get through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?

The train was still beneath them, twisting around a mountain with a snowy peak. Under the cloud canopy it was a lot darker.
Ron pressed the gas and let the car rise again, but suddenly the engine started making a weird roaring noise.

Harry and Ron exchanged a nervous look.
“Maybe it’s just tired,” Ron said. “It’s never gone this far before…”

They both pretended not to hear the noise getting louder and louder, while the sky slowly turned darker. Stars began showing up against the night, one after another. Harry pulled his jumper back on and tried to ignore the car’s windscreen fan that was now stirring weakly, like it wanted to complain.

“Not much farther,” Ron said, mostly to the car instead of Harry. “Not much farther now,” and he patted the dashboard anxiously.

When they dipped under the clouds again a little later, they had to squint through the darkness to search for signs they recognised.

“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron—and Hedwig—jump. “Up ahead!”

High on the horizon, silhouetted against the dark sky, standing above the rocks and the lake across from them—there it was. The towers of Hogwarts Castle.

But the car had started to shake, and its speed was dropping fast.
“Come on,” Ron begged, jiggling the steering wheel a little, “we’re almost there, come on…”

The engine groaned. Bursts of smoke puffed out from under the hood. Harry gripped the edge of his seat tightly as they flew toward the lake. The car shuddered hard. Glancing through the window, Harry saw the smooth, black water glimmering one and a half kilometres below. Ron’s knuckles had turned white around the wheel. The car shook again.

“Come on,” Ron muttered. They were above the lake now… the castle was right in front of them… Ron pressed the gas pedal.

There was an awful bang, then a sputter—
and the engine died completely.

“Uh-oh,” Ron said in the silence.

The car’s nose dropped. They were falling— faster and faster—straight toward the castle wall.

“Nooooooo!” Ron screamed, yanking the wheel around in a wild one-eighty. They missed the stone wall by inches as the car swerved in a wide loop, shot over the dark greenhouses, swept past the vegetable patch, and dropped lower and lower toward the grounds.

Ron let go of the steering wheel entirely and yanked his wand from his back pocket.
“STOP! STOP!” he shrieked, pounding on the dashboard and windscreen—
but they kept diving, the ground rising to meet them—

“WATCH THAT TREE!” Harry yelled, grabbing the wheel—
but it was already too late.

THUD!

The sound of metal smashing into wood was deafening as they crashed into a massive tree trunk. The car slammed into the earth with a brutal impact. Smoke poured from the dented roof. Hedwig screeched wildly. Harry felt a golf-ball-sized lump throbbing on his head where he’d smashed the windscreen—and beside him, Ron let out a hopeless groan.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, panic rushing through his voice.

“My wand,” Ron said, his voice shaking. “Look at my wand.”
It was broken—almost split entirely in two. The tip was hanging limp, held together by a splinter of wood.

“At least it’s not your neck,” Harry tried to say comfortingly.

Right at that moment, something slammed into the side of the car—right where Harry was sitting—with the force of a raging bull. Harry was thrown into Ron. At the same time, another blow hit the roof just as hard.

“What the—?”

Ron stared wide-eyed through the windscreen, and Harry twisted around just as a branch as thick as a python smashed into it.
The tree they’d crashed into was attacking them. Its trunk bent nearly in half, and its knobbly branches were thrashing every part of the car they could reach.

“ARGH!” Ron screamed as another crooked branch slammed into his door, leaving it dented. The windscreen rattled violently under the rain of blows—some branches looked like knuckles, pounding at the glass. A branch as thick as a mallet pounded against the roof, which seemed ready to cave at any second…

“Run!” Ron shouted, throwing himself at the door—
but the next moment he was knocked backward into Harry’s lap by another vicious branch.

“We’re done for!” he groaned, as the car roof dented even more—
but suddenly the floor of the car shuddered—the engine had roared back to life.

“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward.
The tree still tried to strike them—Harry could hear the roots groaning as if it was about to rip itself out of the ground just to smash them as they sped out of reach.

“Nearly… there,” Ron panted. “Nice one, Bill.”

But the car had clearly had enough.
With two sharp clunks, the doors burst open. Harry felt his seat tip sideways—and suddenly he was lying flat on the wet grass.

A loud bag–bug–bag noise told him the car was tossing their luggage out. Hedwig’s cage floated through the air and landed open. The furious owl shot out with a screech and flew straight toward the castle without a single glance back.

Then the battered, dented, scratched-up, smoking car rolled off into the darkness—its rear lights glowing like angry eyes.

“Come back!” Ron shouted, waving his wand wildly. “Dad’s gonna kill me!”
But the car was gone with a final angry snort from its exhaust.

“Can you believe our luck?” Ron moaned miserably, bending down to scoop up Scabbers the rat. “Out of all the trees we could’ve hit… we hit that one.”

He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the old tree, which was still waving its branches around like it wanted round two.

“Come on,” Harry said tiredly. “We’d better get to school…”

They didn’t arrive with the glorious entrance they’d imagined at all. Stiff, bruised, and freezing, they grabbed the handles of their trunks and dragged them up the grassy hill toward the huge oak doors.

“So, a house-elf pops up in my room, we can’t get through platform nine and three-quarters, we nearly get killed by some murderous tree… Clearly someone doesn’t want me at Hogwarts this year,” Harry muttered.

Harry and Ron stopped dead when they saw Filch and Mrs. Norris blocking their way.
“Watch yourselves, boys. Tonight might be the last night you spend in this castle.” Filch’s scratchy voice sounded way too pleased with itself. Harry and Ron gulped hard.

That exact moment, Snape appeared with his usual terrifying aura.
“Follow me,” he said.

They didn’t even dare look at each other. Harry and Ron trailed behind Snape, climbing the stone steps into the echoing Entrance Hall lit by torches. The smell of delicious food drifted from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light—down a narrow stone staircase into the dungeons.
They walked through a corridor that was cold and dark.

Halfway through, they reached a door.
“Inside,” Snape ordered, pointing.

They entered his office, shivering. The dim walls were lined with shelves full of large glass jars. Inside them floated all kinds of disgusting things Harry definitely didn’t want to know the names of right now. The fireplace was dead and empty. Snape closed the door and turned to face them.

“So,” he said quietly, “the Hogwarts Express wasn’t good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his loyal sidekick, Weasley? Wanted a grand entrance, did you?”

Ron swallowed loudly. It wasn’t the first time Snape made it feel like he could read minds.
But then Snape unfolded that day’s Evening Prophet—and Harry finally understood.

“Somebody saw you,” Snape hissed, pointing at the headline:

FLYING FORD ANGLIA STUNS MUGGLES.

He started reading it out loud.

“Two Muggles in London swear they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower... Mrs. Hetty Bayliss in Norfolk, while hanging her laundry… Mr. Angus Fleet in Peebles reported it to the police… six or seven Muggles in total. Isn’t your father employed at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?”
He looked at Ron with a vicious grin.
“My, my… his own son…”

Harry felt like his stomach had just been punched by one of those massive branches from that crazy tree. If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had enchanted that car—he hadn’t even thought about that before….

“As I was checking the grounds, I noticed the valuable Whomping Willow suffered quite a bit of damage,” Snape continued.

“It did more damage to us than we did to it…” Ron blurted out.

“Silence!” Snape snapped again. “A real shame you’re not in my House—because the decision to expel you would’ve been mine. And this—”

“They will not be sent home.”

That calm, powerful voice cut through Snape’s words like a spell.

Harry and Ron turned toward the door. Standing there were Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall.

Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry before—but either he’d forgotten how thin her lips got when she was truly furious, or he had never seen her this angry.

“Headmaster, these boys broke the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry,” Snape said stiffly.

“I am well aware of our laws, Severus. Some of them I wrote myself,” said Dumbledore quietly. “However, as Head of Gryffindor House, Professor McGonagall will decide the proper punishment.”

“We’ll just go pack our things,” Ron said helplessly.

“What are you talking about, Mr. Weasley?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“Aren’t we getting expelled?” Ron muttered.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said McGonagall. Harry and Ron exchanged a stunned look. “But I do need you to understand how serious this was. I’ll be writing to your families tonight, and you will both serve detention.”

“I must return to the feast, Minerva—I have a few announcements to make. Come, Severus, there’s some pudding I’d like to try.”

Dumbledore turned and left first. Snape threw one last venomous glare at Harry and Ron before following, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall—who still looked ready to turn them into toads.

“You should head to the hospital wing, Weasley. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not much,” Ron said quickly, wiping at the cut above his eye with his sleeve.

“Professor—I’d like to see my sister get Sorted…”

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said McGonagall. “Your sister is in Gryffindor as well.”

“Oh, great,” Ron breathed.

“And speaking of Gryffindor…” McGonagall began sharply—but Harry cut in, “Professor—when we flew the car, the school year hadn’t started yet, so… so Gryffindor didn’t have any points to lose, right?” He glanced up at her, nervous.

She stared at him for a long moment—but Harry thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smile. At the very least, her lips weren’t quite as razor-thin now.

“I will not be deducting points from Gryffindor,” she said.

That was very good news.

The castle was quiet—the feast must’ve ended. They walked past whispering portraits and clanking suits of armor, climbed several narrow staircases, until they reached the corridor where the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower was hidden—behind a painting of a very fat lady in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” the Fat Lady asked as they approached.

“Er—” Harry began.

They didn’t know the password—of course they didn’t. It was the first day of term, and they hadn’t even met the Gryffindor prefects yet. But unexpectedly, help arrived.

Footsteps rushed toward them, and when they turned around, Hermione was running their way.

“There you are! Where have you two been? There are ridiculous rumours going around—someone said you got expelled for crashing a flying car.”

“We didn’t get expelled,” Harry assured her.

“You don’t mean you actually flew here?” Hermione said, almost as fierce as Professor McGonagall.

“No lectures,” Ron snapped. “Just give us the new password.”

“‘Turkey wattle,’” she said briskly. “But that’s not the point—you scared me half to death when you weren’t on the train. I even asked Draco, who obviously knew even less than I did.”

Harry’s interest sparked. “How did he react?” he asked quickly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “How else? He was shocked and worried. Pansy and Blaise helped me look for you, and Theo was the one calming Draco down—he really panicked.”

Something warm unfolded in Harry’s chest.

Draco had worried. Draco had cared. Draco wasn’t avoiding him… or hating him…
At least, that’s what it felt like—and that feeling alone was enough to lift Harry’s mood higher than any feast could.

Once the three of them entered the common room, Harry and Ron were greeted by loud cheers about the flying car. Harry felt embarrassed—but, strangely, he didn’t mind. Not tonight.

Because today, he’d heard something far more important than rules being broken or detentions given—
Draco Malfoy had worried about him.

The next morning, Harry could barely crack a smile.
Things already felt off the moment breakfast started in the Great Hall. Four long House tables were loaded with cauldrons of porridge, piles of smoked kippers, mountains of toast, eggs, and bacon under the bewitched ceiling—grey and sulky today, just like the mood in Harry’s chest.

He sat with Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table. Hermione had propped her Voyages with Vampires open against the milk jug and greeted them with a stiff “Morning,” which was enough to tell Harry she still disapproved of how they arrived yesterday. Neville, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Typical Neville—round face, constant accidents, memory like a sieve.

“Post should be here any minute. I bet Gran sent the things I forgot,” he said.

Harry had just scooped his porridge when—right on cue—the air roared with beating wings. Over a hundred owls swooped in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages onto the students chatting below. A big lumpy package smacked the top of Neville’s head, and a second later something large and grey splashed straight into Hermione’s milk jug, sending milk and feathers everywhere.

“Errol!” Ron grabbed the soaked owl by the legs. Errol lay limp on the table, paws in the air with a red envelope clamped in his beak.

“Oh no…” Ron groaned.

“He’s still alive,” Hermione said, gently pressing Errol with her fingertips.

“That’s not the problem—that is.”
Ron pointed at the envelope.

It looked perfectly normal to Harry, but Ron and Neville stared at it like it was cursed and ready to explode.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Mum. She sent me a Howler,” Ron said miserably.

“You’d better open it,” Neville whispered. “It’s worse if you don’t. My Gran sent me one once and… it was terrifying.”

Harry tore his eyes from their panicked faces and glanced at the envelope. What’s a Howler supposed to do? he wondered.

Ron’s hand was shaking when he pulled the envelope from Errol’s beak and opened it—
—and for a split second Harry thought it really had exploded.

A scream—furious, magical, and unbelievably loud—burst through the Great Hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

“RONALD WEASLEY! STEALING A CAR—I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED IF THEY EXPEL YOU! JUST WAIT UNTIL I SEE YOU, YOU MUST HAVE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT HOW SHOCKED AND WORRIED YOUR FATHER AND I WERE WHEN WE SAW THE CAR WAS GONE…”

Mrs. Weasley’s voice blasted across the Great Hall—at least a hundred times louder than normal. Plates and cutlery shook on the tables. Her voice echoed off the stone walls like some kind of furious spell. Everyone in the hall turned to see who got the Howler.

Ron sank so low in his seat that only his red hair was visible.
“...WE GOT A LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, YOUR FATHER NEARLY DIED OF EMBARRASSMENT. WE DID NOT RAISE YOU TO ACT LIKE THIS! YOU AND HARRY COULD HAVE DIED…”

Harry had been waiting for his name to come up. He tried to act like he wasn’t hearing the voice that made his eardrums throb.

“...ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING. YOUR FATHER WILL BE QUESTIONED AT WORK. THIS WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT, AND IF YOU BREAK ONE MORE RULE, WE WILL DRAG YOU HOME OURSELVES.”

The Howler suddenly softened when it addressed Ginny.
“Ginny, sweetheart, congratulations on getting into Gryffindor. We’re so proud of you.”

And with that, the Howler ripped itself to shreds. Laughter broke out around the hall, and chatter slowly returned.

Harry and Ron stayed quiet, trying to disappear into their seats. They were too mortified to look up. Harry’s eyes automatically searched for Draco—he needed to know how Draco reacted.

But pain quickly replaced embarrassment the moment he saw Draco… not even looking at him. Not even a glance.

Harry lost his appetite completely. He just poked at his food, looking miserable. Hermione and Ron exchanged a worried look—Harry honestly looked like a puppy whose owner abandoned him.

They wanted to cheer him up, but Professor McGonagall arrived, stalking around the Gryffindor table handing out schedules. Harry took his with no energy at all. The first two periods were Herbology with Hufflepuff.
Great. Just what he needed.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the pumpkin patch, and made their way to the greenhouses where the odd magical plants were kept. If there was one good outcome from the Howler, it was that Hermione now treated them like normal again—as if she decided they’d been punished enough.

“Greenhouse Three today, everyone!” called Professor Sprout.

And—of course—Lockhart was already there, trying to show off his “expertise” and legendary smile. Harry could practically taste the cringe.

He pulled Harry aside and started blabbering nonsense about how Harry was “clearly after fame” because of the stunt with the car. He even gave “advice,” which was so ridiculous Harry almost laughed. Lockhart finally left, and Harry felt like the sun had just come out.

Professor Sprout stood behind a worktable in the middle of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of earmuffs lay scattered across it. Harry stood between Ron and Hermione as Sprout announced, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. So—who can explain what Mandrakes are used for?”

Of course, Hermione’s hand was first in the air.

“Mandrakes, or Mandragora, are extremely powerful restorative plants,” Hermione said, sounding like she swallowed the entire textbook. “They’re used to return people who’ve been transformed or cursed back to their original state.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout. “Mandrakes are essential in many antidotes. However, they’re also dangerous. Who knows why?”

Hermione’s hand shot up so fast it almost smacked Harry’s glasses.

“The cry of a Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said.

“Correct. Ten more points.”

She pointed to a long row of trays. Harry stepped closer. About a hundred small, purplish-green shoots poked up like messy hair. They looked harmless. Harry had no idea what Hermione meant by “cry.”

“Everyone, take a pair of earmuffs,” said Sprout. The class scrambled to grab ones that weren’t pink and fluffy.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure they cover your ears completely,” she instructed. “I’ll signal it’s safe to take them off with a thumbs-up. Ready—earmuffs on!”

Harry pulled his on—and silence swallowed the whole world. Professor Sprout tugged hers on, rolled up her sleeves, grabbed one of the plants, and yanked it hard—

Instead of roots, a tiny, filthy, ugly baby-like creature was dragged out of the soil. Leaves sprouted from its head. Its skin was pale green, blotchy, and it screamed loud enough to rattle bones.

Professor Sprout grabbed a big pot from under the table, dunked the Mandrake inside, and covered it with damp black compost until only its messy leaves were showing. She wiped her hands, raised both thumbs, and took off her earmuffs.

“Since our Mandrakes are still young, their screams won’t kill you yet,” she said calmly—like she’d only just watered a sunflower. “But they will knock you out for a few hours. And since I’m sure none of you want to miss the first day of school, keep your earmuffs on until I say it’s safe. I’ll signal when it’s time to pack up.”

By the end of the lesson, Harry—like everyone else—was sweaty, aching, and covered in dirt. They trudged back to the castle to shower, and the Gryffindors rushed off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always tough, but today felt worse than usual. Almost everything Harry learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head over the summer.

He was told to turn a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give the beetle a workout. It raced around the desk like it was running from death itself. Still, Harry didn’t want to give up—not in this class.

He took a breath. Focus. Wand ready.
“Fibulafors,” he whispered.

A perfect button. Harry actually smiled. McGonagall noticed and gave him a firm nod of approval—points for Gryffindor.

And for just a second, Harry wondered… what would Draco say if he’d seen that?
The thought tightened something in his chest. Harry looked away quickly.

He glanced at Ron and winced. Ron was in serious trouble. His wand, patched up with Spellotape, was practically dying. It creaked and sparked randomly—and every time Ron tried to cast, thick grey smoke exploded from it, smelling like rotten eggs. Since he couldn’t see through the smoke, he ended up crushing his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for another one. McGonagall did not look pleased.

The lunch bell finally rang. Harry and Ron let out the same breath. But Ron’s mood got even worse when Hermione proudly showed them a handful of perfect buttons she’d made in Transfiguration.

Harry sighed quietly. Hermione could be brilliant… but sometimes she was just really bad at reading the room.

Harry quickly changed the topic.
“What do we have this afternoon?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Hermione answered right away.

“Why,” Ron demanded as he snatched her schedule, “did you underline every Lockhart lesson with tiny hearts?”

Hermione’s face went bright red as she yanked it back. They finished lunch and headed out to the courtyard. The sky was still gloomy. Hermione sat on the steps, burying herself in Voyages with Vampires again. Harry and Ron chatted about Quidditch for a few minutes—until Harry felt it.

Someone was watching him.

He looked up and saw a very small boy with mouse-like hair, staring at him in awe while clutching something that looked suspiciously like a Muggle camera.

The moment Harry looked his way, the boy’s face turned beet red.
“Hi—hi Harry! I—I'm Colin Creevey,” he stammered, stepping forward. “I’m in Gryffindor too. Do you think—maybe—is it okay if I… if I take a picture of you?”

“...A picture?” Harry repeated blankly.

“So I can prove I met you!” Colin said eagerly. “I know all about you! Everyone told me—the story of how You-Know-Who tried to kill you, and the scar, and how you survived, and they said that if I use the right potion on the film… the pictures will move!”

Colin took a long, dreamy breath. “It’s amazing here. I never knew all the weird things I did were called magic—not until my Hogwarts letter came. My dad’s a milkman—he didn’t believe me at first. So I took loads of photos for him! And… it’d be brilliant if I had one of you. Maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you—and then maybe… you’d sign it for me?”

Before Harry could answer—

“Oh look, Potter’s giving out signed photos now?”

Draco Malfoy’s voice sliced across the courtyard. Harry’s eyes widened. He spun around.

Without thinking—
“Draco!”
It slipped out. Too bright. Too hopeful.

Draco froze for just half a second—as if Harry had hit the wrong chord inside his chest—but he quickly fixed his posture, mask of ice back in place.

He slung an arm around Colin with forced cheeriness.
“Come on then! Line up, everyone!” he called loudly.
“Harry Potter’s signing autographs!”

Harry’s heart dropped so fast it hurt.

Ron was totally thrown off by Draco’s sudden change.
“Draco, what’s wrong with you?”

Draco looked straight at Ron — and this time his expression shifted. Ron caught a brief flicker of regret before it vanished behind that cold empty stare.
“I’m just helping Colin and the others get rare photos of Harry. The Boy Who Lived should always be praised, shouldn’t he?”

That’s when Ron finally realized it — Draco was dealing with something big. Something heavy. Whatever it was, Draco was under pressure… and Ron needed to figure out what it was, and how to help.

“I’m not—! Draco, are you still mad at me?” Harry asked miserably. His imaginary tail stopped wagging, and his imaginary dog ears drooped low.

“Why would I be angry at you, Potter?” Draco replied sharply. “If the great Harry Potter ever gets hurt because of me, I’d be in serious danger, wouldn’t I?”

Hermione stared at Draco with clear irritation.
“Draco, you’re turning something small into a huge mess. If you’re jealous because Colin wants Harry’s picture, you could’ve just said so. You’re being unbearable right now—I don’t know why you’re avoiding us. Are you under some kind of… dark influence?”

Draco froze for a heartbeat, eyes snapping to Hermione. She looked shocked herself after saying that.

But Hermione wasn’t wrong. She’s right, Draco thought bitterly. It’s all my fault. He had to stay away from them. He had to pretend they were his enemies. He had to become the nuisance they’d want to avoid.

“Say whatever you want, Granger.” Draco walked off without another word — and honestly, if he stayed any longer, he wasn’t sure he could keep the act going.

“You should’ve read the situation better, Hermione,” Ron muttered tiredly.

Harry looked even sadder after Draco left. He didn’t even notice Lockhart nearby — or how he got dragged away for photos. He only realized much later that they were already walking to Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

Ron tried to cheer him up.
“Just hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny. If they team up, they’ll start a Harry Potter Fan Club in no time.”

“Shut it,” Harry hissed back.

Lockhart started his lesson with the usual arrogance and ridiculous confidence.

“I see all of you have bought a full set of my books — excellent. I think today we’ll start with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just checking how much you’ve read, how much you’ve absorbed…”
After handing out the papers, he strutted to the front of the class.
“You’ll have thirty minutes. Begin — now!”

Harry looked down at his quiz and read:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?3. In your opinion, what is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement?

Every question was like that — three full pages — until:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what is the ideal gift for him?

If the questions were about Draco, Harry would’ve finished in minutes — and he’d probably get top marks in class.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the quiz papers and started flipping through them right in front of the class.

“Tsk, tsk—almost none of you remembered that my favorite color is purple. I clearly mentioned it in Year with the Yeti.” He shook his head dramatically. “And some of you really need to read Wandering with Werewolves more carefully—because on page twelve, I stated that the ideal birthday gift for me is harmony between wizards and non-wizards—although,” he winked, “I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!”

Ron stared at Lockhart like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who sat in front, were shaking from trying not to laugh. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening with intense focus—and then nearly jumped when Lockhart suddenly called her name.

“…but Miss Hermione Granger knew that my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and launch my own line of hair-care products—smart girl! In fact…” He flipped Hermione’s paper. “Everything correct! Which one are you, Miss Granger?”

Hermione shakily raised her hand.

“Incredible!” Lockhart beamed. “Simply incredible! Ten points to Gryffindor! Now then—onto the lesson…”

He ducked behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

“Now—brace yourselves!” he announced dramatically. “It is my duty to prepare you for the most terrifying creatures known to the wizarding world! You may face your greatest fear in this very room. But don’t panic—while I’m here, nothing disastrous will happen. All I ask is that you stay calm.”

Against his own will, Harry lowered his book a little to get a better look. Lockhart placed his hand on the cloth. Dean and Seamus stopped laughing. Up front, Neville was already trembling in his seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” Lockhart said quietly. “Your screams may… provoke them.”

The whole class held their breath.
With a dramatic flourish, Lockhart yanked off the cover.

“Behold,” he declared, “freshly caught Cornish Pixies!”

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t hold it in anymore. What came out of him definitely wasn’t a scream—and even Lockhart couldn’t pretend it was.

“Yes?” Lockhart smiled at Seamus. “Ah, you don’t… find them very… threatening, do you?”
Seamus choked on another laugh.

“Don’t be so sure!” Lockhart wagged a finger annoyingly. “These creatures can be ferociously destructive!”

The pixies were electric-blue, about twenty centimeters tall, with sharp faces and squeaky voices that sounded like a whole flock of angry budgies arguing at once. The moment the cloth was off, they started chittering, zipping around inside the cage, shaking the metal bars and making faces at the nearest students.

“All right then,” said Lockhart proudly. “Let’s see what you can do with them!”
And he opened the cage.

Chaos hit like a Bludger.

Pixies shot across the room like rockets. Two of them grabbed Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Others smashed through the window, showering the back row with glass shards. The rest tore through the classroom more effectively than a rampaging Erumpent.

They grabbed ink bottles and splattered ink everywhere, ripped books and papers apart, yanked posters off the walls, flipped trash bins, snatched bags and textbooks and chucked them out the broken window.

Within minutes, half the class was hiding under their desks—and Neville was dangling from the chandelier on the ceiling.

Harry tried to protect himself like everyone else—but then his eyes caught a flash of blond hair flailing against a pixie.
Oh no. He’d completely forgotten this class was with Slytherin.

Before he even realized it, his feet were moving. Harry lunged forward, a quick Protego.

The shield blossomed just in time. Without thinking, Harry pulled Draco close and hugged him tight—like his own body could add an extra layer of protection.

Draco froze—but then his arms moved on their own, wrapping around Harry just as tightly.

“Come on, catch them! They’re just pixies!” Lockhart yelled. Dramatically rolling up his sleeves, he waved his wand and shouted, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!”

Nothing happened. One pixie grabbed his wand and flung it out the window.
Lockhart gulped and ducked under his desk like a total coward.

The bell rang. Everyone scrambled for the door. Once the chaos settled, Lockhart stood up and called,
“You eight—deal with the rest and get them back in their cage, please!”
Then he slipped out, slamming the door behind him.

Ron groaned. “He’s hopeless…”

Harry turned back to Draco—suddenly nervous that the pixies might come back. His magic pulsed again, sharp and ready to explode.

Luckily, Hermione moved first. “Immobulus!”
The pixie froze instantly.

Harry’s chest finally eased. He checked Draco carefully.
“Are you hurt? Sorry—I should’ve protected you sooner.”

Draco grimaced as he touched his head. “Theo already smacked that little pest… I’ll survive.”
He gently pushed Harry back so he could stand. “Thanks, Potter. I’m fine.”

Pansy watched them, worried. “Just… hang in there a little longer, okay? We’re trying to calm him down.”

Harry let out a tired sigh and nodded.

A faint voice suddenly came from above.
“Uh… a little help…?”

Everyone looked up. Neville was still hanging from the chandelier like laundry.

Theo and Ron stepped forward to get him down.
“Thanks,” Neville gasped. “I don’t know why it’s always me.”

Theo patted his shoulder. “Then get stronger. So nobody underestimates you.”

When everyone finally left the classroom, Harry gave a small wave toward the Slytherin kids… hoping, somehow, that Draco saw it.

Chapter Text

For the next few days, Harry only did one thing on repeat: avoid Lockhart and look for Draco.
Avoiding Lockhart wasn’t hard—as long as Harry ducked fast enough whenever that blond figure showed up at the end of a corridor.
What was hard to dodge was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorised Harry’s entire schedule. Nothing made Colin happier than saying, “All right, Harry?” six or seven times a day… and getting a “Hi, Colin,” in return—no matter how irritated Harry sounded when he said it.

The one he kept looking for: Draco Malfoy.

Every class with Slytherin, Harry tried to sit beside Draco—sometimes he managed, most of the time he didn’t. Draco completely ignored him. And if he did get close, it was only to make fun of him.
Strangely, Harry started using those insults. He’d do stupid things just so Draco would turn his head, reply, or at least throw him a glance. Harry was running out of ways to explain what he felt—mostly because he still didn’t understand it himself.

Night became his escape.
A little past midnight, he would sneak out of the dorm under the Invisibility Cloak, searching for any empty room out of Filch and Mrs. Norris’s sight.
The owlery became his favourite spot. Up there, between owls and the smell of hay, Harry practised magic—Transfiguration and spells he had written down neatly in his little notebook. Sometimes he tried talking to Hedwig, even though she was still cold to him after that disastrous car incident.

That week felt long. Busy, full of moments… but still not one real answer.

When the weekend finally came, Harry, Ron and Hermione had planned to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning—Harry wanted to ask him about Draco. But the plan got delayed when Oliver Wood, Gryffindor’s Quidditch captain, woke Harry way earlier than he should have—by shaking him so hard Harry almost lost his glasses.

“What’s going on?” Harry mumbled, dizzy.

“Quidditch practice!” Wood said. “Come on!”

Still half-asleep, Harry peered out the window. A thin mist was hanging beneath a red-orange sky. Now that he was awake, he wondered how he’d managed to keep sleeping with the birds chirping that loudly.
“Oliver,” Harry croaked, “it’s barely dawn.” He’d only slept a few hours after training.

“Exactly,” Wood replied. Oliver Wood—a tall sixth-year with eyes blazing with insane enthusiasm—grinned. “It’s part of our new training programme. Grab your broom, let’s go. No other team has started practice yet. We’re going to be number one this year…”

Yawning and shivering a little, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.

“Good,” said Wood. “See you on the pitch in fifteen minutes.”

After finding his scarlet team robes and throwing them over his usual robes to stay warm, Harry scribbled a note for Ron explaining where he was going. Then he headed down the spiral stairs to the common room, Nimbus Two Thousand resting on his shoulder. He was just reaching the portrait hole when he heard clattering behind him—Colin Creevey came sprinting down the stairs, his camera swinging wildly around his neck and something clutched in his hands.

“I heard someone say your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I brought! I printed it out—I want to show you—”

Morning. Too early, too tired, sore from training, freezing colds… and Colin’s cheerful excitement felt way too heavy to deal with.

“Sorry, Colin, I’m in a rush—Quidditch practice,” Harry said, trying to stay patient as he climbed out the portrait hole.

“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched Quidditch before!” Colin crawled out after him.

“You’ll get bored,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face glowing with excitement.

“You’re the youngest player in a hundred years, right, Harry? Right?” he said, walking beside him. “You must be amazing. I’ve never flown before. Is it hard? Is that your own broom? Is that the best broom ever?”

Harry had no idea how to get rid of Colin. It felt like having a very chatty shadow.
“Colin, listen—I’m late. If I’m two more minutes behind, Wood’s going to use me as a practice ball. So if you’re coming… you need to be quiet. Completely quiet.”

Colin nodded fiercely and clamped his mouth shut. Harry sighed—he doubted Colin could stay silent for even half the practice.

He finally managed to shake him off when they reached the changing rooms. Colin yelled in his squeaky voice, “I’ll find a good seat, Harry!” and dashed off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team was already inside. Wood was the only one who looked fully awake. Fred and George Weasley sat beside a sleepy Alicia Spinnet with puffy eyes and messy hair. The other Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, sat across from them, both yawning.

“You finally showed up, Harry. What took you so long?” Wood asked sharply.
“Right—before we head to the pitch, I want to talk a bit,” he continued. “I spent the whole summer creating a new training programme—pretty sure it’ll make a huge difference this year…”

Wood held up a huge diagram of the Quidditch pitch. It was covered in lines, arrows and little crosses in different colours. He tapped it with his wand—instantly, the arrows started wriggling around like worms. While Wood went on about his new tactics, Fred Weasley’s head dropped onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he started snoring. Harry tried to keep his eyes open. He failed.

His eyelids shut—and he almost slid into a dream when—

“Well?” Wood said loudly, making Harry jolt awake. “All clear? Any questions?”

“We’re training harder than ever this year… All right, let’s go practise what we just learned!” Wood barked, snatching his broom and storming out of the changing room.
Still stiff and yawning, the team followed him.

They must’ve stayed in the changing room for ages, because the sun was already up when they reached the pitch, though the last bits of mist still floated above the grass. As Harry walked onto the field, he spotted Ron and Hermione in the stands.

“You guys aren’t done yet?” Ron asked, confused.
“We haven’t even started,” said Harry, eyeing the toast and jam they’d brought from the Great Hall with deep envy. “Wood was teaching us new tactics.”

“Are you sure you can train today? You look exhausted,” Hermione said, worried.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, giving her a reassuring smile.

He mounted his broom, pushed off the ground—
and shot into the air.

The cool morning wind hit his face, waking him up far better than Wood’s endless speech. It felt good to be back on the Quidditch pitch. He flew a full lap around the stadium at top speed, racing Fred and George.

“What’s that weird clicking noise?” Fred shouted as they shot past a corner of the stands.

Harry looked up. Colin was sitting way up high, camera raised, snapping photos non-stop—the sound echoed oddly around the empty stadium.

“Harry! Over here! Look this way!” Colin yelled.

“Who’s that?” Fred asked.
“No idea,” Harry lied—and sped up, flying as far away from Colin as possible.

“What’s going on?” Wood frowned, gliding through the air toward them. “Why is that first-year taking pictures? I don’t like it. What if he’s a Slytherin spy trying to figure out our new training programme?”

“He’s in Gryffindor,” Harry said quickly.

“And Slytherin doesn’t need spies, Oliver,” George added.

“Why not?” Wood snapped, looking suspicious.

“Because they’re already here,” said George, pointing.

A group of students in green robes stepped onto the pitch, brooms in hand.
“I don’t believe this!” Wood snarled. “I booked the field for today! Let’s go talk to them!”

Wood dived to the ground, landing harder than he meant to in his anger. He stumbled a bit as he got off his broom. Harry, Fred, and George followed.

“Flint!” Wood barked at the Slytherin captain. “This is our training time! We got up at the crack of dawn! You lot can shove off!”

Marcus Flint was even bigger than Wood—and had the face of a troll who’d just cheated at cards. “There’s room for everyone,” he said with a greasy grin.

“But I booked the pitch!” Wood shouted. “It’s written down!”

“Ah,” Flint said, holding up a piece of parchment, “but I have special permission—signed by Professor Snape.
‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, due to the need to train their new Seeker.’”

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” Wood asked, instantly distracted. “Where?”

From behind the six large Slytherins, a seventh figure stepped forward—smaller, pale, and… carrying something.
Harry saw the face—beautiful in his eyes, though the forced smirk looked like a mask a size too tight.
Draco Malfoy.

“Draco?” Harry blurted out, stunned—and happy. He stepped forward without realising it. Wood glanced at him because Harry suddenly looked like a dog hearing its owner come home.

“You’re Slytherin’s Seeker? We’re gonna play against each other?” Harry’s voice burst with unfiltered excitement—and what shocked him most was that he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Slytherins are seriously sneaky,” Fred muttered to George. “They know Harry’s weak spot.”

But Flint stepped forward proudly.
“Let me show you Daddy Malfoy’s generous gift.”

Seven brand-new brooms rose at the same time—Nimbus Two Thousand and One.
Glossy handles, golden shine, arrogance written all over them… except on one face.

Draco took half a step back.
Small move—but Harry caught it. His eyes didn’t match the others. There was nervousness hiding right behind that lazy smirk.

“Latest model,” Flint said, patting his broom. “Way ahead of the Two Thousand. That CleanSweep old thing—” his eyes slid to Fred and George, “—might be better for sweeping floors.”

Slytherins laughed. Draco didn’t.
He just gripped his broom a little tighter—like he had to convince himself it was still okay to hold it.

Harry’s smile faded.

Ron and Hermione arrived. Ron looked straight at Draco.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you playing with us?”

“I’m Slytherin’s new Seeker, Weasley,” Draco answered. His voice was calm… but his eyes kept moving, like he was searching for an exit.

Flint nudged him from behind, forcing Draco to speak again. Harry noticed—and his gaze hardened.

“C-cool, right? My father can afford the best,” Draco said, keeping a smile that never reached his eyes.
“Maybe you could start saving for a new broom too.”

Laughter burst. Flint looked pleased. Draco looked down—just for a moment—as if he’d disappointed himself.

Hermione stared at Draco for a second before speaking sharply.
“At least Gryffindor doesn’t need bribes to get on the team. They’re chosen because they’re good.”

Draco flinched. The broom in his hand gave a tiny crack as his grip tightened.
In his eyes—just for a second—there was a kid who wanted to say something… but had no courage to choose a side.

Flint stepped toward Hermione.
“No one asked for your opinion, you filthy Mudblood!”

A small sound escaped Draco—a startled choke.
He was even more shocked than Harry.

Before Draco could move, chaos broke loose. Harry used it—slamming his fist into Flint’s nose.

Draco was stuck in the middle—not as Slytherin, not as Gryffindor, but as someone who had nowhere to stand.

Harry pulled him away from the mess, close—almost like it was the most natural thing to do.

“Potter—let me go,” Draco hissed, restless. “I… I have to…”

His voice cracked before he could finish.

Harry loosened the hold—but kept Draco close. His voice softened:
“You don’t look happy being Seeker. Were you forced into it?”

Draco looked at him.There was a word trying to break out—but it seemed like a sin to say it.

Harry could almost hear the war going on inside his head.And before Draco could answer, Ron fired a spell at Flint—which bounced right back at him, thanks to his busted wand—and he started burping slugs.

Draco took a long breath, like someone who’d just been handed a reason to run.“Worry about your friend. Not me,” he said flatly. But it sounded more like a sentence he used to protect himself. “From now on… I’m your enemy, Potter. All three of yours.”

He ran back to the Slytherins. His back was straight, his steps steady—but Harry saw the sudden tension in his shoulders when Flint’s groans and curses reached him.

Draco put his mask back on.

Harry clenched his fists. Not because of pain—but because he felt completely powerless.

Draco wasn’t acting like himself. Someone had bent him into shape.

And Harry swore he’d find out who—

so that Draco could breathe again.

Hagrid was busy making tea for them.
Fang, his huge dog, kept licking Harry’s hands like he already sensed trouble.

“So,” Hagrid said, nodding at Ron, “who was Ron trying to hex?”

“Flint said something to Hermione,” Ron croaked from behind the table, pale and sweating. “Must’ve been bad, ’cause everyone just snapped.”

“It was bad,” Ron wheezed, popping up again only to cough up more slugs. “He called her a Mudblood, Hagrid…”

Ron disappeared under the table again — another wave of slugs. Then his voice came out, shaky, “Harry broke Flint’s nose — and he didn’t even know what the word meant.”

Harry clenched his jaw.
“That troll wasn’t just insulting Hermione,” he said sharply. “He was pushing Draco around. That punch felt… too light. I should’ve cursed him.”

Hagrid’s face darkened. “He said that to yeh, Hermione?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, still frowning. “But I didn’t know what it meant. I just assumed… it was something foul.”

“It’s the worst thing anyone could say,” Ron said between heavy breaths, popping into view again. “Mudblood’s a filthy slur for witches and wizards born to Muggle parents. Some pure-bloods think they’re better… that they deserve more.”

A slug dropped into his shaking hand. He tossed it into the bucket and continued, “But everyone knows blood doesn’t matter. Look at Neville — he’s pure-blood but can barely hold a cauldron right. His family’s nowhere near the Malfoys.”

“And they still haven’t found a spell Hermione can’t do,” said Hagrid proudly. Hermione’s cheeks went pink instantly.

“Mudblood is the lowest thing to say,” Ron said, wiping his sweaty forehead with trembling fingers. “Dirty blood. Ordinary blood. Stupid, really. Most wizards today are mixed anyway. If we didn’t marry Muggles, we’d already be extinct.”

He doubled over — and vomited more slugs.

Harry didn’t move to help.
His fists were still tight.

Because even now…
he could still see Draco’s face when Flint spoke.
And that — hurt far more than any insult Flint spat at Hermione.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. You tried to curse him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly, almost covering the sound of snails dropping into the bucket.

“Harry,” Hagrid said suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something. “Oi, I’m offended. I heard you’ve been handing out signed photos. Why didn’t I get one?”

“I’m not handing out signed photos,” he said, irritated. “If Lockhart keeps talking about—”

But then he saw Hagrid chuckling.
“I’m just messing with you,” he said, patting Harry on the back so cheerfully that Harry smacked his face on the table. “I told Lockhart you didn’t need any of that. You’re already more famous than him—without even trying.”

“He probably hated hearing that,” said Harry, sitting up straight and rubbing his chin.

“He did,” said Hagrid, eyes gleaming. “Then I told him I’ve never read any of his books—and he left. Candyfloss, Ron?” he added as Ron came back in.

“No, thanks,” Ron said weakly. “Better not risk it.”

Harry glanced at Hagrid’s pink floral umbrella leaning against the back wall of the hut. He had every reason to think it wasn’t just an umbrella. In fact, he was pretty sure Hagrid’s old school wand was hidden inside it. Hagrid technically wasn’t allowed to use magic. He’d been expelled in his third year at Hogwarts—but Harry still had no idea why. Every time he brought it up, Hagrid would cough loudly and go mysteriously deaf until the subject changed.

“Swelling Spell, right?” said Hermione, half-amused, half-scolding. “Well—looks like it worked brilliantly.”

“That’s what your little sister said,” Hagrid went on, nodding at Ron. “Met her yesterday. Said she was just lookin’ around—but I reckon she was hopin’ to run into someone in my hut.”
He looked at Harry, beard twitching. “If you ask me, she wouldn’t say no to an autographed photo…”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry muttered.

They’d barely stepped into the cool Entrance Hall when a sharp voice cut through the air.
“There you are, Potter, Weasley.”

Professor McGonagall strode toward them, looking as strict as ever.
“You both have detention tonight.”

“What do we have to do, Professor?” Ron asked nervously, trying not to burp.

“You’ll polish the trophy room’s silverware with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “No magic, Weasley—use regular polish.”

Ron gulped. Filch—the caretaker—was someone every student tried to avoid.

“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail.”

“Oh, no—can’t I do the trophy room instead?” Harry asked miserably.

“Absolutely not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising an eyebrow. “Professor Lockhart asked for you specifically. Eight o’clock sharp—do not be late.”

They dragged their feet toward the Great Hall, looking gloomy. Hermione followed close behind, wearing a face that clearly said: you-broke-school-rules-and-you-know-it.
Harry stared at his meat pie, appetite gone. He and Ron kept insisting their detention was worse.

“Filch is gonna watch me the whole time,” Ron groaned. “No magic! There’s gotta be a hundred trophies in there. I’m hopeless at Muggle cleaning.”

“I’d trade with you right now,” Harry said flatly. “I’m trained by the Dursleys. But answering Lockhart’s fan mail… that’s torture.”

Saturday slipped away, and suddenly it was five to eight. Harry trudged down the second-floor corridor toward Lockhart’s office. He clenched his jaw and knocked.

The door flew open. Lockhart beamed at him.
“Ah, here he is! Come in, Harry, come in!”

The walls shimmered in candlelight—covered in what felt like a thousand photos of Lockhart. Some were even signed. A huge pile of unsigned ones sat on the desk.

“You can write addresses on the envelopes!” Lockhart chirped, as though this was fun. “The first one’s for Gladys Gudgeon—big fan of mine.”

Time crawled. Harry let Lockhart ramble, responding only now and then with a “Mmm,” or “Right,” or “Yeah.”
Sometimes Lockhart tossed out gems like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or, “A celebrity must act like a celebrity—remember that!”

And then—Harry heard something.
Not the flickering of tired candles.
Not Lockhart’s endless bragging.

Something else.

Something quiet… sharp… familiar—
like the sound Draco made when he forced himself to stay calm.

And Harry froze.

There was a sound—a sound that could freeze your bones, full of hate, cold as ice.

“Come… come to me… let me tear you apart… let me kill you…”

Harry jerked back, a big drop of purple ink landing on Veronica Smethley’s address.

“What—?” he shouted.

“I know!” Lockhart interrupted, waving his hands as if conducting an orchestra. “Six months straight at the top of the bestseller charts! Breaking every record!”

“No!” Harry panicked. “The voice just now!”

“Pardon?” Lockhart blinked, utterly confused. “What voice? Didn’t hear anything. Harry, are you sure you’re not just tired? Good heavens—it’s nearly midnight! We’ve been at this for almost four hours! Can you believe it? Time just flies when you’re—”

Harry didn’t answer. He strained his ears, trying to catch that voice again. But all he could hear now was Lockhart droning on about how he shouldn’t expect every detention to be this delightful.

Harry stumbled back to the Gryffindor common room, dazed. It was late, and the room was nearly empty. He went straight to his dorm. Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry changed into his pajamas, climbed into bed, and waited.

Half an hour later, Ron finally returned, rubbing his right arm, the smell of polish clinging to him in the dark room.

“My muscles ache all over,” groaned Ron, collapsing onto his bed. “I had to scrub that Quidditch Trophy fourteen times before Filch was satisfied. And then… the snail attack again, spewing onto the Special Award for Service to the School. Took forever to clean off that slime. What about Lockhart?”

Quietly, so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry told Ron about the voice he’d heard.

“And Lockhart said he didn’t hear anything?” Ron frowned in the moonlight. “Do you think he’s lying? But I don’t get it—even someone invisible should be able to open a door…”

“I know,” Harry murmured, lying back and staring at the canopy ceiling. “I don’t get it either.”

OCTOBER crept in, spreading its cold, damp air through the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the hospital wing matron, was busier than ever—an unexpected flu had struck both students and staff. Her Cure-All Draught worked like a charm, though anyone who drank it would have smoke pouring out of their ears for hours afterward. Ginny Weasley, pale and looking ready to faint, had been forced to take it by Percy. Smoke curling from under her hair made it look like her whole head was on fire.

On a normal day, Harry would greet Draco with a light smile, sit beside him, and take his sarcasm as if it were some kind of private joke between them. But this month—everything felt different. Everything felt uneasy.

Harry started treating Draco like a patient that needed constant watching. Every morning, the first thing Harry looked for wasn’t his breakfast—it was that familiar blond hair. And when he found it, he’d head straight over with a potion from Madam Pomfrey (one Draco never asked for), sit beside him, and check his temperature. Without permission.

“Potter, stop feeling me up like some bloody creep!” Draco hissed, trying to shove him away. “I’m going to Quidditch practice. Keep this up and I’ll hex you. Gladly.”

He regretted letting Crabbe and Goyle relax in the Slytherin common room—he should have dragged Blaise, Theo, and Pansy along as backup instead.

But Harry didn’t budge an inch. Weeks of Wood’s brutal training and potions from Snape had made him stronger—strong enough to hold Draco down without even noticing it.

“It’s freezing out. Don’t practice in this kind of weather,” Harry said, genuinely worried.

Draco sighed in frustration. “Don’t treat me like I’m weak, Potter. Or is this your strategy to keep me from beating you at Quidditch? Very clever,” he added sharply.

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “What?! No! I don’t care about winning! I just… don’t want you to get sick.”

“You think I’m weak, Potter. Let go of me!” Draco demanded again, struggling to free himself. “Granger, Weasley, why are you just standing there, letting your friend do something this stupid?”

Hermione exhaled, staring at Harry for a long moment as if weighing the gentlest way to speak. Ron, on the other hand, leaned against the wall, mentally exhausted.

“Harry, stop,” Ron said wearily.

“Harry, I know you’re worried, but treating Draco like this isn’t right either. He’ll be fine—don’t treat him like he’s weak. You’re hurting him,” Hermione said softly.

Harry looked at Draco for a long moment, then let go. “Sorry… I was just worried,” he muttered, voice slack.

Draco met his gaze. “I’m fine,” he said quietly. “You’d do better to watch your… girlfriend, who always looks so pale.”

Harry frowned, about to ask, but Draco had already left the three of them. “Girlfriend? Why does he keep saying ‘my girlfriend’? I don’t have a girlfriend…”

Ron groaned in frustration, clearly understanding. “Just a misunderstanding. Relax.”

Harry trudged down the empty corridor, needing some time alone so his friends wouldn’t tag along. He spotted someone who seemed lost in thought, much like himself. Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor Tower ghost, was staring gloomily out the window, murmuring softly, “…doesn’t meet the requirements… just one inch, if only it…”

“Hey, Nick,” Harry said.

“Hello, hello,” Nick replied, startled, turning to look. He was wearing a fancy feathered cap over his long, curly hair, and a ruffled-collar tunic that hid the fact that his neck was almost completely sliced off. He looked pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark, rainy sky outside.

“Looks like you’ve got some problems, Potter,” Nick said, folding a transparent letter and slipping it into the tight pocket of his tunic.

“You too,” Harry replied.

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved his delicate hand. “Small problems… not that I wasn’t excited to join… I thought I’d apply, but apparently, I ‘don’t meet the requirements.’” Though his tone was light, his face betrayed a deep disappointment.

“But you’d probably argue,” he said suddenly, pulling the letter back out and reading it angrily, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would make you qualified for the Headless Hunt, right?”

“Oh—yeah,” Harry said, knowing he was supposed to agree.

“I mean, no one wants it more than me that the beheading goes quick and clean, so I don’t have to suffer and get mocked for ages. Still…” Nick waved the letter open, reading aloud furiously, “We can only accept hunters whose heads are completely separated from their bodies. You understand that if this isn’t the case, participants can’t join activities like Ponyback Head Toss or Head Polo. So, with great regret, I must inform you that you do not meet our requirements. With all due respect, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.”

Fuming, Nick shoved the letter aside. “One inch of skin and muscle holding my head in place, Harry! Most people would say that’s basically beheaded, but oh no, not enough for Sir ‘Nearly-Headless Podmore.’”

Nick took several deep breaths, then his voice calmed. “So—what’s bothering you? Can I help?”

“No,” Harry said. “Nothing… unless you know a way to get close to someone who hates you because—” His sentence died in his throat as a shrill meow cut through, right by his feet. He looked down to see a pair of yellow eyes shining like flashlights. Nyonya Norris, the scrawny gray cat Filch used as a sort of spy, was prowling in endless battle with the students.

“You better get out of here, Harry,” Nick said hurriedly. “Filch is in a bad mood. He’s got the flu, and some third-years accidentally splattered the entire ceiling of Dungeon Five with frog brains. It’s a mess—you really came from… where?”

Harry looked at himself and realized he was filthy, though he had no idea where he’d gotten so messy. His mind was still tangled up with Draco, so he hadn’t noticed the mess around him.

Harry tried to back away from Nyonya Norris’s accusing glare, but not fast enough. Pulled toward the cat by some mysterious force, he suddenly felt Argus Filch appear from the hanging tapestry to his right. The caretaker huffed, his eyes wild, scanning for the rule-breaker. A thick plaid scarf was tied around his head, and his nose was an alarming shade of purple.

“Filth!” he shouted, jaw trembling, eyes glaring as he pointed at the muddy puddles dripping from Harry’s robes. “Messy, everywhere! I’m fed up! Come with me, Potter!”

“Wait, I didn’t mean—” Harry’s words hung in the air, knowing they wouldn’t be heard.

Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before. Most kids avoided it like the plague. The room was gloomy and windowless, lit only by a single oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered in the air. Rows of wooden filing cabinets lined the walls, and from the labels, Harry could tell they held detailed records of every student Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley even had their own drawer. Chains and manacles, polished to a shine, hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk. Everyone knew Filch had a long-running request to Dumbledore to allow him to punish students by hanging them from the ceiling by their ankles.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and started rifling through parchments. “Animal droppings,” he muttered angrily. “Big nasty dragon boogers… frog brains… rat intestines… outrageous… where’s that form… ah…” He pulled out a massive roll of parchment from his desk drawer and unrolled it in front of him, dipping his long black quill into a bottle of ink.

“Name… Harry Potter. Offense…”

“Just a bit of mud!” Harry protested.

“A bit of mud for you, boy, but for me it means an extra hour scrubbing the floors!” Filch shouted, his snot quivering at the tip of his disgusting nose. “Offense… making a mess of the castle… suggested punishment…”

He wiped his drippy nose and glared at Harry with squinting eyes. Harry held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

But just as Filch lowered his quill, there was a LOUD CRASH! from the ceiling that made the oil lamp swing.

“PEEVES!” Filch growled, slamming the quill down in fury. “I’ve got you this time, I’ve got you!”

Without even looking at Harry, Filch dashed out of the office, Nyonya Norris streaking behind him. Peeves, the school poltergeist, floated around grinning, always causing trouble. Harry didn’t exactly like Peeves, but he silently thanked him for the perfectly timed distraction. Hopefully, whatever chaos Peeves had caused this time would keep Filch busy and off his back.

Thinking he might need to wait for Filch to return, Harry plopped down on a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was one other thing on the desk besides his half-filled form: a large, shiny purple envelope with silver letters on the front. Harry glanced at the door to make sure Filch wasn’t sneaking back, then picked up the envelope and read it:

SPELLSWIFT
Beginner’s Written Magic Course

Curious, Harry opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of parchment. The silver swirling letters on the front page read:

Feeling left behind in the modern wizarding world? Can’t find a reason not to cast a simple spell? Ever been mocked for your sad wandwork? There’s a solution! SpellSwift is a brand-new, fail-proof, fast-learning magic course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have already benefited! Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: “I could never memorize spells, and my potions were always a family joke! Now, after SpellSwift, I’m the center of attention at parties, and my friends beg me for my Brilliant Brew recipe!”

Harry kept reading. Why would Filch want to take a course like this? Did that mean he wasn’t a “real” wizard? He skimmed “Lesson One: How to Hold Your Wand (Some Helpful Tips)” when he heard footsteps approaching.

Quickly, he shoved the parchment back into the envelope and tossed it on the desk just as the door opened. Filch strode in, looking triumphant.

“That disappearing cabinet is going to be very useful!” he said cheerfully to Nyonya Norris. “We’ll finally get Peeves this time, my dear.” His gaze fell on Harry, then on the SpellSwift envelope, lying about half a meter from where it had been. Filch’s pale face flushed red. Harry braced himself for an explosion.

Filch limped over to his desk, grabbed the envelope, and shoved it into the drawer.

“Did—did you read…?” he asked nervously.

“No,” Harry blurted out, lying fast.

Filch rubbed his knobby hands together, clearly unsettled.

“If I’d known you’d read my private letter… well, it wasn’t really for you… it’s for a friend… anyway…”

Harry stared at him, terrified. He’d never seen Filch this angry. His eyes were wild, one cheek twitched, and that plaid scarf didn’t exactly help matters.

“All right… go… and don’t tell anyone… I mean… as long as you didn’t read it… now go, I have to write a report about Peeves… go…”

Feeling surprisingly lucky, Harry bolted from Filch’s office, back into the corridor and up the stairs. Getting out of Filch’s office without detention might have been a personal record.

“Harry! Harry! Did it work?” Nearly Headless Nick came floating from one of the classrooms. Behind him, Harry caught sight of the wreckage of a huge black-and-gold cabinet that looked like it had been dropped from way up high.

“I convinced Peeves to drop it right on top of Filch’s office,” Nick said excitedly. “I figured it might distract him…”

“You set that up?” Harry asked, half-amazed. “Yeah, it worked—I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!”

They walked down the corridor together. Harry noticed that Nick was still clutching Sir Patrick’s rejection letter.

“Too bad there’s nothing I can do to help you with the Headless Hunt,” Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick suddenly stopped, and Harry walked right through him. He regretted it instantly. It felt like stepping under a shower of freezing ice.

“But there is something you can do for me,” Nick said, suddenly animated. “Harry—am I asking too much—no, you wouldn’t want to…”

“Want to do what?” Harry asked.

“Well, Halloween is my five-hundredth deathday,” Nick said, straightening up to look dignified.

“Oh,” said Harry, unsure whether to look sad or happy. “And…?”

“I’m having a party in one of the big basement rooms. Friends are coming from all over the country. It would be a huge honor if you’d attend. I’m also expecting Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, of course—but you probably prefer the school party, don’t you?” He looked at Harry, nervous and tense.

“No,” Harry blurted quickly. “I’ll come…”

“Good boy! Harry Potter, at my Deathday Party! And,” he hesitated, looking thrilled, “could you tell Sir Patrick that you find me very impressive and terrifying?”

“Of—of course,” Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick immediately beamed.

When Halloween arrived, Harry instantly regretted agreeing to attend Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party without thinking it through. Even his friends—and Draco—seemed excited for the school Halloween festivities. The Great Hall was decked out as usual with live bats fluttering overhead, and Hagrid’s giant yellow pumpkins had been carved into lanterns big enough for three people to sit in. Rumor had it Dumbledore had even hired a troupe of dancing skeletons for entertainment.

Harry wanted to be there too—sitting next to Draco, feeding him or vice versa, chatting with Blaise or Theo to learn more about Draco’s habits through them, answering Pansy’s questions about Muggle gadgets to catch Draco’s attention. It sounded like it could be fun.

“Promises must be kept,” Hermione reminded him, in her usual bossy tone. “You said you’d go to the Deathday Party.”

Harry’s hopes died right then and there.

So at seven o’clock that evening, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped through the Great Hall doors, already crowded with students. The flickering candles and gleaming golden plates looked inviting, but they headed toward the basement.

The corridor leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party was lined with candles as well, though they did little to brighten the path—the candles were tall, black, and pointed, flickering a ghostly blue light that cast a deathly pall even over the living. The deeper they went, the colder it became. Harry shivered, pulling his cloak tighter, as a sound like a thousand fingernails scraping a giant chalkboard reached his ears.

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered.

They turned a corner and found Nearly Headless Nick standing in front of a doorway draped with black velvet curtains.

“My dear friends,” he said sadly, “welcome, welcome… I’m so glad you could come…”

With a swift flick of his feathered cap, he bowed, gesturing them inside.

What greeted them was astonishing. The basement was filled with hundreds of pearly, translucent figures, most floating above the crowded dance floor, waltzing to the eerie, quivering sounds of thirty creaking saws, played by an orchestra on a stage draped in black. Candles above glowed a deep blue, their black wax flickering across the room.

Their breaths turned to mist in front of them; it felt like stepping into a freezer.

“Shall we take a look around?” Harry suggested, hoping to warm up his feet.

“Careful—don’t walk through anyone,” Ron said nervously, and they edged along the sides of the dance floor. They passed a cluster of morose nuns, a ragged man in chains, and the cheerful Fat Friar—Hufflepuff’s ghost—chatting with a knight ghost who had an arrow stuck in his forehead. Harry wasn’t surprised to see the Bloody Baron, Slytherin’s pale, grim ghost, with streaks of silvery blood, avoided by all the others.

“Oh no,” Hermione said, stopping suddenly. “Turn back, turn back—I’m not talking to Moaning Myrtle…”

“Who?” Harry asked as they hurried back.

“She haunts the girls’ bathroom on the second floor,” Hermione explained.

“She haunts the bathroom?”

“Yes. That bathroom has been wrecked for a year because she’s always yelling and flooding it. I try to avoid it whenever possible. It’s no fun having her wailing in the background…”

“Look, food!” Ron said, brightening.

On one side of the room was a long table, also draped in black velvet. They approached eagerly… and then froze in horror. The smell was unbearable. Massive rotten fish lay on gleaming silver platters, burnt sponge cakes piled up like charcoal, a huge goat carcass swarming with maggots, cheese covered in green mold, and in the place of honor, a massive gray tomb-shaped birthday cake with pitch-black decorations spelling out:

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington died October 31, 1492.

Harry stared in disbelief as a plump ghost floated up to the table, bowed, and then passed straight through it. His mouth gaped wide, passing right through one of the stinking fish.

“Could you taste the fish as you went through it?” Harry asked.

“Almost,” the sad ghost replied, then floated away.

“I think they deliberately let it rot so the smell hits harder,” Hermione said, sounding all know-it-all. She pinched her nose and leaned closer to inspect the maggoty goat meat.

“I heard you talking about unfortunate Myrtle,” Peeves piped up, his eyes dancing. “You’re being rude about Myrtle!” He took a deep breath and shouted, “HOI! MYRTLE!”

“Oh, Peeves, don’t—don’t tell her what I said, she’ll get upset,” Hermione whispered, panicked. “I didn’t mean anything bad… I don’t mind her—eh, hello, Myrtle.”

A short, chubby girl ghost floated closer, her face the gloomiest Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind long hair and thick, pearly glasses.

“What?” she glared.

“How are you, Myrtle?” Hermione said brightly. “Nice to see you outside the bathroom.”

Myrtle huffed.

“Miss Granger was just talking about you…” Peeves whispered slyly in her ear.

“Just saying—you look really pretty tonight,” Hermione added, glancing at Peeves nervously.

Myrtle stared at Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re teasing me,” she accused, silver tears streaming down her transparent face.

“No—really—I said you look beautiful tonight,” Hermione said, nudging Harry and Ron hard in the ribs.

“Oh, yeah…”

“Exactly…”

“Don’t lie to me!” Myrtle sobbed, her tears now flooding her face while Peeves cackled behind her. “You think I don’t know what insults they throw behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Crybaby Myrtle! Moody Myrtle! Complainer Myrtle!”

“You forgot ‘pimply,’” Peeves hissed in her ear.

Myrtle burst into sobs and fled the room. Peeves zipped after her, pelting her with moldy beans and shouting,

“Pimply! Pimply!”

“Oh, goodness,” Hermione said sadly.

By now, Harry was freezing, and his stomach was growling.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Ron muttered, teeth chattering, as the orchestra struck up again and the ghosts swirled on the dance floor.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry agreed.

They backed toward the door, nodding and smiling at anyone who looked their way, and a minute later they were rushing down the corridor lined with black candles.

“Maybe the pudding’s still there,” Ron said hopefully, striding ahead toward the stairs leading to the Front Hall.

And then Harry heard it.

“…tear… shred… kill…”

The same voice—the cold, cruel voice he’d heard in Lockhart’s office. Harry staggered to a halt, clutching the stone wall, listening as sharply as he could, eyes scanning, squinting down the dark corridor, watching every shadow.

“Harry, what are you—?”

“That voice—shh…”

“…so hungry… been so long…”

“Listen!” Harry whispered urgently. Ron and Hermione froze, staring at him.

“…kill… time to kill…”

The voice faded, drifting further away. Harry was sure whoever—or whatever—was speaking was moving upward. Fear and a strange thrill shot through him as he stared at the dark ceiling. How could a voice move upward?

Was it a ghost, passing through the stone ceiling as though it weren’t there?

“Over here!” he shouted, then bolted up the stairs, entering the Front Hall. There was no hope of hearing anything here—the chatter of children at the Halloween feast drifted from the Great Hall.

Harry raced up the marble stairs to the first floor, with Ron and Hermione close behind.

“Harry, what are we—?”

“SHHH!”

Harry strained his ears. From somewhere above them, the voice, growing fainter but still chilling, hissed:

“…smell of blood… SMELL OF BLOOD!”

Harry’s heart was pounding.

“He’s going to kill someone!” he shouted. Ignoring the confused looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, he bounded up the next flight of stairs, three steps at a time, straining to hear above the sound of his own pounding feet.

He raced across the entire second floor, Ron and Hermione gasping behind him, until they rounded the corner into the last empty corridor.

“Harry, what’s going on?” Ron asked, wiping sweat from his face. “I don’t hear anything…”

But Hermione suddenly let out a startled squeak, pointing toward the far end of the corridor.

“Look!”

Something glinted on the wall ahead. They crept closer, squinting through the darkness. Letters about a foot tall were scrawled across the wall between two windows, shining in the flickering torchlight.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMY OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

“What’s that—hanging underneath?” Ron’s voice trembled. As they drew closer, Harry nearly slipped—there was a huge puddle on the floor. Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they carefully stepped toward the writing, eyes locked on the dark shape beneath it.

Instantly, all three recognized it and jumped back, sending water splashing.

It was Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, dangling by her tail from the hook of a wall torch. Her body was stiff as a board, eyes wide open.

For a few frozen seconds, no one moved. Then Ron muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we… try to help—” Harry began awkwardly.

“Trust me,” Ron cut him off. “We do not want to be caught here.”

But it was already too late. A booming sound, like distant thunder, announced that the party was officially over. From both ends of the corridor came the clatter of hundreds of feet on stairs, and the loud, cheerful chatter of full-stomached students.

Within moments, children were streaming from both ends of the hallway. Their chattering, joking, and gossiping instantly died when those at the front saw the dangling cat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione froze in the middle of the corridor, while a hush fell over the crowd pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone yelled, shattering the silence.

“Enemy of the Heir, beware! You’re next, Mudblood!”

It was Marcus Flint. He had pushed to the front, his cold eyes gleaming, his usually pale face flushed as he grinned at the motionless cat.

Draco was beside him, staring at the three of them with wide-eyed shock and confusion. Harry felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him at the sheer look of fear in Draco’s eyes.

“Draco, listen—this isn’t—”

“What’s going on here? What is this?”

Drawn by Flint's shouting, Argus Filch pushed through the crowd. When he saw Mrs. Norris, he fell backward, clutching his face in horror.

“My cat! My cat! What happened to Mrs. Norris?” Filch screamed, eyes bulging. “You! You—You killed my cat! I’ll kill you! I—”

“Argus!”

Dumbledore had arrived, followed by several other teachers. In a blink, he moved past Harry, Ron, and Hermione, freeing Mrs. Norris from the hook.

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “And you as well, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”

Lockhart practically bounced forward.
“My office is just upstairs, right here—please, follow me…”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” Dumbledore said calmly. The silent crowd parted to make way. Lockhart, looking gleeful and important, scurried after Dumbledore, as did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

Harry forced himself to follow, restraining the urge to dash to Draco and explain everything. Draco’s terrified expression made him feel like someone had cast a weakening spell over his whole body.

Inside Lockhart’s dark office, there was movement along the walls. Harry caught glimpses of several Lockharts in photographs stepping aside, still with their curls perfectly in place. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stepped back.

Dumbledore carefully placed Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began examining her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense glances and sat in chairs outside the circle of candlelight, watching. Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose hovered just an inch from Mrs. Norris’ fur as he inspected her through his half-moon glasses. His fingers moved delicately, pressing and prodding.

McGonagall leaned in just as close, eyes narrowed. Snape lurked behind in the shadows, half-hidden, expression curiously strained, as if he were trying not to smile.

Lockhart fluttered around, offering his “expert” advice. “Clearly, a deadly curse—possibly Transmogrification Torture! I’ve witnessed this curse many times, and alas, I wasn’t there today, but I know the precise counter-curse that would save her—oh, so tragic!”

Lockhart’s commentary was punctuated by Filch’s low, miserable sobs. He huddled in the chair beside the desk, unable to face Mrs. Norris, face buried in his hands. Despite his dislike for Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy—for Filch, not as much as for himself. If Dumbledore trusted him, clearly he’d be forgiven.

Now Dumbledore whispered strange words and tapped Mrs. Norris lightly with his wand. Nothing happened: the cat remained stiff, looking more like a stuffed toy than a living creature.

“…I remember a very similar incident in Ouagadougou,” Lockhart continued. “A series of attacks—my autobiography covers it all. I provided the townsfolk with charms that immediately solved the problem…” The Lockhart portraits on the walls all seemed to nod in agreement, though one had forgotten to remove his harness.

Finally, Dumbledore straightened up.
“She is not dead, Argus,” he said softly. Lockhart, in mid-count of the lives he’d “saved,” froze.

“Not dead?” Filch croaked, peeking at Mrs. Norris through his fingers. “But why is she—so stiff and cold?”

"She’s been Petrified," said Dumbledore. "But how… I can’t really say…"

"Ah! That’s what I thought!" said Lockhart.

"Ask him!" Filch shouted, turning his pimpled, tear-streaked face toward Harry.
"No second-year could do this," Dumbledore said firmly. "It takes the highest-level Dark Magic…"
"He did it! He did it!" Filch yelled, his saggy face turning purple. "You all saw what was written on the wall! He found out—in my office—he knows I’m… I’m…" Filch’s face twisted horribly. "He knows I’m a Squib!" he finished.

"I didn’t touch Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, feeling awful because he knew everyone was watching—including all the Lockharts on the walls. "And I don’t even know what a Squib is."

"Nonsense!" Filch snapped. "He saw my Mantrakilat letter!"

"If I may, Headmaster," Snape said from the shadows. Harry’s stomach dropped—he knew whatever Snape said probably wouldn’t help.

"Potter and his friends were probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he continued, a tiny smirk playing on his face, as if he doubted his own words. "But it is suspicious. Why didn’t they go to the Halloween party?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all explained about the Deathday Party. "…there were hundreds of ghosts, they can vouch that we were there…"

"But why leave right after?" Snape asked, his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Why go up the corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.

"Because—because…" Harry’s heart was hammering; he knew it sounded weird to tell them that he’d been led there by a disembodied voice only he could hear. "Because we were tired and wanted to sleep," he said.

"Without dinner?" Snape said, a victorious smile spreading over his pale face. "I suppose ghosts don’t provide proper food for living people."

"We weren’t hungry," Ron said loudly, just as his stomach gave a loud growl.

Snape’s annoying grin got even wider. "I suppose, Headmaster, Potter isn’t being entirely honest," he said. "Maybe he deserves some restrictions until he tells us the whole story. Personally, I think he should be removed from the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he comes clean."

"Good grief, Severus," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "I see no reason to stop him from playing Quidditch. The cat wasn’t hit with a broom. There’s no proof Potter did anything wrong."

Dumbledore gave Harry a sharp look. His pale blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked annoyed but not surprised. Filch, of course, was furious.

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shouted, eyes bulging. "I want someone punished!"

"We can fix her, Argus," Dumbledore said calmly. "Recently, Madam Sprout managed to grow Mandrakes. Once they’re fully grown, I’ll have a potion made to bring Mrs. Norris back to normal."

"Let me do it," Lockhart interrupted. "I’ve done it a hundred times. I can stir the Mandrake Restorative Potion in my sleep…"

"Sorry," Snape said coldly, "but I think I’m the one who knows Potions best in this school."

"You may go," Dumbledore told Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They left as fast as they could, almost running. When they reached the floor above Lockhart’s office, they slipped into an empty classroom and shut the door. Harry squinted, looking at his two friends’ serious faces.

“Do you think I should’ve told them about the voice I heard?”

“No,” Ron said without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear is never a good sign, even in the wizarding world.”

Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You believe me, right?”

“Of course,” Ron said quickly. “But—you have to admit, it’s weird…”

“I know it’s weird,” Harry said. “This whole thing is weird. What’s with the writing on the wall? ‘The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened’… what does that even mean?”

“I think I’ve heard something like that before,” Ron said slowly. “Someone told me about a secret chamber in Hogwarts… maybe Bill…”

“And what’s a Squib?” Harry asked.

He blinked in surprise as Ron let out a stifled giggle.

“Well—it’s not really funny—but because it’s Filch…” Ron said. “A Squib is someone born into a wizarding family but has no magical powers at all. The opposite of a Muggle-born wizard, but a Squib’s different. If Filch tried learning magic through Mantrakilat classes, he must be a Squib. It explains a lot… like why he hates students so much.” Ron grinned. “He’s bitter.”

Somewhere, a clock chimed.

“Midnight,” Harry said. “Better get some sleep.”

Harry tossed and turned that night, uneasy. His dreams were full of nightmares: the voice, Mrs. Norris, the words on the wall—and the most frightening of all—dreaming of Draco, truly scared of him.

For days, the whole school couldn’t stop talking about the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch made sure everyone remembered it, pacing back and forth near the spot where she’d been targeted, as if the attacker might come back at any moment. Harry had even seen him rubbing at the writing on the wall—“Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Grime Eraser”—but it didn’t matter. The words still gleamed bright on the stone, stubborn as ever. When he wasn’t guarding the corridors, Filch would sneak around with his red eyes, catching unsuspecting students and trying to give them detentions for things like “breathing too loudly” or “looking happy.”

Ginny Weasley looked genuinely upset about Mrs. Norris. According to Ron, she was a huge cat lover.

“But you don’t really know Mrs. Norris yet,” Ron tried to cheer her up. “Trust me, we’d probably be happier without her.”

Ginny’s lips quivered.

“Stuff like this doesn’t happen often at Hogwarts,” Ron added, trying to reassure her. “They’ll catch the crazy person who did it and kick them out fast. I just hope she got to petrify Filch before they do… I’m joking, of course,” he hurriedly added when Ginny went pale.

Harry, on the other hand, looked just as pale. The rumors had hit him harder than Ron realized. Draco, who had already kept his distance from Harry from the start, now avoided him completely—and the fear in Draco’s eyes when Harry got near was like a punch straight to the chest.

Every time Draco’s gaze darted away, Harry felt his knees nearly give out. It wasn’t just distance—Draco was scared, and that kind of fear hit harder than any insult or curse could.

Harry tried to breathe, but his chest felt tight… like his lungs refused to work for a body they considered dangerous. He wanted to speak, to explain… but his jaw was locked by something he didn’t even understand.

Draco’s fear didn’t just make him weak—it made him feel… alien.

Ron tried to cheer Harry up, who looked like he was on the brink of collapse, and then he reached out to Hermione—only to see that the whole thing had hit her too. Hermione, who usually spent endless hours buried in books, was now barely doing anything else.

Ron groaned in frustration, trying to keep his own sanity in the middle of watching his friends unravel. He glanced toward the Slytherin table—Draco was clearly looking anywhere but at the Gryffindor table, while Pansy, Theo, and Blaise stared back at him, sharp-eyed and calculating. The rumors were hitting them too, no doubt about it.

Ron felt completely alone. Everyone around him was affected; no matter how hard he tried to pull his friends back, it was like trying to catch water with a hand. Nothing worked.

Chapter Text

History of Magic was easily the most boring class on their schedule. Professor Binns — the only ghost teacher in Hogwarts — had exactly one exciting moment in his entire teaching career: the time he floated into the classroom through the blackboard. He was ancient, wrinkled, and people said he didn’t even realize he was dead. One morning, he just got up, went to class, and left his body sitting in an armchair by the staff room fireplace. And ever since then… nothing changed.

Today was just as dull as always. Professor Binns opened his notes and started reading in his usual droning voice, like an old vacuum cleaner struggling to stay alive. Almost everyone was asleep — sometimes they woke up just long enough to scribble a name or a date before passing out again.

He had been talking for a good thirty minutes when something unbelievable happened.

Hermione raised her hand.

Professor Binns, who was in the middle of a painfully boring lecture about the International Warlock Convention of 1289, actually looked startled.

“Miss… eh?”

“Granger, sir,” Hermione said brightly. “I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

Dean Thomas, who’d been staring blankly out the window with his mouth hanging open, snapped out of his trance. Lavender Brown jerked awake from her arms, and Neville’s elbow slipped right off the edge of his desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said dryly. “I teach facts, Miss Granger. Not myths and fairy tales.” He coughed softly — a sound like chalk snapping in half — and continued, “In that September, the Sardinian subcommittee of—”

He had to stop. Hermione’s hand shot up again.

“Miss Grant?”

“Sorry, sir — but don’t legends usually come from facts?”

Professor Binns stared at her like he’d never seen a student properly before. Harry was pretty sure no one had ever interrupted him before — alive or dead.

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly. “Yes… one might argue that, I suppose.” He squinted at Hermione, actually studying her face now. “Even so, the legend you’re asking about is extremely sensational — practically ridiculous, really…”

But the entire class was now fully awake, eyes glued to him. Harry could tell the professor was honestly surprised they were all paying attention.

“Oh, very well,” he sighed. “The Chamber of Secrets…”

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago — though nobody’s really sure of the exact date — by four great witches and wizards of their time. The four school houses were named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from the curious eyes of Muggles, since back then magic was feared by ordinary people, and witches and wizards were hunted and mistreated because of it.”

He paused for a moment, sweeping the room with a gloomy look before continuing.
“For a few years, the founders worked in perfect harmony — finding children who showed magical talent and bringing them here to be taught. But eventually, things started to change. A disagreement began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wanted to be much more selective about who could enter Hogwarts. In his view, magic should only be taught to pure wizarding families. He disliked taking in students born to Muggle parents. He thought they couldn’t be trusted. After some time, Slytherin and Gryffindor argued fiercely about this… and Slytherin left the school.”

Professor Binns stopped again, pursing his lips until he looked like some wrinkled old turtle.
“According to the most reliable historical sources, that is all we truly know,” he said. “But those solid facts became tangled with the wilder legend of the Chamber of Secrets. According to the story, Slytherin built a hidden chamber inside the castle — one the other founders knew nothing about. And Slytherin, so the tale goes, sealed the Chamber so that no one could open it… except his true heir, once they arrived at the school. Only that heir could break the seal, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge Hogwarts of all who were unworthy of studying magic.”

The classroom fell silent as Professor Binns finished — but not the usual sleepy silence. This one was tight and uneasy. Everyone kept staring at him, waiting for more. He looked slightly annoyed.

“All nonsense, of course,” he said briskly. “Naturally, the school has been thoroughly searched for any sign of such a chamber. Learned witches and wizards have investigated time and again — but nothing. It simply doesn’t exist. Just a silly tale meant to scare the gullible.”

Hermione’s hand rose again.
“Sir — what exactly do they mean by ‘the horror within’ the chamber?”

“According to the legend, some kind of monster that only the heir of Slytherin can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, droning voice.

The students exchanged anxious glances.

“I told you already — it doesn’t exist,” said Professor Binns, flipping through his notes. “There is no Chamber of Secrets. And no monster.”

“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if it can only be opened by Slytherin’s real heir… wouldn’t that mean no one else could ever find it?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns sharply. “If generations of Hogwarts headmasters haven’t discovered it…”

“But, Professor,” Parvati Patil piped up quietly, “what if you had to use Dark Magic to open it…?”

“Just because a respected witch or wizard doesn’t use the Dark Arts, doesn’t mean they couldn’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat — if someone like Dumbledore—Perhaps it has to be someone from Slytherin’s bloodline, which is why Dumbledore couldn’t—”

Dean Thomas tried to add something, but Professor Binns had clearly had enough.

“Enough,” he said curtly. “This is all fairy-tale nonsense! The chamber doesn’t exist! There isn’t a scrap of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret even wasting time telling you a story this absurd! Now — back to history. To solid, provable facts.”

And within five minutes, the entire class was sleeping soundly again — just like usual.

“I’ve always known Salazar Slytherin was completely bonkers,” Ron muttered to Harry and Hermione as they squeezed through the crowded corridor after class, trying to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he was the one who started that pure-blood nonsense.”

Harry didn’t answer. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.
“Do you think Draco’s safe in there…?” he whispered, worry slipping into his voice.

Ron pressed his lips together. He didn’t know how to respond.

As the crowd pushed them forward in waves of students heading to the Great Hall, Colin Creevey squeezed past them.

“Hey, Harry!”

“Hi, Colin,” Harry said automatically.

“Harry—Harry—someone in my class said you—”

But Colin was so tiny, he couldn’t fight the current of students shoving him forward. They heard his squeaky “See you later, Harry!” before he vanished into the crowd.

“What did the kid in his class say about you?” Hermione asked.

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, probably,” Harry muttered. His stomach churned even worse as he remembered Justin Finch-Fletchley sprinting away from him at lunch. He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Draco—afraid he’d see that same scared look again.

“People here will believe any rumor,” Ron said with disgust. The crowd finally thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase without being shoved from behind. “Do you think the Chamber of Secrets is actually real?” he asked Hermione.

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris—and that makes me think whatever attacked her might not have been… well… human.”

As Hermione spoke, they turned a corner—and suddenly they were standing in the very corridor where it had all happened. They stopped and looked around. It looked exactly the same as that night, except there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and there was an empty chair set under the wall where the message still glared: The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.

“That’s where Filch stood guard,” Ron murmured.

They glanced at one another. The corridor was abandoned.

“No harm in checking around,” Harry said. He dropped his bag, crouched down, and crawled along the floor, searching for any clue. “Burn marks,” he said. “Here— and here…”

“Look at this!” Hermione called. “This is strange…”

Harry stood and crossed to the window beside the message. Hermione pointed up at the top of the frame. About twenty spiders were scrambling out, headed for a crack in the glass. A long silvery thread dangled like a rope—as if they’d been climbing on it in a desperate hurry to escape.

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” Hermione asked curiously.

“No,” said Harry. “Have you, Ron? … Ron?”

Harry turned around. Ron was standing further away, looking as though he was struggling not to bolt.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“I—don’t—like—spiders,” Ron said tensely.

“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron with genuine surprise. “You’ve used spiders in potions plenty of times…”

“It’s fine when they’re dead,” Ron muttered, carefully scanning everywhere except the window. “I just don’t like the way they move.”

Hermione stifled a laugh.

“Not funny,” Ron snapped. “When I was three, Fred—Fred turned my teddy bear into a giant spider. Just because I broke his toy wand. You wouldn’t like it either if you were hugging your bear and suddenly it had all those legs and—”

He stopped speaking and shuddered. Hermione was still clearly trying not to laugh. Harry felt the urge to smile—but the feeling didn’t reach his chest. Draco still hadn’t looked at him since lunch.

Wanting to change the subject, Harry said, “Remember the water on the floor? Where did it come from? Someone wiped it away.”

“About here,” said Ron, who’d finally calmed down enough to walk past Filch’s chair and point. “Right in line with this door—”

His hand reached for the knob—only to snap back as if it burned him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry.

“Can’t go in,” Ron said hoarsely. “It’s the girls’ bathroom.”

“Oh, Ron, no one ever comes in here,” said Hermione, walking forward. “It’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on.”

Ignoring the large sign that read OUT OF ORDER, Hermione pushed open the door.

It was the most miserable place Harry had ever stepped into. Under a huge cracked mirror lay a row of stone sinks, all stained and fractured. Damp tiles reflected the faint flickers of low-burning candles. Wooden cubicle doors peeled and rotted—one hung crookedly from a single hinge.

Hermione raised a finger to her lips and headed for the last stall. When she got there, she said, “Hello, Myrtle. How are you?”

Harry and Ron peeked inside. Myrtle was floating above a toilet, poking at a pimple on her chin.

“This is the girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing the boys with suspicion. “They are not girls.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them how—er—delightful this place is.”

Hermione made a vague gesture toward the cracked mirror and damp floor.

Harry mouthed silently: Ask her if she saw anything.

“What are you whispering about?” Myrtle snapped, glaring at Harry.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “We just wanted to ask—”

“I hate it when people talk behind my back!” Myrtle wailed. “I have feelings, you know! Even if I’m dead!”

“Myrtle, no one wants to hurt your feelings,” said Hermione. “Harry only—”

“No one wants to hurt my feelings! As if! My whole life was misery, and now people come to ruin my death as well!”

“We only wanted to know if you’ve seen anything strange lately,” Hermione said quickly, “because a cat was attacked right outside your door on Hallowe’en night.”

“Did you see anyone nearby that night?” asked Harry.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Myrtle said dramatically. “Peeves upset me, so I came in here to try and kill myself. Then of course I remembered that I— that I…”

Myrtle sobbed loudly and plunged headfirst into the toilet, splashing them all as she vanished. From the echoing sobs, she was clearly hiding in the U-bend.

Harry and Ron stared—but Hermione merely shrugged. “Trust me, this is cheerful for Myrtle… come on. Let’s go.”

“But… who is it, really?” Hermione asked, sounding like she was picking up a conversation that never really ended.
“Who wants to get rid of every Squib and Muggle-born in Hogwarts?”

“Let’s think,” said Ron, acting clueless but glancing at Hermione.
“Who do we know… that thinks Muggle-borns are trash?”

Hermione hesitated. “If you’re talking about Draco—”

“Exactly!” Ron cut in fast. “You—wait, did you just say Draco?”

“Draco? On what basis?” Harry’s fists clenched. There was clear anger in his voice—like the accusation was way out of line.

“Draco… the Heir of Slytherin,” Hermione said, but even she didn’t sound sure. “He’s on the Quidditch team, he didn’t speak up when Flint insulted me. He’s been avoiding us since then… doesn’t it all connect?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Ron jumped in. “I was talking about Flint! Didn’t you hear what he said? ‘You’re next, Mudblood!’ Just look at him—his face’s practically half troll. He’s the perfect suspect!”

“The Flint family’s probably pure Slytherin,” Harry said quickly, trying to keep his magic from flaring.
“Maybe they’ve had the Chamber’s key for centuries, passed down from father to son—”

Hermione swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “That’s exactly why I doubt it. I’m not sure the Flints are… worthy of being Slytherin’s descendants. But the Draco—”

“So you think Draco’s evil? That he wants to wipe out half the school? That’s what you think?!”
Harry’s tone went sharp—too sharp. The fire in the Gryffindor common room burst higher, not from the wood… but from his unstable magic.

“Harry, breathe,” Ron murmured, gently putting a hand on his arm.

Harry inhaled slow, forcing the magic down. “Sorry, Hermione. It’s just… too much. I can’t take it.”

“I’m sorry too,” Hermione said quickly. “I shouldn’t accuse Draco without proof.”
Her palms were sweating. Harry’s magic pressed on her—stronger than last year—and she had a feeling Harry hadn’t even noticed it yet.

“We have to prove something,” Ron said, stepping in before things spiraled again. “But… I don’t know how.”

“There might be a way,” Hermione whispered, lowering her voice. “But it’s risky. Really risky. We’ll probably break fifty school rules.”

Ron straightened his back. Harry said nothing, but his eyes were sharp now. Listening.

“What we need is…” Hermione took a breath.
“Polyjuice Potion.”

“What’s that?” Harry and Ron asked at the same time.

“Snape mentioned it a few weeks ago…” Hermione looked at them like she couldn’t believe it.

Harry looked down—he hadn’t been paying attention then. He’d only been watching Draco walk away without a single glance at him. Ron had even held him back. Of course they hadn’t heard the lesson.

“That potion can turn us into somebody else,” Hermione explained. “Imagine it—we could be three Slytherins. No one would suspect a thing. Draco might—”

“Hermione,” Ron warned.

“I mean Flint!” she corrected quickly. “He might be bragging about it right now in the Slytherin common room… if only we could listen in.”

“That sounds… risky,” Ron muttered, looking uneasy. “What if we get stuck as Slytherins forever?”

“It wears off on its own,” Hermione said firmly. “But getting the recipe—that’s the real problem. It's in a book called Moste Potente Potions. I’m sure it’s kept in the Restricted Section.”

The only way to borrow a book from the Restricted Section was with a signed note from a teacher.
“Hard to think of a reason why we *need* that book,” Ron sighed. “Unless we actually plan to brew one of the potions.”

“We could pretend we’re interested in the theory…” Hermione suggested quietly. “Maybe that would—”

“Oh, come on! No teacher would fall for that,” Ron cut in fast. “If anyone does, they’d have to be completely—”

Harry didn’t finish the sentence. Truth was, he knew Hermione could make that potion work—even without the book. He also didn’t bother mentioning that he technically had access to the Restricted Section already—Dumbledore’s permission, passed through McGonagall at the start of the year. Hermione would manage. Hermione always managed.

The only thing he couldn’t manage… was himself.

“Hermione,” Harry said suddenly. His voice was heavier than before. “Did I hurt you earlier? I… I’m really sorry.”

Hermione blinked, surprised—then gently took his hand. Her eyes were calm. Steady.  
“I’m fine,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have accused our friend without proof.”

Harry nodded, but his breathing was still heavy.  
“I’m close to my limit,” he murmured.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance. They knew he wasn’t done—and they waited.

“I’ve been holding back my anger as hard as I can,” Harry continued. “But I ended up taking it out on Hermione. I’m scared that one day… I won’t be able to hold it back at all.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m scared I’ll hurt my friends. Or worse.”

Ron swallowed. Hermione held his hand tighter. Neither of them spoke.

“I miss Draco.”

The words sounded like a confession.

“I want him back with us. I’ve waited so long… too long. I want to talk to him without being pushed away. I want to hug him… and for him to hug me back. I want… Draco.”

The silence didn’t just fall.  
It pressed down.

Ron moved first. He wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder. Hermione followed, hugging him from the other side. Harry didn’t pull away. Instead, magic started to flow out of him—warm at first, then cold, then pulsing like a storm trapped under his skin.

The candles in the room began to flicker on their own. The fireplace flared up, then shrank back down… like it was syncing with Harry’s breathing. The air turned charged—not dangerous yet, but close.

And none of them stepped back.

Hermione glanced at Ron—and both of them suddenly understood the same thing: Polyjuice wasn’t just a plan to investigate anymore.

It was a chance to bring something back.
Or someone.

The Heir of Slytherin still had to be found.
But more than that…

They had to find Draco.
Their friend.
However they could.

Their arms tightened around Harry.

Later that night, Harry walked to the Owlery.
He tried training his magic again—stabilizing it, controlling it.
But it was harder now.
Because this time…
he actually missed Draco.
Badly.

Somehow, Hermione actually managed to get Lockhart to sign the paper — and just like that, they officially had access to the Restricted Section. Harry didn’t even want to imagine how she’d pulled it off… but he was grateful she did.

Five minutes later, they were already locked inside Moaning Myrtle’s broken bathroom again. Ron complained, of course, but Hermione argued that this was exactly the last place any sane person would visit — which made it the safest place in Hogwarts.

Myrtle sobbed loudly from her stall, but the three of them ignored her… and Myrtle ignored them right back.

Hermione carefully opened Moste Potente Potions, and the three of them leaned over the damp-stained pages. One glance was enough to understand why this book was kept in the Restricted Section. Some of the effects were too horrifying to even imagine — and the illustrations were worse. One showed a wizard whose insides looked like they’d been turned outwards, and a witch with extra arms sprouting from her head. Ron made a choking noise.

“Here it is,” Hermione said excitedly, pointing. Polyjuice Potion.
The page showed people halfway transformed into someone else. Harry really hoped the illustrator had been exaggerating the pain on their faces.

“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever read,” Hermione muttered. Maybe… if Draco were here, he’d be thrilled to try it, Harry thought — then immediately shoved the idea away before it pulled him in again.

“Lacewing flies, leeches, powdered horn of a Bicorn, shredded Boomslang skin…” Her finger traced the ingredients list. “These are easy. Everything’s in the student supplies cabinet. Bicorn powder, I’m not sure… and Boomslang skin — definitely not in the student cabinet. And of course…” her voice dropped a little, “a piece of the person you want to turn into.”

“Sorry — WHAT?” Ron snapped. “A piece of them? I’m not drinking anything that has bits of a Slytherin toenail in it!”

Hermione read on like she hadn’t heard him. “We don’t need that yet. That’s the final step…”

Ron turned to Harry — who, instead of disgust, looked… uneasy for a different reason.

“Do you realise how much we have to steal, Hermione? Boomslang skin isn’t in the student cabinet… are you suggesting we break into Snape’s private stores? That’s not just risky — that’s suicide.”

Hermione snapped the book shut.

“If you two want to back out, go ahead.”
Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were burning. “I don’t want to break the rules. But threatening Muggle-borns is worse than brewing a difficult potion. If you don’t want to find out whether Flint is the Heir of Slytherin, I’ll return the book right now and—”

“Never thought I’d live to see the day you convinced us to break a rule,” Ron said. “Fine. I’m in. But absolutely NO toenails.”

“How long will it take to brew?” Harry asked quietly, as Hermione — now much happier — reopened the book.

“Well, the knotgrass has to be picked during a full moon, and the lacewing flies need to be stewed for twenty-one days… so I’d say the potion will be ready in about a month — if we manage to get all the ingredients.”

“A month?” Ron groaned. “Flint might’ve attacked half the Muggle-borns by then!”
But Hermione’s eyes narrowed again, so Ron quickly added,
“But yeah… it’s still the best plan we’ve got. So let’s just do it.”

While Hermione checked if it was safe to leave Myrtle’s bathroom, Ron muttered to Harry,
“Honestly, it’d be way easier if you just knocked Flint off his broom tomorrow.”

Harry didn’t deny it.
Winning the match — and protecting Draco — was already the goal.
But seeing Flint seriously hurt?
That’d be a sweet bonus.

Saturday, just before eleven, the whole school made their way to the Quidditch stadium. Ron and Hermione rushed over to wish Harry good luck before he entered the changing room.
The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes and sat down for Wood’s usual pre-match speech.

“Slytherin’s got better brooms than we do,” he began, “no point denying it. But we’ve got better players on ours. We trained harder than they ever did — we flew in every kind of weather — and today, we’ll make them regret the day they let that sneaky Malfoy buy his way into their team.”

Wood’s chest heaved as he turned to Harry. “I know how you feel about Malfoy, Harry — but remember, you’re playing for Gryffindor. For the win. Catch the Snitch before he does. Otherwise… you might as well drop dead. We have to win today. We must.”

“So, no pressure at all,” Fred added with a wink.

Harry clenched his fists. Still quiet — but something twisted inside his chest. Not because of the match… but because of how easily Wood said Draco’s name, like he was nothing more than a joke — just another enemy to crush.

Part of Harry wanted to speak up. Another part strangled that thought fast. He couldn’t defend Draco. Not today. Not before the match. Not when everyone expected him to hate Malfoy.

Still… he didn’t like that everyone acted like Draco was guilty from day one.

They headed out to the stadium. Cheers exploded — Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff wanted Slytherin humiliated, while the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly. Madam Hooch made Flint and Wood shake hands. They squeezed too hard, sharing a glare that almost counted as another battle.

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch.
“Three… two… one…”

The crowd roared as fourteen players shot up into the stormy sky. Harry climbed higher than anyone, eyes narrowed, scanning for the Snitch.

Draco did the same — at first. He just wanted the match over as fast as possible. His father was watching.
And Draco knew all too well: when his father watched, something bad usually followed.

Ignoring Harry Potter? Yeah, not the easiest thing to do — especially when he was flying right beside him.

“Stop tailing me like a shadow, Potter,” Draco snapped, voice a bit louder than he meant.

“I’m not following you,” Harry shot back, cheeks turning red. “I’m tracking the Snitch — and keeping up with you.”

Draco almost threw an insult… until his eyes widened in panic.
“HARRY, LOOK OUT!”

A black Bludger shot toward them like a curse. Harry dived instantly — his body moved faster than his thoughts. The wind slapped his hair as the ball missed his head by inches.

“Close one, Harry!” George yelled, flying by and smashing his bat at the Bludger.

Draco needed a full second just to breathe. His heart felt like it jumped out of his ribs.

“You… just called me Harry?” Harry was already at his side again — way too close, way too cheerful for someone who almost got beheaded by a Bludger.

“You’re insane,” Draco muttered, more confused than annoyed.

“So you were worried? Does that mean we can be friends again? I—”

Draco didn’t even get to answer. George hit the Bludger hard — aiming at Adrian Pucey — but the ball twisted midair and went straight back for Harry.

“HARRY! DON’T JUST FLOAT THERE — IT’S AFTER YOU!”

Harry dived again. George used the momentum and smashed the Bludger away — this time toward Draco.

Harry’s heart nearly exploded when Draco almost got hit. “GEORGE! DON’T AIM IT AT DRACO! DO YOU WANT HIM IN THE HOSPITAL WING?! SEND IT TO FLINT INSTEAD — HIS FACE IS RUINED ALREADY, NO ONE WILL NOTICE THE DIFFERENCE!”

Magic pulsed in the air around George, choking his breath. Even the Bludger bounced away, flying clean off the pitch from the raw wave of Harry’s magic.

“…Okay then,” George muttered, horrified — especially by how easily Harry warped the Bludger with sheer anger.

Harry steadied his breathing and refocused — but now he kept his distance from Draco. The Bludger kept hunting him, and the last thing he wanted was to drag Draco into danger because of him.

Sure enough — it reappeared, and Fred slammed it at Flint. They laughed when Flint nearly fell off his broom… until the ball curved right back at Harry again.

“This isn’t normal. That Bludger’s cursed, definitely cursed,” Fred muttered.

The twins stuck by Harry like bodyguards — but with their attention split, and Slytherin’s brand-new brooms blazing faster than anything Gryffindor had…
the scoreboard said it all: seventy to zero.

“Time out,” George hissed, signaling to Wood while dodging the Bludger.

Madam Hooch’s whistle echoed, and Harry, Fred, and George dove toward the ground.

“What happened?” Wood barked, frustrated. The Slytherin stands roared with laughter and jeers. “Fred, George — where were you when Angelina was about to score?!”

“Six meters above her — saving Harry from a Bludger that’s trying to kill him, Oliver!” George snapped back. “That Bludger’s only after Harry. It hasn’t hit anyone else. This is Slytherin’s doing!”

“Did Malfoy—”

“It wasn’t him,” Harry cut in instantly.

Madam Hooch approached. Over her shoulder, Harry saw the Slytherin team still laughing — except one.
Draco. Staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Harry’s chest loosened. Draco wasn’t scared of him. He cared. He was worried.
That was enough.

“Listen,” Harry said as Madam Hooch got closer. “With Fred and George tailing me, the only way I catch the Snitch is if it flies straight into my sleeve. Let me deal with the Bludger alone.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Fred muttered. Wood looked between Harry — and Fred — like he was weighing fire against wind.

“If we stop now, we’ll be declared losers!” Harry shouted — but his eyes weren’t on Wood.
They were on Draco.
I won’t look weak in front of him, he thought.

Wood read that fire, hesitated… then gave up.
“Fred, George. Let Harry handle the Bludger alone.”

Harry shot upward, luring the Bludger higher and higher. He spun, swerved, dove in a messy zig-zag until his vision blurred. His goal was clear: get away from Draco. But one sound chased him relentlessly — louder than the Bludger itself.

Draco’s broom.

Why was he following?!

“Draco! Get away from me! You’ll get hit!” Harry yelled, voice ragged.

Draco pushed his broom faster. “You’re the stupid one! I’m not letting you become a joke for Gryffindor or Slytherin!”

Harry understood — Draco was trying to be the decoy. He actually meant it. He’d take the hit for him.

A colder kind of fear struck Harry — colder than the wind this high up. He flew farther, but Draco was suddenly right in front of him… half a meter away from the Bludger.

Harry acted on instinct. No plan — just impulse. In a split second, he grabbed Draco’s broom and yanked it to the right, saving him from the first hit.

And in that chaotic moment—
something glimmered right beside Draco’s left ear.
The Snitch. Still. Taunting. Almost mocking them.

The chance was right there — crystal clear — but it made Harry lose focus instead. One thought hit him like ice:
If I grab the Snitch… Draco will know I saw him. He’ll know.

THUD!

The Bludger slammed into his left elbow. Heat burned all the way to his shoulder. Harry gasped.

“HARRY, YOU—IDIOT! WHY DID YOU FREEZE?!” Draco screamed. His voice cracked — panic outweighing anger.

Harry didn’t answer. He dove for the Snitch anyway.
If he got it — Draco would be safe. The match would end. Everything would end.

The Bludger shot forward for its final hit — fast enough to crack ribs.

But the exact moment Harry closed his fist around the Snitch—
Draco crashed into him from the side, wrapping both arms around him.

THUD!

The Bludger slammed into Draco — not Harry.

Something hit Harry in the chest, harder than any Bludger ever could.
Not wood. Not metal.
It felt like the entire Quidditch pitch crashed into him at once.

His heart shot to his throat. For half a second he swore his bones refused to work.
As if his body already knew something far worse had just happened.

Draco slipped from his broom. Not falling — but being pulled, like the earth had chosen its prey today…
and it wouldn’t let Harry keep him.

The light in Draco’s eyes went out before his body started to drop.
And to Harry — that was more terrifying than any Bludger.
Because when Draco fell…
the sky dimmed with him.

“Draco—!”

Harry moved.
No plan. No logic.
His body chased after Draco before his mind even caught up.

And when he moved—
his magic moved with him.

An invisible blast erupted from him, raw and wild.
Not a spell. Not an attack.
Just reflex — born from a fear too big to be caged inside his chest.

Draco was inches from the ground—
but the wind twisted violently, and Harry’s broom cut through gravity like a blade.

He caught Draco in his arms.

The Bludger came for another strike—
but no body or broom reacted.

Harry’s magic did.

CRACKKK!

The Bludger shattered midair, like glass thrown against stone — fragments raining as dust and metal.

No cheers.
No screams.

Silence.

The kind that doesn’t belong in a school —
the kind that belongs to legends and warnings.

The kind that says: This isn’t the kind of magic Hogwarts teaches.

Fear-magic.
And its name was Harry Potter.

The silence didn’t break with victory.
It broke with footsteps.

Running.
Tripping.
Panicked.

Ron and Hermione reached him first. Professors followed.
And then—Lucius Malfoy.
His face was the color of ash…
as if he’d just met a world where his son no longer existed.

Professor Lockhart was the fastest.
Unfortunately, fast and useful aren’t the same thing.

Harry didn’t feel his broken arm.
He didn’t remember the Bludger exploding.
He only knew one truth:

Draco wasn’t breathing in his arms.

The closer they stepped, the wilder his magic surged.
The air around him trembled — not hot, not cold —
like a thin wall you couldn’t see, only feel.

Three meters away.
Two meters.

BOOOOM.

Lockhart flew back the farthest.
Ron and Hermione hit the ground.
Gryffindors and Slytherins stumbled away—
not because they tried to—
but because the earth itself pushed them back.

“Let us near! If you keep us back—Draco might—” Hermione shouted.

“DON'T COME CLOSER!”
Harry’s voice cracked.
He didn't notice his tears.
He didn't notice his heartbeat shaping the air.
He only knew one thing:

If someone took Draco from his arms…
Draco might not come back.

“HARRY!” Ron yelled, voice raw.
“YOU HAVE TO TAKE DRACO TO MADAM POMFREY!”

Slowly, Harry’s shield faded — but the air remained tense.
As if his magic hadn’t gone silent…
only changed shape.

As Lucius ran with his son in his arms, Harry didn’t blink.
There was something in his eyes — not just panic.
Hermione saw it first. A chill ran through her.

There was anger there.
But not just anger.

It looked like something that could grow into violence…
or devotion…
or a promise that Hogwarts might not be ready to handle.

“Ron…” she whispered.

“I know,” Ron murmured back.
But he didn’t sound relieved.

He sounded scared.

Snape followed Lucius with long, sharp strides; his black robes trailed behind him like a shadow that had its own will.
But right before his boots touched the ground, he glanced at Harry. Only one second.
But that second was enough.

That magic. That look in his eyes.

Snape had felt it before—not once, but over and over—since the very first year Harry Potter stepped into Hogwarts.

And today… the feeling finally had a name.

Back then, he refused to believe it.
Dumbledore had come to him after Draco asked for a potion for Potter. And right before the door closed, the Headmaster left him with a single, strange sentence:

“That boy carries more than just the title The Boy Who Lived.”

Snape shut it down immediately. He assumed Dumbledore was just tossing another wild theory into the air. But months later, Snape began to feel something in the castle—something in the air of Hogwarts—like the castle was breathing magic that didn’t belong to any professor. Not to the walls. Not to any ancient relic.

He started observing the older students. Their magical cores, their patterns, their emotional triggers—everything was noted. But none of them matched.

Only one option was left: first years.

But Snape rejected it instantly. Impossible. A first-year couldn’t bend the pressure of the air in Hogwarts corridors. Dumbledore couldn’t do that at eleven. Not Voldemort. Not Grindelwald.

He rejected it… but he never erased it.
Dumbledore’s theory stayed in his mind—the one note he hated the most—
because too many pieces of him were starting to agree.

And now, on a silent Quidditch field, the final blow landed.
Not from a Bludger—
but from the very proof he had been avoiding.

Harry Potter wasn’t just a strong wizard.
Harry Potter carried magic that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Snape looked at the boy once more, from afar. As Dumbledore predicted, Potter’s magic only moved whenever Draco did something.

…or so it seemed.