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Chapter Text

Harry had expected fifth year to feel miserable because of Umbridge, O.W.L.s, and the constant buzzing in his head that made sleep impossible. What he had not expected was the quiet humiliation of watching everyone else shoot ahead into adulthood while he stayed stubbornly stuck where he was.

Maybe humiliation was a dramatic word. It still felt right.

Everyone seemed taller, broader, and older this year. Ron towered over him like a walking broom handle. Seamus and Dean looked as if they had discovered muscles without even trying. Even Neville had grown broad shoulders that made Harry wonder if Sprout had him lugging cauldrons around when no one was looking.

Meanwhile, Harry was very much Harry. Short. Thin. Completely unchanged. Built like someone who had never learned the concept of second helpings.

The insecurity didn’t hit at once. It crept up in small moments. Ron had to roll up his sleeves. Dean rubbed the back of his neck where real muscle now existed. Neville took up more space on the sofa without even noticing.

Then came the moment that ruined Harry’s week.

Quidditch practice had run late, and the whole team trudged into the changing room in exhausted silence. Harry peeled off his sweaty shirt and tried not to look at anyone else. He tried very hard.

He reached for his towel just as someone brushed past him. Smooth. Controlled. Fully aware of the effect he had when he walked.

“Move, Potter.”

Harry did not need to turn. He knew that voice too well. Yet he turned anyway and immediately regretted all life decisions.

Draco Malfoy stood a few steps away, pulling his shirt over his head. He had grown, properly grown, over the summer. He was taller and sharper and carried himself with a confidence that Harry had never noticed before. His shoulders had settled, his torso had definition, and the pale lines of muscle on his arms were unfairly distracting.

Harry did not mean to stare. He did not want to stare. But his eyes caught on the curve of Malfoy’s arm as he reached for his locker, and the angle of his jaw and the stupid way that ridiculous blond hair fell perfectly into place.

A tight, confused feeling twisted in Harry’s stomach.

Malfoy turned then, slow and deliberate. His grey eyes moved over Harry in a single sweeping glance.

Harry forgot how air worked.

Malfoy’s mouth tugged upward in the smallest smirk, just enough to look cruel.

“See something you like, Potter?”

Harry made a sound he hoped was English.

“N- No- I was not- I did not-”

He grabbed his towel like it could shield him from the entire situation.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow and gave him a look that felt like a challenge. Then he turned away as if none of this mattered at all.

By the time Harry finished drying off, he felt ready to fling himself from the Astronomy Tower. He rushed back to the dormitory, pulled his bed curtains shut, and sat with his knees drawn up to his chest.

Everyone was growing up.

Everyone except him.

And now he was noticing things about Malfoy. Malfoy. Of all possible disasters.

He reached for his trunk and brushed his fingers over the cold surface of the mirror Sirius had given him. He hesitated only a second before whispering.

“Sirius Black.”

Chapter Text

Harry did not run up the stairs to the dormitory because running would have admitted something was wrong. He simply moved very quickly. Anyone who saw him could clearly tell he was fine.

Mostly.

He reached his bed, pulled the curtains tight, and took out the mirror again. His mind buzzed with a mix of embarrassment and something much worse.

“Sirius Black,” he said.

The glass shimmered, and Sirius appeared with hair sticking up in every direction.

“Harry? You look like someone dropped you off a broom.”

Harry swallowed.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

Instant concern hardened Sirius’s features.

“Tell me who hurt you.”

“No one,” Harry said, too quickly. “It’s not that. It’s me.”

Sirius blinked slowly.

“Ah. A teenage crisis. Brilliant. Tell me all about it then.”

Harry fiddled with the edge of his blanket.

“Everyone is growing except me.”

“Growing?” Sirius repeated.

“You know. Tall. Broad. Looking older. Ron is practically a giant now. Dean and Seamus look like they have discovered actual muscle. Neville is solid. And I.. I still look twelve.”

Sirius frowned in a way that tried to be gentle.

“That is not true.”

“It feels true,” Harry muttered. “I saw the photos. Dad already looked older by this age. He had presence. He looked confident. I just look small.”

Sirius went quiet for a moment.

“James faked half of that. He used too much hair gel and strutted around, hoping no one would notice.”

Harry did not smile.

“And something happened today,” he continued. “In the changing room.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed.

“Go on.”

Harry rubbed his face with both hands.

“I saw someone. And I noticed things I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t mean to. I just noticed. And now everything feels horrible.”

Sirius stared. His expression slowly shifted into dread.

“Please tell me this is not a crush talk.”

Harry groaned softly.

“Please do not call it that.”

“Fine,” Sirius said. “Who is it then? Someone kind? Someone who will treat you well? Anyone with decent sense?”

Harry wanted to lie more than he had ever wanted anything.

“…Malfoy.”

Sirius did not freeze. He burst.

“MALFOY?! DRACO Malfoy?! Did Hogwarts run out of boys?! Did the school close?! Have we truly reached a shortage?!”

Harry covered his face.

“I know! You do not have to yell!”

Sirius paced out of view, muttering angrily.

“You could have picked anyone. A Ravenclaw. A Hufflepuff. A different Slytherin. But no. You picked the one boy I actively encourage you to hex on sight.”

Harry felt like the bed should swallow him whole.

“It is not like I wanted to,” he said helplessly. “He just walked by and I saw. And I noticed. And he looked. I do not know. I am broken.”

Sirius reappeared and pointed at him.

“Do not finish that sentence. I refuse.”

Harry sank lower.

Sirius pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Harry. You are not your father.”

Harry stiffened, and Sirius immediately softened.

“That is not a bad thing,” he said quietly. “James was loud and dramatic and tried to charm his way through everything. You are different. You think before you act. You care. You have your own kind of presence. It does not look like his, and that is fine.”

Harry finally looked up.

Sirius sighed again.

“I am here for you. Even if I strongly disapprove of your taste in boys.”

“I do not have taste,” Harry said weakly. “I have problems.”

“That is accurate,” Sirius said.

Despite everything, Harry huffed a laugh.

Sirius leaned back, still frowning.

“We will figure this out. I will try to support you. Very reluctantly.”

Harry nodded.

Somewhere deep inside, something had shifted.

Chapter Text

The next morning felt aggressively normal, which annoyed Harry more than anything. He sat at breakfast, stabbing his porridge while Ron inhaled half the table.

“You look tired,” Hermione said as she passed him his timetable.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, more sharply than intended.

She gave him a look that said she did not believe him, but she let it go. Ron groaned at the sight of the schedule.

“First class of the year, and it is Defence with that toad. Fantastic.”

Harry felt his mood sink even further.

He had not forgotten about Umbridge. He had simply hoped the universe would spare him for one morning.

They trudged to the Defence classroom and took their seats. Umbridge stood at the front with that sweet, poisonous smile that made Harry want to shove his face into his textbook.

“Good morning, class,” she chirped. “Please turn to page five.”

Harry opened the book and immediately scowled. Ron leaned toward him. “It is all reading. All year.” Hermione’s mouth tightened. “This cannot be the entire curriculum.”

Umbridge clapped her hands. “No wands today. Practical magic is unnecessary for your age.”

Harry raised his hand without thinking.

“Professor. How is reading supposed to prepare us for anything real? How is this Defence if we never use our wands?”

The room snickered.

Umbridge’s smile stiffened.

“The Ministry believes that theoretical knowledge adequately equips young minds.”

“But what about actual defence?” Harry asked. “You know. The thing in the name of the class.”

The snickering grew louder.

“Detention, Mr. Potter,” she said sweetly.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “For asking a question?”

“For disrupting the class with your attitude. You will write your lines this evening.”

Hermione whispered urgently, “Please stop arguing with her.”

Ron muttered, “But he is right. This is rubbish.”

Harry rolled his eyes and slouched in his chair.

Brilliant. First day and he already had detention.

Class ended, and students rushed out. Harry went up to get the slip from Umbridge. She handed it over with a triumphant little grin that made his skin crawl. He stepped into the corridor and stopped short.

Draco Malfoy stood waiting against the wall, arms crossed, prefect badge flashing.

“Oh, perfect,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy pushed off the wall with theatrical laziness.

“Well, well. First day back, and you already managed to get yourself punished. You really do not know when to shut up.”

“Do you rehearse these lines,” Harry said, “or do they just fall out of your mouth?”

Malfoy ignored that. His attention dropped to the detention slip in Harry’s hand.

“You know, Potter, some people try to keep their heads down for at least a week. But not you. You always have to put on a show.”

Harry glared. “Trust me, the last thing I want is your commentary.”

Malfoy stepped closer, slow and smug. He did not invade Harry’s space, but he hovered near it like he was thinking about it.

“Funny you say that. Because you will be seeing quite a lot of me tonight.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy smiled in a way that immediately irritated him.

“Umbridge asked prefects to oversee detentions. She assigned me to yours.”

Harry stared at him. Then snorted.

“You have got to be joking.”

“I wish I were,” Malfoy replied. “But it seems fate has a sense of humor.”

Harry shoved the slip into his pocket. “Great. Just what I needed. Babysitting from a ferret.”

Malfoy’s expression sharpened with amusement.

“Try not to embarrass yourself too much this evening. Although I am not holding my breath.”

Harry answered without thinking. “You might want to hold it until you pass out.”

Malfoy laughed softly. “You are in rare form today, Potter.”

Before Harry could respond, Ron came storming up, clearly ready for a fight.

“What was that git bothering you about?”

“Nothing important,” Harry said.

Hermione looked between them with suspicion. “You seem irritated.”

Harry shrugged. “He exists. That is irritating enough.”

Ron grumbled, “We should tell McGonagall. Malfoy supervising you will be a disaster.”

Harry shook his head. “I can handle him.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. Hermione did too.

Harry ignored them both and started walking.

He could feel Malfoy watching him as he left, but he refused to turn around.

Chapter Text

Harry spent the rest of the day feeling irritated at everything. Dinner did nothing to improve his mood. Hermione watched him like he was a lit goblet, and Ron kept handing him food as if that might solve anything.

“You really should keep your temper in check tonight,” Hermione said. “She wants you to slip again.”

Harry muttered, “She doesn't need reasons to slip me. I just need to breathe, and it would be reason enough.”

Ron snorted. “You have got to admit she is awful.”

Harry stabbed his pumpkin. “That is not the point. I barely said anything, and now I have to sit through her syrupy voice for an hour.”

Hermione sighed. “Just get through detention. Without arguing. Please.”

Harry grumbled something under his breath and stood. He felt restless in his own skin. Everyone else seemed to be growing up properly, leaving him feeling smaller, thinner, and too easy to comment on. It made him twitchy, and he hated that.

The hallway to Umbridge’s office was quiet and too sweet-smelling. Harry raised his hand to knock.

“Potter. Late already?”

Harry shut his eyes for a second. “You have got to be joking.”

Draco stood there with his prefect badge shining and the most punchable expression Harry had seen all day.

“I’m supervising,” Draco said. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

Harry stepped inside. “Don't act so high.”

Draco leaned against the wall and looked Harry over in a slow, irritating sweep. “You really can’t help it, can you? Always in trouble.”

“Better than kissing up to teachers,” Harry retorted.

“It is not kissing up. It is being smarter than you.” Draco’s gaze dragged down Harry’s frame again. “You look tense. More than usual.”

Harry stiffened. “I'm fine.”

“You always say that,” Draco said. “But you jump at everything lately. You look like you’re waiting to be kicked.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Drop it.”

Draco shrugged lightly. “Just observing. Some people handle growing up better than others.”

Harry glared. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Draco smirked. “Well, for one thing, you are still practically the same height. It is almost impressive.”

That was it.

Harry grabbed Draco’s tie and yanked him down hard.

Draco froze.

An obvious, very real pause. His breath stuttered. His pupils widened as he looked at Harry, their faces suddenly close. Harry felt Draco’s pulse racing beneath the knot of the tie.

Draco did not pull away.

“You really hate hearing the obvious,” Draco said quietly.

Harry’s grip tightened. “You think you get to talk like that about me?”

Draco’s lips parted slightly, a sharp breath escaping. His voice had lost its smooth edge. “You react so quickly. It is almost… distracting.”

Harry stepped even closer, anger flaring again. “Try saying any of that one more time.”

Draco’s hands hovered at his sides, unsure and tense. “If you want my attention, Potter, you have got it.”

Harry felt heat crawl up his neck. “Shut up.”

The door opened.

Harry let go instantly.

Umbridge stood there, smiling in that sickening way of hers. “Mister Potter. Already causing trouble, I see.”

Draco straightened his tie, still breathing a little too fast. “I was only supervising, Professor.”

“Of course. You may go now, Mister Malfoy.”

Draco walked out, but not before giving Harry one last look. It lingered just long enough to make Harry’s stomach twist.

Umbridge shut the door behind him and turned to Harry with sugary delight.

“Let’s begin your punishment, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Detention with Umbridge was worse than Harry expected, and he had not expected much.

He sat in the stiff chair, trying not to fidget while she arranged her papers like she had all the time in the world. The room smelled like tea and something too sweet, almost like the air itself was lying.

“You will write lines,” she said. “A simple sentence. I must not tell lies.”

Harry picked up the quill she placed in front of him. It looked wrong. Too thin. Too sharp.

“There’s no ink,” he said.

Umbridge gave him that sugary smile. “You will not need any.”

Harry already hated this. He pressed the quill to the parchment anyway.

I must not tell lies.

Pain flashed across the back of his hand. Sharp. Quick. Like being sliced.

He flinched before he could stop himself, breath catching in embarrassment. But Umbridge did not even look up. She just hummed and sipped her tea like she was listening to music he could not hear.

Harry looked down. The words on the page were red. His red.

His skin tingled. His stomach dropped.

He wrote the line again.

The cut on his hand opened deeper. He sucked in a sharp breath. The words on the page darkened as his hand began to shake.

He was not going to make a sound. He would not give her the satisfaction she wanted.

Time crawled. The pain built. It went from sharp to steady, from steady to something that felt like it was crawling up his arm.

He tried to think about anything else.

Unfortunately, his brain picked Malfoy. Of course it did. Malfoy gets excused from detention without a second thought. Malfoy straightening his tie. Malfoy’s breath stuttering when Harry yanked him close.

Harry shut his eyes for half a second and forced the memory away. He needed it gone. He needed his head clear.

The quill cut him again. A little deeper.

He kept writing.

Eventually, the pain blurred into something he could almost ignore if he focused hard enough. His handwriting grew small. His hand went numb and then started hurting all over again.

When Umbridge finally stood, Harry’s fingers were stiff and pink around the hilt of the quill.

“That will be all, Mister Potter,” she said cheerfully. “I trust you learned your lesson.”

Harry got up slowly. His injured hand curled into a fist by instinct, hiding the worst of it.

“I learned something,” he said quietly.

“Off you go.”

He left before she could see how angry he really was.

The hallway felt colder than it usually did. He leaned against the wall for a moment, pulled up his sleeve, and looked.

The words were carved into his skin. Red. Angry. A little swollen already.

His stomach flipped. He swallowed, pulled the sleeve back down, and walked. He needed to look normal by the time he reached the common room. Impossible, but he would try.

When he climbed through the portrait hole, Hermione was pacing, and Ron was stress-eating like it was a sport.

“There you are,” Hermione said. “How was it?”

Harry shrugged and dropped into the chair across from them, keeping his injured hand under the table. “It was fine.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, sure. What’d she make you do? Lines? Scrub something? Listen to her talk?”

Harry forced a small laugh. “Lines. Nothing awful.”

Hermione gave him a look that said she did not believe a word. “Harry, if she did something strange, you would tell us. Wouldn’t you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It was just boring, honestly.”

Ron groaned into his biscuit. “She hates you so much. It’s almost funny.”

“Almost,” Harry said.

His hand throbbed under his sleeve. The words carved there pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He clenched his fingers, trying to feel normal.

He tried not to think about Malfoy. Or how Malfoy had looked at him earlier. Or any of it.

He tried not to think about how much it all hurt.

He gave them both a small smile. Everything was fine.

At least, that was what he had learned to say.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor dorm was warm and loud that night. The fire downstairs had burned low, but here everything felt soft and familiar. Dean and Seamus were arguing over which Chudley Cannons player was secretly terrible, Neville was eating a Chocolate Frog on his bed, and Ron was tossing a Snitch replica he had bought during first year and never managed to break.

Harry was sitting cross-legged on his blankets, trying to ignore the steady ache in his hand. The sleeve of his pyjama shirt kept brushing against it, so he held his arm close to his chest, hoping no one noticed.

The conversation shifted the way conversations in the dorm always did. Fast, messy, and without warning.

“Mate, you cannot tell me your voice has not changed,” Seamus said to Dean. “You squeaked twice today.”

Dean groaned. “It was one time. And it was barely a squeak.”

Neville piped up, cheeks red. “I squeak all the time. Gran says it is normal.”

Ron snorted. “Puberty is mental. Fred and George got all smug last year because they grew before everyone else.”

Seamus pointed at Ron. “You grew loads this summer.”

Ron sat up straighter with obvious pride. “Bit, yeah.”

They all laughed, and for a moment it felt easy. Then Seamus grinned and aimed his next comment at Harry.

“What about you, Harry? You got taller since first year. A little. Sort of.”

Dean added, “Yeah, but not by much.”

Neville winced like he wished they had not said anything.

Harry felt something drop in his stomach. His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with his healing hand. He tried to laugh along, but it sounded thin.

“I guess,” he said.

Seamus kept going, not noticing the way Harry shifted slightly in place. “It is funny, though. You are the youngest looking out of all of us. Even Neville has caught up.”

Neville looked mortified. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Sorry.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “It’s fine.”

Ron looked over at him, eyebrows pulling together for just a second. He knew Harry well enough to see the way his shoulders dipped and the faint way he tried to shrink.

Seamus did not. “I mean, even your voice is the same, really.”

Harry forced a smile. “Guess I missed the memo.”

Ron caught the waver in his tone. He sat up and tossed the Snitch replica hard at Seamus, hitting him in the forehead.

“Oi. Harry has a Firebolt. You think puberty scares him.”

Seamus rubbed his head, laughing. “Fair point.”

Ron stretched out casually, leaning back on his elbows. “Anyway. We all remember when Seamus cried when he got his first armpit hair.”

“I did not,” Seamus fired back, horrified.

Dean burst out laughing. Neville did too. The focus shifted instantly, the teasing now aimed at Seamus, who argued dramatically about exaggeration and honour.

The room warmed again with noise and jokes. Harry let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. Ron caught his eye for a moment. He did not say anything, just lifted one shoulder in a small, easy gesture.

Harry gave him a grateful look before glancing down at his covered hand. The ache pulsed, but the pressure in his chest eased a little.

He lay back on his pillow while Seamus reenacted his supposed moment of humiliation, and the others cackled. The laughter was familiar. Safe.

And for a while, Harry let himself sink into it. Even if something inside him still felt too small, too tight, too complicated for words, at least here he could drift in the noise and pretend everything was simple.

Chapter Text

The next week passed in the same miserable way. Umbridge watched Harry in every class, always waiting for him to slip. It never took long. A question asked too sharply, a frustrated comment under his breath, one wrong look. By the end of the week, he had three more detentions.

Each one was the same. The same chair. The same quill. The same sentence.

I must not tell lies.

By the third detention, the back of Harry’s hand felt tight and sore all the time. The skin reddened, then scabbed, then split again with every new line he wrote. He kept his sleeve pulled low and held his textbook a little awkwardly to hide how little he used his right hand. Ron noticed that much but assumed it was Quidditch related. Hermione looked suspicious from the start.

He kept telling himself it would heal soon. He told himself he could handle it.

He told himself it was better if no one else had to know.

After a long Friday detention, he walked out of Umbridge’s office with his hand ablaze. It pulsed with every heartbeat. The corridor outside felt cold enough to make him shiver. He tucked his hand under his arm and headed for the stairs, hoping the common room would be empty enough that he could slip in unnoticed.

He was halfway down the corridor when he heard Hermione’s voice.

“Harry?”

His shoulders tightened immediately. Hermione and Ron hurried toward him from the other end of the hall. Hermione looked worried. Ron looked irritated and hungry.

“There you are,” Ron said. “We waited ages. You missed dinner again.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione said quietly. “Another detention.”

Harry tried to keep his face neutral. “It was nothing. Just writing again.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Figures. What was it this time? Breathing too loudly?”

Harry forced a small laugh. “Something like that.”

Hermione stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Harry, can I see your hand?”

His stomach dropped. “Why?”

“You have been hiding it for days,” she said. “You hardly used it in class today. And you winced when you picked up your quill in Transfiguration.”

Ron blinked. “You did? I did not notice.”

“Exactly,” Hermione muttered. “Harry, show us.”

“I’m fine,” Harry insisted. The words came out sharper than he intended. “It is just… just lines.”

“Let me see,” Hermione said again, firmer this time.

Harry hesitated. He was tired. So tired. The hand hurt so badly he felt slightly sick. But more than anything, he did not want them looking at him like he was weak, or helpless, or someone who needed saving.

He tried to step past them.

Ron moved in front of him. Not angry. Just steady. “Mate. If it were me, you’d make me show you.”

Hermione nodded. “We are only trying to help.”

The quiet sincerity in her voice undid him more than anything else.

Slowly, he lifted his sleeve.

Hermione inhaled sharply. Ron’s eyes went wide.

Red letters were carved into his skin in long, neat rows. Some were fresh. Some had begun to scar. All of them read the same thing.

I must not tell lies.

They stared for a moment in horrified silence.

Ron found his voice first. “She… she made you write with your own… That is… That is sick.”

Harry pulled his sleeve down quickly, as if he could hide it again. “I didn't want to worry you.”

Hermione looked at him like she might cry. She rarely cried. “Harry, this is not something you keep to yourself. This is abuse.”

“Keep your voice down,” Harry said quietly. He glanced around the corridor. His heart was beating too fast.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, flushing with anger. “We have to tell someone.”

“Who?” Harry asked. The word came out flat. “Who is going to help? Fudge is backing her. The Board is terrified of her. The teachers… they can’t interfere.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “You cannot keep going to these detentions.”

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “What am I supposed to do, Hermione? Refuse and get expelled?”

Ron let out a breath, frustrated and helpless. “Then we will figure something else out. But you can’t hide this from us.”

Harry felt something heavy shift inside his chest. Not pain, but not exactly relief either. Something in between. Something that made him feel seen and exposed at the same time.

“I just didn’t want to make things worse,” he said quietly.

Hermione shook her head. “You did not make anything worse. She did.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. And we are not gonna let her keep hurting you.”

Harry looked between them. Their concern sat heavily in the air, warm and uncomfortable in a way that made his throat feel tight. He did not know what to say, so he nodded.

Hermione exhaled slowly. “Come on. Let’s get back to the common room.”

Harry followed, exhausted and aching, but no longer carrying the weight alone.

Not entirely, at least.

Chapter Text

The common room was rather quiet. The fire was still going, warm and steady, throwing soft gold across the floor. Harry didn’t even protest when Ron steered him toward the sofa closest to it. He just dropped onto the cushions and let himself sink in.

Hermione sat on his other side, watching him with that worried look she’d been wearing ever since he came back from detention. Ron grabbed the thick blanket off the back of the couch and threw it over the three of them like it was the most normal thing in the world.

For a few minutes, none of them said anything. The fire crackled. Someone upstairs laughed. Harry kept his eyes on the flames and tried not to think about the sting in his hand.

Eventually, Hermione shifted a little. “Harry… you know you don’t have to pretend everything’s fine.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not pretending.”

Ron snorted. “Mate, we literally watched you pretend.”

Harry tried to smile, but it didn’t really work. “It was just lines.”

Hermione leaned forward, her brows drawing together. “Writing lines shouldn’t leave wounds. It’s not normal. And it’s not something you should just accept.”

Harry stared into the fire. “I’ve had worse.”

That made Hermione freeze. Ron went still, too, like the words hit them both the same way.

“What do you mean by worse?” Hermione asked quietly.

Harry wished he could take it back. But something in him was tired of swallowing things down. Maybe it was the fire. Or the blanket. Or the way Hermione and Ron were sitting close enough to feel real.

He sighed. “The Dursleys weren’t exactly great.”

Hermione’s voice softened. “Harry, we know they weren’t great. But the way you said ‘worse’… what did you mean?”

Harry tugged the blanket up a little, like it made talking easier. “Sometimes they hit me. Mostly Uncle Vernon. Sometimes Dudley, but usually when Vernon told him to toughen up.” He paused. “Petunia never hit me. She just… found things wrong with everything I did. Everything about me. Constantly.”

Hermione’s eyes went glassy, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I had to do chores all day. Every day. From before sunrise till they went to bed sometimes. And if I messed anything up or didn’t finish fast enough, they’d yell. Or take food away.” His throat tightened. “I was hungry a lot. I didn’t realise I wasn’t supposed to feel that way until Hogwarts meals.”

Ron swore under his breath. Hermione put a hand over her mouth.

Harry kept going, because stopping felt worse. “They made me sleep in the cupboard for years. When you grow up like that, you just… learn to be small. Quiet. Out of the way. That’s how you survive. You don’t let yourself take up space.”

Hermione wiped at her eyes quickly, angry at herself for crying. Ron stared at the fire with a clenched jaw.

Harry swallowed. “And now… everyone’s growing and changing, and I’m just… not. I feel like I’m stuck being that kid. The one who didn’t get enough food, didn’t grow properly and didn’t have a chance to be normal. And every time someone jokes about size or height or whatever, it just… hits weird.”

Ron shifted closer, not saying anything, just letting his knee press against Harry’s. Hermione curled in a little nearer, too, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re not that kid anymore,” she said softly. “And none of this was your fault.”

Ron nodded. “And you’re not small. Not where it counts. Sorry, that sounded cheesy, but you know what I mean.”

Harry let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. But it wasn’t miserable either.

“I’m glad I have you two,” he said.

Ron bumped his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, well, you’re stuck with us.”

Hermione gave a small, warm smile. “Always.”

Harry let his head fall back against the couch. The fire kept crackling. The blanket was warm. The ache in his hand faded, just a little. There were a lot of things waiting for him tomorrow. More detentions. More pressure. More Umbridge being Umbridge.

But right now, with Ron and Hermione so close, it felt like a shield around him; Harry felt safe enough to breathe properly again.

Chapter Text

The notice went up on the Gryffindor board before breakfast. Big red letters.

Quidditch Tryouts. Today. Mandatory for all team hopefuls.

Angelina even underlined it twice.

Harry was halfway through a slice of toast when she stormed over to their table with her clipboard.

“You two had better show up in time,” she said, pointing her quill at Harry and Ron. “No excuses.”

Ron nodded, nervous. Harry muttered something like “wasn’t planning to skip” and tried to pretend his stomach was not twisting.

By the time they reached the pitch, the sun was blazing and the grass was still wet with morning dew. The rest of the team was already gathered. Angelina blew her whistle, sharp and impatient.

“Potter,” she said, eyeing him. “You look smaller. Are you eating right? You are supposed to be a seeker, not a gust of wind.”

Harry felt heat crawl up his neck.

“I am eating,” he said, trying not to sound defensive.

Angelina frowned, but she did not push.

Before he could mount his broom, voices floated over from the entrance tunnel. Slytherins. Loud. Purposefully loud.

“Well, well,” one of them said. “Look at the Gryffindor featherweight. Careful, Potter, the wind might blow you off the pitch.”

There was laughter behind that, low and mean. Harry clenched his jaw.

Then Draco stepped forward, prefect badge gleaming. He did not bother with subtlety. His eyes dragged over Harry, slow.

“Did you shrink over the summer?” he said. “Or did someone forget to feed you?”

Harry snapped before he even thought.

“Well, I guess you're right. My frame is like this because the Dursleys barely fed me,” he shot back. “Not that you would ever understand something like that.”

The Slytherin group fell silent for a second. Hermione’s breath hitched behind him. Even Ron’s eyes widened.

Draco stared. Really stared. The smirk faltered for half a heartbeat. Something like shock flickered across his face before he pulled himself back together.

“I see,” Draco said quietly. “How unfortunate.”

But it was not mocking. Not really. He looked away too quickly for it to be properly cruel. More conflicted than anything.

Ron stepped up beside Harry, voice steady.

“You heard him. Leave off.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he did not fire back. He just gave Harry one last unreadable look, turned, and rejoined the group.

Angelina blew her whistle again.

“Gryffindors, enough socialising. On your brooms. We are starting.”

Harry got into the air gratefully. The sky felt cleaner. Simpler. No comments about his body up here, only wind and instinct and the chase. As soon as Angelina released the snitch, he shot after it, letting the cold rush of air wash the tension out of his shoulders.

He caught it in less than three minutes.

Angelina looked proud enough to explode.

“Still got it in you,” she said. “Good. Potter stays seeker.”

Ron’s turn was rougher. He missed a block. Made another. Missed again. His ears went red by the third.
But then he saved three goals in a row, tight and clean, and the grin on his face when he landed was wide enough to split him.

Angelina nodded.

“Keeper position goes to Weasley.”

Ron whooped, actual whooping, and Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

“See?” he said. “Told you you could do it.”

Ron beamed.

“Yeah. Well. Took me a bit.”

The Slytherins were long gone when they walked back up to the castle, but Harry could not shake that moment. That flicker in Draco’s eyes. Not pity. Not mockery. Something sharper. Something curious.

Harry shoved the thought aside. He had enough to worry about already.

And Draco did too.

Chapter Text

Harry only needed one stupid book.

Just one.

Madam Pince insisted it was somewhere in the upper stacks, which was a nightmare because the library was basically a maze of shelves that scraped the ceiling. The ladders creaked like they were older than Hogwarts itself.

Ron had gone to drop off something for McGonagall. Hermione was buried in Arithmancy notes. Harry was on his own.

He stared up at the high shelf.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “This is safe.”

He grabbed the ladder and climbed. The wood groaned with his weight. The book he needed sat annoyingly far back on the top shelf, just out of reach.

“Come on,” Harry whispered, stretching his fingers. “Just a little more.”

His foot slipped.

The ladder jerked. His hand missed the shelf. For a second, he was weightless, stomach lurching, world tilting to the side.

“Potter, what in the world are you doing?”

The voice came too late.

Harry fell.

He braced for the floor, but instead crashed straight into someone. A very solid person. They toppled together, landing in a tangled heap between two shelves.

Harry groaned.

“Please tell me I didn't break your ribs.”

“You are heavier than you look.”

Harry froze.

Draco.

Of course, it was Draco.

He levered himself up quickly, face aflame, and Draco jerked a sharp breath at the motion, wincing slightly.

“Sorry,” muttered Harry. “I was just trying to reach something.”

Draco lay there for a moment, blinking like he needed to reboot his entire life. His hair was mussed. His prefect pin was crooked. His chest rose and fell too quickly.

He sat up then, dusting off his robes with shaking precision.

“You are unbelievable. Honestly. Do you climb things for fun, or is this a new Gryffindor talent?”

Harry scowled.

“I slipped. That’s all.”

Draco’s eyes flicked up and down, assessing him like he was some sort of puzzle.

“You really are small,” Draco said. Not cruel. More curious. “No wonder you can’t reach anything.”

Harry's jaw tightened. "I am not small."

"You literally fell on me because you could not reach a book," Draco said. "That seems pretty small."

Harry bristled. “I grew up doing chores from dawn till midnight. Starving. Cleaning. Lifting things five times my size. Sorry, I didn't magically grow six feet in those conditions.”

Draco stopped.

His breath hitched so lightly that Harry almost missed it. Grey eyes widened just enough to show surprise, and something like guilt slipped through before Draco masked it.

“I didn’t know that,” said Draco quietly.

"Well, you never asked."

A silence fell between them, thick but not hostile. Draco looked at Harry again, more slowly this time, as if trying to make out something that he had overlooked for years.

Harry cleared his throat. "Are you going to get up, or do you want me to fall on you again?"

Draco's cheeks flushed. A real flush.

“I will get up, thank you.”

Harry stood and reached for the ladder once more. Draco grabbed his wrist before he could climb.

"Use magic, Potter. Summoning charm. You are not climbing that thing again."

Harry blinked. “I knew that.”

“You clearly did not.” 

Harry tried not to smile as he summoned the book. It slid into his hand easily this time. Draco smoothed his robes, his expression calm but a little too tight. 

"Try not to fall on people in the future." 

Harry lifted the book. “No promises.” 

Draco stared at him for another moment, inscrutable, before turning and striding away with long, even steps. 

Harry watched him disappear behind the shelves, his heart thumping harder than it had any right to. 

He blamed the fall.

Chapter Text

Harry blamed the fall.

At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

But the truth was quieter and much harder to ignore. Something had shifted. Something warm and annoying and horribly confusing. And it did not leave him alone, not even when he was trying to do normal things like eat breakfast or listen to Hermione explain Ancient Runes or pretend he understood what Binns was talking about.

It followed him everywhere.

First, he noticed Dean’s smile and thought, objectively, that it was nice. Then he saw a Ravenclaw boy in the corridor, and his brain just stopped for a second. Then a Hufflepuff pulled his hair back, and Harry thought, without permission, that he had very good shoulders.

And then there was Draco. Standing in the library with his stupid shiny hair and stupid steady hands and stupid flushed cheeks after Harry had fallen on him.

Harry tried very hard not to think about that part.

He failed.

By the time night fell, he felt like he was going to combust. Ron was already snoring softly in his bed. Seamus and Dean were whispering about something ridiculous. Neville had passed out sideways across his blankets.

Harry slipped his hand under his pillow and felt the cool edges of the mirror Sirius had given him.

He hesitated.

Then he sat up, pulled the curtains closed, and whispered, “Sirius.”

The glass stayed blank for a second, then flickered, and then Sirius appeared, hair wild and face sharp in the dim light of wherever he was hiding.

“Harry. Everything alright?”

Harry swallowed. “No.”

Sirius blinked. “Alright. What happened. Did Umbridge do something again? Did someone hex you? Is it Snape? I swear, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, I will-”

“It isn’t Snape,” Harry said quickly. “It’s not even about classes. It’s just… something weird.”

Sirius leaned closer, squinting. “You look like you want to crawl out of your own skin. Start talking.”

Harry took a breath. “I think I am having an… awakening.”

Sirius frowned. “A what?”

“You know. A… thing. A puberty thing.”

Sirius blinked, then slowly put his face in his hands. “Oh no. Not that talk.”

Harry groaned. “I didn’t ask for this. It just happened. I was minding my own business and suddenly half the people at Hogwarts are… attractive.”

Sirius peered at him through his fingers. “Half the people?”

“Yes.”

“Girls?”

“Yes.”

“And boys?”

Harry wanted to bury himself under the blankets forever. “Yes,” he muttered. “Apparently.”

Sirius dropped his hands and stared. “Well, that is normal.”

Harry stared back. “It doesn’t feel normal.”

“Harry, trust me, everyone has their type or types or whatever. You aren’t broken. You are just fifteen.”

Harry sagged a little. “I didn’t think I would like boys. Or notice them. Or get all weird inside. And then today I kept noticing things. Dean’s smile. Some Ravenclaws’ hair. A Hufflepuff’s shoulders. And then I fell on Draco of all people.”

He regretted the words immediately.

Sirius sat up straight. “Malfoy. Again.”

Harry shut his eyes. “I should not have said that.”

“You fell on Malfoy.”

“It was an accident.”

“Do not tell me you think Malfoy is attractive.”

“I do not,” Harry hissed. His face felt like it was on fire. “He is awful. But he is also… tall. A bit. And he has stupid muscles. And a stupid face. And he smelled kind of nice, which I did not appreciate.”

Sirius looked horrified. “Harry. We talked about this before. There are so many boys at Hogwarts. Literally anyone else.”

“I know.”

“Anyone.”

“I know.”

“You could have had a crush on a nice Hufflepuff. A Gryffindor even. But no.. Of course, it had to be Lucius Malfoy’s son.”

Harry groaned again. “It’s not a crush. It is just my brain being stupid.”

Sirius rubbed his temples. “You are making me feel old.”

Harry sank back against his pillow. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You are not,” Sirius said, softer now. “Puberty is messy. Annoying. Embarrassing. You are sorting out who you like and how you like them. That is all. And whatever you figure out, you are still you.”

Harry let out a small breath. “Thanks.”

“But if you bring me news one day that you are dating Malfoy, I am walking straight into the lake.”

Harry snorted. “I am not dating Malfoy.”

“Good.”

“It would never happen.”

“Even better.”

Harry hesitated. “But Sirius. If it did… someday… would you still…?”

Sirius’s expression shifted. Warmer. Tired. But steady.

“You are my godson. I am on your side no matter what. I might complain. Loudly. For a long time. But I am still here.”

Harry felt something loosen in his chest.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Sirius nodded. “Now get some sleep. Preferably without thinking about Malfoy’s muscles.”

Harry almost choked. “I was not-”

“You absolutely were.”

“Sirius!”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

The mirror went dark.

Harry dropped back onto his pillow, heart pounding, face burning, mind racing.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to decide if he felt better or worse. Probably both.