Chapter Text
It all started as a joke, an honest, reckless, brilliant joke that only Fred and George Weasley could conceive. And somehow, some way, they'd convinced others to participate.
Presenting, Fred announced with a theatrical flourish, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the abandoned classroom, the next revolution in wizarding cosmetics!
Dazzle Bubble! George added, holding up a crystal vial like it was the Holy Grail itself. The potion inside swirled with an opalescent shimmer that caught the firelight like liquid starshine.
Harry squinted at it from his position against a dusty desk, arms crossed. The potion looked harmless enough, almost beautiful in a way, which should have been his first warning. The Weasley twins' most dangerous creations always looked the most innocent. Like the Canary Creams that had seemed like ordinary biscuits until they transformed you into a giant yellow bird. Or the Portable Swamp that had looked like innocent seeds until it flooded an entire corridor.
Guaranteed to clear your skin, Fred continued, pacing like a salesman at a market stall, gesturing dramatically with his free hand.
Enhance your natural glow, George chimed in, his grin widening.
And maybe, just maybe, give you a bit of sparkle in the right light! Fred waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Ron snorted from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, abandoned chess pieces scattered around him. Right, because what I really need is to sparkle like a disco ball. The girls would love that.
Don't knock it till you've tried it, little brother, George said airily, waving away Ron's sarcasm like an annoying fly.
We've tested it thoroughly, Fred announced proudly, producing a cage from behind a stack of cauldrons. Inside sat a remarkably glossy toad who seemed to shimmer with an inner light, its skin reflecting the torchlight in prismatic patterns that danced across the walls.
Absolutely thoroughly, George agreed, setting the cage on a nearby table with a gentle thunk. Trevor here has never looked better. And he can turn practically invisible when he wants to. Watch this.
George tapped the cage lightly with his wand, murmuring something under his breath. The toad seemed to fade slightly, becoming translucent, its outline wavering like heat shimmer on a summer road. Then it solidified again, blinking its bulbous eyes contentedly.
That's not Trevor, Neville piped up nervously from the corner where he'd been half-hiding behind a broken desk. His round face was anxious as always. Trevor's in my dormitory. I checked on him this morning. Fed him his beetles.
Details, details, Fred waved dismissively, though his grin never faltered. Trevor, Gerald, Boris, whatever his name is, the point is, he's magnificent. Never looked better in his life.
Hermione, who had been dragged into the project against her will because of her superior potion-brewing skills, frowned at her carefully annotated notes. She sat primly at one of the cleaner desks, her quill poised over parchment covered in her neat, precise handwriting. Purple ink, her favorite for revisions, marked corrections throughout the margins.
The base is sound, she admitted reluctantly, pushing a strand of bushy hair behind her ear. The firelight caught on the golden edges of her notes. I helped stabilize the chameleon chrysalis essence and the powdered moonstone. The theoretical applications are actually quite fascinating from an alchemy perspective. The way the moonstone interacts with the chrysalis creates a kind of light-refracting matrix that could revolutionize…
But? Harry interrupted, sitting up straighter. His green eyes fixed on the vial with growing interest, a spark of mischief kindling behind his round glasses.
Hermione's frown deepened, creasing her forehead. But we don't know the long-term effects. The chrysalis essence is notoriously unstable in human application. There are documented cases of unexpected mutations, permanent transparency in extremities, one case in 1643 where a wizard's shadow disappeared entirely, and…
But nothing, Harry interrupted again, already pushing himself off the desk and reaching for the vial. His hand extended with the kind of reckless determination that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.
He'd been restless lately, bored with the routine of fifth year, frustrated with the endless cycle of homework, exams, and detentions with Umbridge and that stupid blood quill. His hand still ached from last week's detention, the words "I must not tell lies" barely faded from his skin, pink and tender when he flexed his fingers. The idea of a harmless prank, something light and ridiculous and completely frivolous, appealed to him immensely.
How bad could it be? Harry asked, his fingers closing around the cool crystal.
Famous last words, Hermione muttered darkly, but she didn't actually try to stop him from taking the vial. She just clutched her notes tighter and exchanged a worried look with Ron.
Ron shrugged, picking up his chess knight and examining it. I mean, it's just a beauty potion, right? Worst-case scenario, Harry ends up looking like Lockhart for a few days. All sparkly teeth and perfect hair.
Please, no, Harry groaned, making a face. Anything but that. I'd rather be invisible.
Before Harry could uncork the vial, Fred quickly held up a hand, his expression turning serious, or as serious as Fred Weasley ever managed. Ah, ah, ah! Important instructions, Potter. This isn't some amateur hour potion you just knock back like pumpkin juice.
It'll only work if you take a proper bath, George explained, producing a scroll from his robes with a flourish. The parchment unfurled with a soft rustling sound. Pour it in, soak for about an hour. The magical saturation needs time to penetrate the skin layers properly. Has to do with osmotic absorption of the active ingredients through the dermal…
English, George, and Fred interrupted with a grin.
Your skin needs to soak it in, George translated, rolling his eyes. For a full hour. No shortcuts.
Plus, it makes the whole experience rather spa-like, Fred added with an exaggerated sigh of contentment. Relaxing. Meditative. You'll come out feeling like a new man. Possibly a sparkly new man, but still.
A sparkly new man, Ron repeated helpfully, now grinning. Maybe you'll finally catch someone's eye, mate. Cho Chang might swoon.
Harry's ears turned red. Shut it, Ron.
Harry turned the vial over in his hands, watching the potion catch the light. It really did look harmless. Pretty, even. The liquid seemed to have depth to it, swirls of silver and pink and pale blue moving in patterns that almost looked intentional. Hypnotic. An hour in a bath? That's all?
Well, it needs to be a proper bath, George clarified, wagging a finger. Not your standard dormitory wash-up in those cramped little stalls. Somewhere spacious. With proper hot water and enough room to really soak.
Fred pulled out a piece of parchment and pressed it into Harry's free hand with a conspiratorial wink. The prefect bathroom. Fifth floor, fourth door to the left of that statue of Boris the Bewildered, you know, the one who's always trying to put his gloves on his feet. Password's on there. Best bathtub in the castle, practically a swimming pool.
And no one will disturb you there, George added with a knowing wink. Very private. Very luxurious. Cedric told us about it before…..His voice faltered slightly, and the mood in the room dimmed.
Before the Tournament. Before everything went wrong.
Right, Harry said quietly, pocketing both the parchment and the vial in his robes. He felt the slight weight of them settle against his chest. I'll do it after dinner. If I don't get detention with Umbridge, that is.
You will, Hermione said darkly, closing her notebook with a sharp snap. You contradicted her in class today about defensive shield charms. Told her the Ministry-approved curriculum was useless against actual dark magic. She's not going to let that slide.
Then I'll do it after detention. Harry's jaw set stubbornly, that familiar mulish expression settling over his features. I'm doing this. I need something good to happen this week. Something that doesn't involve blood quills or toad-faced tyrants or people calling me a liar.
Hermione sighed, but there was something sad in her eyes. She understood, Harry realized. She understood the bone-deep exhaustion of always being under Umbridge's thumb, always having to watch every word, always being called a liar by the Ministry and half the school. The weight of being right when no one believed you.
Just... be careful, Harry, she said quietly, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Please.
I'm always careful, Harry said with a grin.
That's a lie, and we all know it, Ron pointed out cheerfully, but his blue eyes were warm with affection.
As predicted, Harry spent two hours after dinner in Umbridge's stiflingly pink office. The walls were covered in decorative plates featuring kittens in various poses, playing with yarn, sleeping in baskets, wearing tiny hats. Each plate seemed to watch him with ceramic eyes as the blood quill cut into his hand.
I must not tell lies, Harry wrote over and over again. The quill's magic burned through his skin, etching the words into his flesh in his own blood before healing just enough that he could write them again. And again. And again.
The pain had become familiar by now, almost mundane in its repetition. A burning, stinging sensation that started at the point where the quill touched his skin and radiated up his arm. His hand cramped around the quill, his fingers aching, his wrist stiff.
Umbridge sat at her desk the entire time, sipping tea from a china cup decorated with painted kittens that matched the plates on the walls. She wore a fluffy pink cardigan over her pink robes, and a kitten brooch pinned to her collar glittered in the lamplight. She watched him with those toad-like eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing at her thin lips.
I do hope you're learning something valuable, Mr. Potter, she said sweetly as he finally put down the quill, his hand shaking slightly. The words on his skin were bright red and angry. Discipline is so important for young people. Especially young people with... delusions of grandeur.
Yes, Professor, Harry said through gritted teeth, not trusting himself to say more. One wrong word and she'd keep him here another hour.
You may go, she said, waving one pudgy, ring-laden hand. Each ring caught the light: emeralds, sapphires, one enormous diamond that probably cost more than the Weasleys' house. Do try to stay out of trouble. I'd hate for us to have to continue these educational sessions indefinitely.
The threat was clear. Behave, or this becomes permanent.
Harry fled before he could say something that would earn him another week of detentions. His hand throbbed as he hurried through the corridors, and he tucked it into his pocket to hide the fresh cuts.
Back in the common room, Ron looked up from his Divination homework with immediate sympathy, recognizing the tight set of Harry's jaw. Bad?
The usual, Harry muttered, flexing his sore hand carefully. The words were already beginning to fade, the skin knitting back together with magical precision. But they'd be back tomorrow. They always came back. Two hours of writing lines about how I must not tell lies.
Hermione didn't even look up from her Arithmancy charts, which were spread across three cushions and covered in complex numerical sequences. You should report her to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's not even looking at me these days, Harry said, dropping onto the couch beside Ron with enough force to make the old springs creak. Besides, it's my word against hers. Who do you think the Ministry will believe? The lying attention-seeker, or the Senior Undersecretary?
The question hung heavy in the air, weighted with bitter truth. They all knew the answer. They'd all read the Daily Prophet's articles calling Harry unstable, attention-seeking, a fantasist who'd gone too far this time.
Harry spent the next hour trying to focus on his Potions essay about the properties of bezoars—a topic made infinitely more tedious by Snape's requirement that they cite at least five historical sources. But his mind kept drifting to the vial in his pocket. His fingers found it unconsciously, turning it over and over, feeling the cool glass and the slight warmth of the potion inside.
Finally, when the common room had emptied to just a handful of sixth-years studying by the fire, and Ron was yawning over his star charts for the third time, Harry made his decision.
I'm going to do it, he announced, setting down his quill.
Ron blinked sleepily, his head jerking up from where it had been slowly drooping toward his parchment. Do what?
The potion. The bath thing.
Hermione looked up sharply from her calculations, her quill leaving a small ink blot on her parchment. Now? Harry, it's nearly midnight.
Perfect time. No one will be around. Harry stood, stretching until his spine popped. He'd been hunched over his essay for too long. I need this. Just one thing that's fun and stupid and not about Voldemort or Umbridge or any of it.
Ron flinched slightly at the name he still hadn't gotten used to Harry saying it so casually, but nodded. Want me to keep watch or something?
Nah. I've got the Invisibility Cloak. I'll be fine. Harry was already heading for the stairs, his mind made up. Wish me luck.
Harry…. Hermione started, but he was already gone, taking the stairs two at a time.
In the fifth-year boys' dormitory, Harry moved quietly through the dark room, guided by the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. Neville was snoring softly, a gentle rumbling sound that had become as familiar as the castle itself. Dean was muttering something about football in his sleep, words like offside and penalty kick mixing with softer murmurs. Seamus was completely buried under his blankets, just a shock of sandy hair visible on the pillow.
Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from his trunk, the silky material flowing through his fingers like water, impossibly light and smooth. He paused at his bedside, looking at his hand in the dim light. The words from Umbridge's quill were barely visible now, just faint pink lines across his skin like old scars.
With a deep breath, he threw the cloak over himself and headed back down, careful to avoid the steps that creaked.
The castle at night was a different beast altogether. Shadows stretched long and strange across the stone floors, and every sound seemed amplified in the silence. A suit of armor clinked as he passed, making him freeze until he was sure it was just the metal settling. A portrait snored and mumbled in its frame. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Mrs. Norris's distinctive yowl, that particular sound of triumph she made when she'd found a student out of bed.
Harry took a longer route to avoid Filch's usual patrol patterns, ducking through a tapestry shortcut and winding through the lower corridors where the air was cooler and smelled of stone and old magic.
The prefect bathroom was exactly where Fred had said it would be, on the fifth floor, fourth door to the left of the statue of Boris the Bewildered. The statue was indeed trying to fit his gloves onto his stone feet, looking perpetually confused by his inability to make them fit.
The door was oak-paneled and sturdy, with a small brass plaque that read Prefects Only in elegant script. Harry pulled out the parchment with the password, squinting at Fred's messy handwriting in the dim wandlight.
Pine fresh, he whispered to the door.
It swung open silently, revealing a bathroom that was less a bathroom and more a small swimming pool masquerading as a place to get clean. The room was vast and white-tiled, with a spectacular crystal chandelier overhead that cast rainbow prisms across the walls. Stained-glass windows lined one wall, they'd show the grounds during the day, but now reflected the candlelight in jeweled patterns. The bath itself was sunken into the floor like a small swimming pool, at least twenty feet long and ten feet wide, with at least a hundred golden taps around the rim. Each tap had a different colored jewel set into its handle: rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and even topaz.
Bloody hell, Harry breathed, letting the Invisibility Cloak pool at his feet. The room was warm and smelled faintly of flowers and soap.
He approached the taps with growing excitement and began turning them experimentally. One produced purple bubbles that smelled like lilacs and rose rapidly to fill a quarter of the tub before he hastily turned it off. Another released a jet of red foam that looked like strawberries and cream. A third created a cascade of pink and white suds that multiplied so rapidly Harry had to turn it off before they overflowed onto the floor.
Within minutes, the bath was filling with hot water. Different colored streams mixed and swirled, blue water that smelled like the ocean, green water that smelled like pine forests, clear water that smelled like rain. The combination created a rainbow effect in the massive tub.
While the bath filled, Harry grabbed a couple of fluffy white towels from a stack near the door and set them on a chair within easy reach. The room was growing warm and humid, the mirrors beginning to fog at the edges. He stripped out of his robes, his shirt (which had a hole under one arm that he kept meaning to mend), his jeans (faded and too short at the ankle), and folded them somewhat neatly on another chair, adding his glasses on top.
The water was perfect, hot enough to turn his skin pink but not scalding. Harry waded in carefully, the water coming up to his thighs, then his waist, then his chest as he walked toward the deeper end. It was definitely deeper than he'd expected, easily over his head in the center if he didn't touch the bottom. He let himself sink down until the water reached his chin, then ducked his head under completely. The water closed over him, muffling all sound, and for a moment he just floated there, suspended in warmth and silence.
He surfaced with a gasp, water streaming from his hair and into his eyes, making him blink rapidly.
The vial was still on the edge of the bath where he'd left it, within easy reach. Harry grabbed it, turned it over in his hands one more time, watching the opalescent liquid catch the candlelight. Part of him, the sensible part that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, whispered that this was a terrible idea. That he should test it more carefully. That he should at least have someone standing by in case something went wrong.
But the rest of him, the larger, more reckless part, just wanted one night where he didn't have to be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lied. Where he could be sparkly and ridiculous and normal.
Here goes nothing, he muttered, and uncorked the vial with a soft pop.
The transformation was immediate and spectacular. The moment the potion hit the water, the entire bath turned a shimmering pinkish color, like dawn breaking over a rose garden. The liquid seemed to glow from within, casting strange light patterns on the ceiling and walls that danced and swirled. The potion dispersed rapidly, mixing with the bathwater until the entire pool seemed to shimmer with inner light.
Harry quickly grabbed his wand from the edge of the bath. Tempus maximus, he muttered, waving it in the pattern Hermione had shown him: a circle, then a straight line, then another circle. A small, glowing clock face appeared in the air above the bath: 60:00. The numbers began counting down in soft golden light.
59:59. 59:58.
He set the wand back down carefully and sank back into the bath with a contented sigh.
The water felt... different now. It had a strange, silky quality that made his skin tingle pleasantly, like tiny bubbles effervescing against every inch of his body. Harry ducked his head under the water again, holding his breath and feeling the potion-infused liquid envelop him completely. It felt thicker than normal water, more substantial, and when he surfaced again and wiped the water from his eyes, his fingers felt oddly smooth.
One hour, he said to himself, his voice echoing slightly in the large room. Just relax for one hour.
He closed his eyes and let himself float on his back, his ears just below the surface so that all sound became muffled and distant. The water held him effortlessly, and the tension he carried from stress, Quidditch practice, and dodging Umbridge’s detentions eased at last, his muscles loosening one by one.
The minutes ticked by slowly. Harry felt himself drifting in and out of a light doze, lulled by the warm water and the quietness of the empty bathroom. The tingling sensation from the potion was pleasant, almost addictive, and he found himself breathing deeper and slower, his heartbeat calming to a gentle rhythm.
57:23.
Harry opened his eyes and stared at the chandelier above him, watching the light refract through the crystals in rainbow patterns that danced across the white ceiling. When was the last time he'd done something just for himself? Just for fun? Everything had been so serious lately. Voldemort. The Ministry. Umbridge. The Daily Prophet calling him an attention-seeking liar. Even Quidditch felt like it carried too much weight this year, like every match was a chance to prove something to people who'd already made up their minds about him.
42:16.
His thoughts drifted lazily, disconnected and dreamy. He thought about Sirius, trapped in Grimmauld Place, unable to go outside, unable to be free. The image of his godfather pacing the dark hallways like a caged animal made Harry's chest tight. He thought about Cedric, whose grey eyes had been so full of life one moment and empty the next, all because Harry had insisted they take the Cup together. Together, he'd said, like it was something noble. Like he'd known what he was doing.
The water was so warm. So comfortable. The potion made it feel almost alive somehow, like it was holding him, supporting him.
15:47.
He was barely aware of the timer counting down now, lost in that pleasant space between sleep and waking where thoughts became images and memories blended with dreams. The potion-tinged water lapped gently against his skin. He felt weightless, suspended, safe for the first time in months.
3:26.
His breathing had slowed to almost nothing, deep and even and peaceful. Somewhere in his half-dreaming mind, he thought he heard music—soft and distant and beautiful.
1:15.
The tingling in his skin had spread everywhere now, a gentle buzzing sensation that made him feel light, insubstantial, like he might float away if the water wasn't holding him down.
0:00.
A soft chime sounded, magically pleasant and musical, pulling Harry from his doze like a hand gently shaking his shoulder. He blinked groggily, disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was or how long he'd been floating. His fingers and toes had pruned significantly, wrinkled like raisins, and his skin felt soft and somehow lighter than before, as if a layer had been removed.
Must look like a raisin, he muttered to himself, hauling himself up and out of the water with some effort. His legs felt unsteady after an hour of floating, and he had to grip the edge of the bath to keep his balance. Water sluiced off him in sheets, and he stood there dripping for a moment, waiting for his head to clear.
He grabbed a towel and dried himself off briskly, the soft fabric feeling rougher than usual against his skin, or maybe his skin was just more sensitive after the long soak. He rubbed the towel through his hair, trying to dry it, though he knew it would just stick up in every direction as always. Then he pulled his clothes back on. They felt strange against his skin—rougher than he remembered, the fabric catching oddly on his arms and legs.
If he'd bothered to look in one of the many ornate mirrors lining the bathroom walls, he would have realized something was very, very wrong. His reflection would have been absent, nothing but an empty towel floating in mid-air, clothes that appeared to be worn by nothing at all. But Harry was tired, still half-asleep, his mind foggy from the warm bath and the late hour. He was eager to get back to bed before Filch caught him out past curfew and gave him yet another detention.
He grabbed his Invisibility Cloak from where he'd left it, threw it over his very invisible self, though he didn't realize the redundancy, and headed back toward Gryffindor Tower.
The castle was deeply quiet, almost hushed, as if it too were sleeping. Harry's footsteps echoed softly on the stone floors, and he took the long route, avoiding the corridors where he knew Filch liked to patrol. The caretaker had a pattern: third floor from midnight to one, then down to the dungeons, then back up to the second floor. Predictable if you paid attention.
At one point, he heard Mrs. Norris's distinctive yowl and froze, pressing himself against the wall. The sound echoed down the corridor, followed by Filch's wheezing voice: What is it, my sweet? Students out of bed? Harry waited, barely breathing, until the sounds faded in the opposite direction.
The Fat Lady was snoring gently in her frame when Harry finally arrived, her pink silk dress rumpled and her mouth hanging open slightly. He pulled off the cloak just long enough to whisper the password, Mimbulus mimbletonia, and she swung open with a sleepy grumble about young people with no respect for proper sleeping hours.
The common room was dark except for the dying embers in the fireplace, which cast a faint orange glow over the furniture. Harry made his way carefully to the dormitory stairs, treading softly to avoid the creaky step third from the bottom. In the fifth-year boys' room, he could hear Ron's distinctive snore, a rhythmic sound that rose and fell like waves. Seamus's whistling breath joined in counterpoint, and Neville's soft murmurs completed the familiar symphony of nighttime sounds.
Harry climbed into his four-poster bed, still not noticing that his hands cast no shadow in the moonlight, that his feet left no impression on the mattress, that his body reflected no light at all. He was asleep within minutes, exhausted and content, with no idea that he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.