One For Sorrow - molloch - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: First Contact

Chapter Text

A body, thought Voldemort, is convenient indeed.

It is something that he would have never thought that he would say or appreciate. However…

Twelve years as a wraith floating around the deepest, darkest recesses of the oldest forests in the world and then more years of being a homunculus certainly did him no good-- his mind palace the least of all.

And what a shame that is, too, considering that he holds himself in the upper echelons of the Masters of the mind arts.

His Hogwarts in his mind is in shambles. Voldemort scowls.

As he stalks through the halls, dust vanishes from the corners and the tapestries of major battles in his life right themselves, the dusty, tarnished, and dented suits of armor in the corners squaring their shoulders as the damage to their bodies are repaired. The portraits that adorn the walls are not the originals that hang in the real Hogwarts. Instead, they show various real and fake memories of his interspersed with traps for the hapless Legilimens.

Not, of course, that he would willingly allow anyone this far into his mind, but it always is better to be prepared.

Voldemort steps around a deep crack in the stone and sighs, the edges of his scowl still hard around the corners of his lips. Of course, with the lack of scholarship on the subject of horcruxes, he probably should have anticipated unforeseen drawbacks from splitting his soul so many times, but the mental instability should have been obvious.

Seven was a good goal to strive for, of that he has no doubt. Arithmantically, seven is the most powerful magical number, yes, but also one of the most stable. Seven is creation in the way that magic is creation, representing dominion over the space around oneself. But he fell short of that goal… just as he fell short of his ultimate goal.

His scowl deepens as he strides into the dungeons, flicking his fingers at the wall to light the sconces.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

The instability of splitting his soul into six caused his form to rupture, perhaps, but it was something that the witch did to rebound his killing curse.

But, speaking of horcruxes…

Voldemort strides deeper into the dungeons, the portal to the Slytherin dorms softly clicking shut behind him. There is a little-known entrance to the Chamber of Secrets from the depths of the Slytherin common room, even less known than the Chamber’s existence at all. He edges around the statue in the middle of the small, circular library and hisses out a command: open .

The wall draws back to admit him and he sets off on his way, magelight flickering to life in the sconces that line the walls as he does.

He can vaguely remember, just days before that Samhain, how he started to make connections to his soul pieces from the depths of his mind palace. A pragmatic decision, as he hid them far and wide in an attempt to keep them safe.

Ever since the ritual completed by Pettigrew-- and his scowl morphs into a sneer at the reminder of the incompetent snivelling worm -- his mind has been extraordinarily clearer. The seeming tradeoff, unfortunately, had been a physical degradation and perversion.

He’d come back scaly and noseless, for Merlin’s sake. A properly executed Trifold Ritual of Resurrection should have restored him to his prime, not… this thing. His mental form even holds echoes of his physical-- his skin is paler and his nose slighter, his entire body more skeletal than ever. At least he still retains his hair in the confines of his own mind.

Ridiculous.

His strides take him to the base of the statue of his ancestor, where a quickly hissed order opens up a cleverly concealed door. It had taken him almost a year to figure out it had existed in the actual Chamber, which made it perfect for keeping his own most important secrets concealed.

He takes in the quietly strong splendour of the room. Short, delicately carved ionic-style pedestals stand proud in a half-circle, each bearing an effigy of one of his soul containers.

And his mood immediately plummets at the sight of a blackened and pockmarked pedestal to his far left.

“ LUCIUSSS…! ” He hisses, hands trembling in rage as he carefully picks up his diary, the centre bored through, the edges almost looking burnt. “That damned--!”

Voldemort has to forcibly clamp down on his anger to remain in his meditative state and thus his mind palace.

This… this may be the cause of his mental clarity. Destroying a horcrux does not destroy the soul shard within; rather, it forcibly ejects it from the container that can no longer hold it. If the destruction was deliberate, there are ways to trap a fleeing soul shard and destroy it. Horcruxes are difficult to destroy, yes, but souls themselves are even more so. Only a deliberate destruction could eradicate the soul contained within as well as the container itself.

However… his mind is far more intact than before his obliteration, lending credence to the theory.

He takes another good, hard look at the mortal wound marring the surface of his diary. Somehow, his diary found its way back into Hogwarts-- that much is certain, especially considering how in Harry Potter’s second year the Chamber of Secrets was opened. One of the few things that can destroy a horcrux is the king of all poisons from the king of all snakes. It is quite obvious to him what exactly has befallen this horcrux of his.

Carefully, he unwraps one long finger at a time from where they are clenched in a death grip around the ruined black leather before settling the book back down on the pedestal.

Voldemort can always make new horcruxes. He cannot make a new Lucius Malfoy.

Unfortunately.

He moves on to the second-- the Gaunt ring. It still looks to be in perfect condition and he cups his hands around it, sharpening his awareness of the piece of soul inside of it. Still in his grandfather’s tiny, disgusting shack, too. Good, good. He emphatically needs his remaining horcruxes to stay hidden.

After the ring is the locket. It’s condition is also pristine, but another flare of pure rage threatens to rip him from his mind palace when he realises that he cannot find the damned thing.

“ Traitor! ” He hisses. Only one other living thing knew where the cave was-- Regulus Black’s house elf.

But again, he reigns in his rage to move onto his next horcrux. He can track down the traitor and the traitor’s elf later-- for now, he must concentrate on reaffirming the bonds between himself and his soul shards. He goes through the cup and the diadem-- the former safely ensconced within Bellatrix Lestrange’s Gringotts vault, and the latter’s unreachability bringing him a sense of relief instead of rage, considering he knows exactly where it’s stashed-- before he reaches his Nagini.

It’s merely a carving of her eyes and fanged maw on the stone, but it brings him relief all the same. The pull into her mind is there, but he refrains from seeing through her eyes and merely reaffirms her position next to him in the real world.

His gaze skips across the last pedestal he made, intending for it to hold a representation of his last soul container, but freezes when he realises that it’s not as empty as he thought it would be.

No. He steps forward, fingers skimming the surface of the stone. No, it is… definitively, definitely not empty.

There, carved into the surface of the stone, is a rune. Sowilo, the sun. A representation of victory, wholeness, and guidance.

Or, as those unknowing of the study of ancient runes would describe it, a lightning bolt.

The same symbol that is carved into the forehead of his enemy-- Harry Potter.

The shock is enough to startle him out of his mediation and out of his mind palace.

Awareness returns to him, the smooth sheets below his hands and the coolness of Nagini’s scales and her weight as she slithers over his lap registering in turns.

‘ Massster? ’ Nagini hisses. ‘ What isss it? ’

His mind whirls with the knowledge-- the possibilities.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…” he repeats aloud.

A laugh bubbles up from his chest. He knows not the rest of the prophecy, but he would wager a significant amount of gold that the rest of it is in some way self-fulfilling. He went to the Potter cottage with the intent to take out a threat before it could bloom, and in doing so, opened up a way for his own end.

Of course Potter would have the power to vanquish him-- he is one of his precious horcruxes, holding a piece of his soul, made knowingly or not.

Voldemort throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Elsewhere, Harry Potter shoots upright in bed.

He claps a hand over his scar and groans quietly. It’s prickling like a right bastard and tinges of almost hysterical glee wash over him.

A quick glance at the clock reinforces what he already knows-- old Voldy’s off his rocker. Who in the hell is bloody hysterically gleeful at three in the morning?!

Not, of course, he thinks, picking up last night’s letter between his thumb and forefinger, that Dumbledore is any better .

Two nutters with their fingers too far up Harry’s arse puppeteering him for him to do anything remotely resembling what he wanted to do.

Well. At least Voldemort’s always been clear about his intentions. Murder is usually a rather straightforward affair.

While he never wanted to go back to being Freak in the boot cupboard, he rather thought that being Harry Potter the Boy Saviour was nearly as difficult.

I’ve just got to reach seventeen, Harry thinks to himself. Seventeen and I can bugger right off.

He’d miss Nev and Luna the most, he thinks, and Sirius and Remus, but not nearly enough to stop him from cutting and running when he came of age.

It’s thoughts like these that get him through the days and nights at 4 Privet Drive, Little f*cking Whinging, Muggle Hell, with the Dursleys. He’s old enough now that he doesn’t burn himself or the food when he cooks, and the gardening is decent at keeping him in shape-- well, it would be if he had enough food, but his smuggled rations from the Hogwarts kitchens were barely enough to keep him in the ‘barely fed’ and out of the ‘literally starving’ range and just barely enough to stop him from putting on his invisibility cloak and trying his luck at more intensive shoplifting from the corner shop.

Harry can just imagine the lapel-grabbing that would happen in the Lions’ common room if he’d ever admitted to stealing. Maybe McGonagall would faint.

It’s a funny enough image to steal a snort out of him as he grabs his summer homework.

As he cracks open his Transfiguration textbook and grabs his quill, a frown slips onto his face. It’s pretty mindless work, repeating a general overview of Transfiguration theory that they learned last year and how it relates to the spells they learned, leaving space for his brain to go on a fun little jaunt down angst lane.

Now that he’s had time to acclimate to the wizarding world and correct his overabundance of knowing exactly bugger all, his grades have moved up. Not significantly, though, since the pervasive fear of ‘freakishness’ still followed him.

He scowls at the thought, just barely stopping himself from pressing too hard down on the quill as he writes.

His dearest Aunt Petunia never liked the gormless little Freak outperforming her perfect ickle Duddikins, after all.

“Merlin, I’ve got to stop doing that,” he murmurs.

Just two days until he’s fifteen, then two years until he’s seventeen and can bugger off. He doesn’t need to dwell on sh*te like this.

So he dutifully puts his quill to the parchment and writes out his homework instead of writing out a letter like he really wants to.

He’d been forbidden from writing Ron and Hermione, but Dumbledore had never said anything about his other friends, a loophole he’d happily exploited for infrequent but long letters from his friends until yesterday, when Hedwig returned not with a reply from Neville or Luna but rather from Dumbledore himself going on and on about how disappointed I am in you, young man , and don’t you care for your friends’ safety ? The last part made no bloody sense to him since Longbottom Manor was warded to the gills and the Lovegood Rook was just plain nasty for any unwelcome guests, but he supposes any emotional manipulation is good emotional manipulation in Dumbledore’s book.

The small guilt compulsion in the ink-- a deep, royal blue and not the crimson red with a trust compulsion like normal-- was probably supposed to help with that.

But thanks to his invisibility cloak and several short holiday trips that the Dursleys went on, he was more than well-versed in just how close he could get to triggering the Trace.

Wandless magic was not something that did, nor was parselmagic. That’d saved his hide a few times-- literally.

The latter was a lucky find one day last year when he went down to the Chamber to get away from all the arseholes who decided that yes, he absolutely put his name in the bleeding Goblet of Fire to take part in a fame-bestowing deadly tournament-- not that he had a dearth of either before. Behind a small door in the base of the statue was a rather large library that was packed to the gills with all sorts of books, but parselmagic was his greatest find.

That and all the Dark Arts books, but parselmagic was better. Namely, one will get him executed or tossed into Azkaban and the other will just bring him dirty looks.

Harry’d been training his wandless magic ever since then, knowing it would help in the future-- not knowing just how soon, though, until he’d snuck into Knockturn under the cloak to buy more illegal books that clued him into the fact that performing wandless magic didn’t set off the Trace. The Trace spell was linked to his wand. It made sense, in hindsight, considering that wandless magic wasn't taught until seventh year, the last before turning seventeen and graduating.

He’d found a parselmagic spell in a dusty book he’d scavenged from the Chamber library that would untraceably render him immune to minor to medium compulsions and other mind magics like Oblivates just like a heir- or lordship ring would… which was yet another thing that Dumbledore had to answer for, in his opinion, since he knows that Potter is a titled name even if it’s not part of the Sacred 28, and yet, no ring! No information on his estate! Nothing!

But he forcibly shoves that out of his mind and tries to bury it in the back garden of his mind palace because it’s making him angry, and he has summer homework to complete before the sun comes up and his Aunt comes to wake him up to complete his daily rota.

Voldemort places his hands around the carving of sowilo and closes his eyes, reaching out to his soul shard and horcrux.

The tug to fall into Potter’s eyes is just like the tug to fall into Nagini’s, so the sensation is familiar as he slots behind someone else’s awareness.

Just in time for a fist to come flying at his horcrux’s face.

For a second, he’s almost-- almost -- smug. Of course Dumbledore is making the brat train. The Light should be afraid of him. But then, a flash of rage lances through him-- they’re hurting his horcrux! How dare they!

And then… confusion.

What…?

The hardwood is cool against the smarting cheek and Potter brings his hands up to shield his head as a burst of pain flashes against his ribs.

“Freak!”

The word is mildly distorted through the connection, but the meaning is hardly lost. His swell of anger matches Harry’s perfectly at the word and the tone in which it is spoken.

Confusion makes way for incisive clarity because this is no training-- this is a beating.

Potter’s mind is surprisingly well protected, too, so none of his internal monologue leaks out. Just his emotions and physical sensations reach Voldemort.

“You hurt Dudley!”

Indignation and pure rage pours through the bond as another kick is delivered to unprotected ribs. Voldemort can almost feel the creak of the bones.

“It wasn’t me!” Harry yells out, finally, his rage peaking to a point where he can't control his tongue any longer.

Yes, get up. Show those filthy muggles!

“Lies!” The walrus man bellows back and Voldemort can feel the feelings of rage- fear -disgust rush through his horcrux that the sound of the clinking belt buckle elicits before there’s only pain as the man brings the belt down against his horcrux’s back again and again and again --

And then he’s ripped from his horcrux’s head as Harry occludes so hard nothing can get in and nothing can get out before his own rage ejects him from his mind palace.

“ Thossse filthy mugglesss! ” Voldemort hisses with rage. A small vase on his sideboard explodes as his magic lashes out, in tune with his emotions. “ How dare they hurt what isss mine?! ”

Then, with an ease that bespeaks of years of practice, his fiery rage takes an abrupt about-face into a cold, controlled one.

Whoever put him there with those filthy beasts will be begging for death by the time that I am done with them.

“ Nagini, come ,” he orders, striding out of his room.

He has several meetings to attend today-- one with Severus, hopefully to reverse the worm’s blunders with the potion and one with Lucius to hear his report on the current affairs of the Ministry.

His furious stride doesn’t falter when a soft pop announces a house elf.

“Master, Lord Malfoy is here. Joopy has directed him to the small office.”

“Thank you, Joopy.” House elves, as he had come to know, were not to be underestimated. “Stay on hand. I require nothing for the moment.”

With a small eep, the house elf pops away.

It only takes a few more minutes to arrive at the small office. The ‘small office,’ as the house elves called it, was rather large. The entirety of the ancestral Slytherin manor that he currently uses as his base of operations is quite large.

“Lucius.”

Immediately, the man drops to one knee, blond hair cascading down around his face as he bows his head.

“My Lord. I apologise for my insolence, but I have received information that I thought might be of interest to you, straight from the desk of Minister Fudge.”

Voldemort settles behind the desk and holds back a smirk. The man can sweat there on the ground. Useless, impotent fool he is, bringing one of his horcruxes to destruction.

“Speak.”

“Harry Potter has received a summons for underage magic in front of a muggle, my Lord. It automagically registered him as guilty of the crime, and, as it is his second violation on record, sentenced him to have his wand snapped and have him expelled from Hogwarts.”

‘You hurt Dudley!’ Kicks. ‘It wasn’t me!’

He very carefully clamps down on his emotions and magic before it can reveal anything to the man in front of him.

“What spell was it, do you know?”

He can see Lucius blink at the seeming non sequitur. “The Patronus Charm, my Lord.”

“So someone at the Ministry sent Dementors after-- Harry Potter.” He catches himself handily before he calls Potter ‘my horcrux,’ the pause so small that it is unnoticeable. It would not do to have Lucius Malfoy of all people possess that knowledge. His father had been a friend of his; it is quite unfortunate that his son turned out this way.

Another blink.

“Did you, perhaps, think that I sent Dementors after the boy?” He allows some of his still very present anger from before to slip into his amused tone, lending the words an edge as sharp as any knife’s.

“N-no, my Lord. It just never occurred to me. My apologies. I did not mean to--”

Voldemort cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and Lucius falls silent like a well trained dog. “I assume the old man did something to get his precious Saviour out of trouble?” After feeling Potter’s anger at his treatment and his skill with Occlumency, he certainly suspects there is more than meets the eye to the boy, but he allows the disdain he feels for his old Transfiguration professor to bleed through into his tone to create the appropriate image of distance from him.

“Yes, my Lord. He immediately pulled strings to reverse the snap ruling, instead getting the boy a trial.”

While Lucius was not the same level Occlumens as, say, Severus, he still maintains decent shields as expected of a Lord of an Ancient and Most Noble House. For the disdain he felt for Potter to bleed through to his face as he said the word ‘boy’ it would have to be powerful indeed.

That would have to be nipped in the bud.

But for now, he simply dismisses the man without listening to his report. Perhaps he will use Severus’ mark to call a meeting of his Inner Circle after his delivery.

He plans.

His current number one priority must be to open some form of dialogue with his horcrux. While there is always the option of simply kidnapping the boy and secreting him away from the world somewhere only he can get to, he would rather have Potter willingly come to his side. After all, only a fool would ignore the boy’s power, even at the age of fourteen-- no, fifteen. If Dumbledore is to be believed, there are powerful blood wards on the house, limiting his options for negotiations.

(Voldemort takes a few moments to simply revel in the irony-- the Lightest of Light couples, one a mudblood even, turning towards Dark magic of the likes of blood magic. Simply hilarious!)

If this was the usual case, he would simply say that intent is key and that no intent to harm the one protected by the wards would equal safe passage through the wards to his horcrux. However, he saw that beating-- clearly, intent is not taken into consideration by these wards.

But-- no. When did he ever make it a point to listen to Dumbledore or believe the man’s words in any way? Besides, blood wards are meant to be regularly fed. It’s more than likely that Dumbledore let the wards weaken out of his aversion to anything remotely Dark. He would have to make a preliminary outing to scout the state of the wards.

Unless…

“ Nagini! ”

‘ Yesss, Massster? ’

His familiar climbs up his leg to settle her top half around his shoulders, tilting her head inquisitively in a decidedly human way that she undoubtedly picked up from him.

“ When I look through your eyesss, are you aware of my presssence? ”

‘ Only when I sssleep, Massster. ’ Her tongue darts out to scent the air and she slithers down his body. ‘ I will go hunt now, Massster. ’

He watches her go fondly, plans already forming in his mind.

Tonight, then, he shall talk to his horcrux.

“My Lord.” Severus Snape is no idiot. Somehow, the Dark Lord still holds trust in him. By assigning him the task to brew a potion to reverse the adverse effects of the improperly brewed Ritual potion, he effectively places his life in Severus’ hands.

He will not allow that trust to go to waste.

And then he sinks his thoughts deep behind his occlumency shields like normal, focusing on the present moment.

He rises when his Lord beckons him over, long skeletal fingers held out to grasp the vial that he offers.

“I would recommend a trusted Healer be on hand when you take the potion, my Lord. There is little precedence for matters like these,” he says, dipping into a shallow bow as he steps back. “I have no doubt that the potion will restore you, but I am not quite sure how… violently, for lack of a better word.”

The Dark Lord is silent for a beat, merely staring into the umber depths of the vial, before he speaks, eyes flicking up to Severus’.

“You have your medi-wizard certification, do you not? You shall attend me with Healer Bourke tonight. Bring any potions you deem necessary.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Because Severus is not an idiot, he can understand the double meaning.

“Now, your arm, Severus.”

Voldemort apparates them to what his Nagini affectionately calls the throne room but what is really the smaller ballroom. It's all dark stone with silver trappings and deep emerald hangings, emblazoned with the Slytherin family crest. It's completely clear of all furniture save one opulent, wingback chair in the same style as the room: dark, with silver accents, upholstered in a rich, emerald velvet green. He makes short order of calling his Inner Circle to him, Severus slipping a small handkerchief out of his pocket and transfiguring it into his mask as he slips into his customary place.

Voldemort settles in his throne, lazily leaning his jaw on one fist as one by one, all accompanied with cracks of apparition, his Inner Circle appears.

Each give him their reports. Plans for an Azkaban breakout are progressing nicely, the Ministry is in shambles denying his return, and his emissaries to different clans and classes of Dark creatures report successes.

“Lucius. Share your report on Potter.”

Lucius dutifully repeats his information to the rest of them, and Voldemort can almost taste the glee that rises from his followers.

“Those of you on the Wizengamot… do not vote to expel him if it seems that is what the outcome will be.”

The mood immediately plummets, turning to confusion, but none voice their concerns. There's no outright anger or dissention, either.

Good. It seems as if his… lessons, shall he say, in the graveyard, have been remembered.

“Think, for a moment,” he says, voice cracking out deceptively softly, “That he gets expelled from Hogwarts. Where would he go? It only gives them more time to plan against us.”

That and he’s sure Dumbledore will send him straight back to the abusive home he’s currently in. And he shall not permit that, all else be damned.

Three times. Three times Dumbledore has made the same mistake, and this time it will be his last.

From there, he only has a few more orders to disseminate before he dismisses his Inner Circle.

It’s early enough that he arranges summons for the Healer before sinking back into his mind palace and making his way to his Horcrux Room.

When Harry finally drops off to sleep, he can immediately tell it’s one of his rage dreams.

It’s not that surprising, considering the last few days he just had.

A Dementor attack, a beating from his illustrious uncle, having his chain jerked around by the Ministry and Dumbledore both, being relocated to Grimmauld Place only to be yanked around by the Weasley matriarch and then finally badgered by Ron and almost ignored by Hermione for some reason. The cherry on top of the sh*te sundae is his trial for something that should never have happened in the first place-- tomorrow.

So when he’s yanked into a dream where he’s bigger and stronger and healthy and powerful with everyone who has ever wronged him in front of him… well. Lucid dreaming has never been so sweet a reward for the pain of learning Occlumency.

--

The scent of copper and rot and burnt flesh is quite strong and for a brief moment Voldemort feels panic like he’s never felt before for the safety of his horcrux before he registers his surroundings.

It’s nebulous and malformed edges lay his fears to rest-- he is, in actuality, in a dream.

A quite good one for his young horcrux if the delighted laughter is anything to go by.

He watches as Harry laughs and laughs and laughs, flicking his wand in the sharp slash of a diffindo , causing a fat man’s walrussy moustache to fall off… along with the rest of his upper lip. Beside the man lies a very realistic corpse of a tall, skinny redhead that is more skeleton than woman, burns marring her arms from her fingers to her shoulders, hair messily shorn.

More and more slashes with wordless diffindos make themselves known on the man’s body, the muggle bellowing in pain each time, before--

“ Crucio !”

And, oh, Voldemort knew it was just a dream, but the fact that the Light’s golden boy would willingly use an Unforgivable?

Harry lets it up after a few minutes, a truly delicious smirk on his face as he stares down at the man. And then a slash opens across the man’s fat neck in a wordless and wandless diffindo .

Harry flicks his wand and the body levitates to sprawl over the woman as the man continues to gurgle and thrash, cutting the spell to let him bounce and flop.

Finally, Potter turns to him.

He’s taller and at a healthy weight in his dream, a far cry from the scrawny, knobby boy he is in life.

“Well… I wonder if this is my subconscious telling me I’m going too far?” Potter snorts, green eyes flashing with amusem*nt as they trace over Voldemort’s face. “Maybe, considering who else it gifted me with at the start of this.”

Voldemort just stays quiet, simply arching a brow.

“Well, whatever,” he shrugs, turning back to the carnage.

It’s quite interesting that he would simply ignore me if he truly believes me to be a part of his dream… he would have power over me if that were the case.

Perhaps he has more of a chance than he thought, if his dream-self is not among those whom Harry is torturing-- even more of a chance, he supposes, than the fact that Harry Potter is doing any torturing in the first place.

Several more dream representations meet their ends in ever more increasingly clever and ruthless ways. Some are obviously wixen, most known to him as various Order members save for a few he does not quite recognize, but the vast majority are muggles. There are various Dark, Dark curses that Potter uses that Voldemort does not know and if that’s not just one more cherry on the top he doesn’t know what is.

The last dream representation is someone who Voldemort probably should have seen coming.

Potter transfigures bits and pieces of Pettigrew into rat features-- his nose turning into a whiskered snout, his ears lengthening and browning with pointed tips, fingers turning into stubby claws, and a thin, pink tail sprouting from his behind.

And then a large Grim materialises beside him as Pettigrew shrinks to the size of a true rat. It only takes a split second for dream-Pettigrew to notice, start to scream, and run away on his fat, stubby legs.

The Grim waits a few seconds before bounding after him, catching him easily, and snaps him up with a crunch that’s very satisfying for his Harry if his manic grin is anything to go by.

“I suppose this is when I should turn my wand on you,” Potter drawls, turning to him. “But there’s no way you’re just a figment of my imagination like the rest of them.”

The rest of the dreamscape wavers and the bodies vanish, as well as the scent of blood.

“So, did you enjoy the show? Allowing me to get it out of my system before you kill me, I expect.”

--

Well, Harry thinks, staring into the red eyes of the silent, suddenly nose-possessing Dark Lord, At least I got to work out some of my frustrations first. Not a bad way to die, considering.

And then: Bloody buggering f*ck, he’s hot.

Because a nose isn’t all that Voldy has now: hair, and actual skin that doesn’t look like a snake’s. He’s not skeleton thin or pale as a grub, either.

“I did quite enjoy the show,” Voldemort drawls, a small little smirk on his lips that does nothing to convince his lizard brain that developing a mild crush on the megalomaniac would-be infanticial Dark Lord is a thoroughly bad idea. “And what a show it was from the Light’s darling Golden Boy Saviour.”

Aaaand that’s enough to knock him out of his hormones. “And here I thought you would know a thing or two about other people inflating an image,” Harry sneers. “I never asked for that. Never once have I wanted anything to do with this sh*te.”

And it’s true, even though he hasn’t explicitly said this particular string of words aloud to anyone before. He’d been grabbed by the ear and thrown head-first into a world that he didn’t understand and saddled with a quest that he didn’t want.

“I didn't even know I was a bloody wizard until I was eleven, for Merlin’s sake,” he continues, scowling. “Much less that I - which is bollocks, by the way- managed to kill a Dark Lord when I was barely one.” Harry gives Voldemort an appraising look. “Which is further bollocks because you're very obviously not dead.”

“Quite.” Voldemort’s smirk grows into a smile. It's definitely not a nice one, but it softens his face all the same. Commiserating , almost. “Besides, the Light would absolutely vilify you if you used most of those spells in public. Nothing says the Light’s lapdog more than a good crucio .”

--

“Light’s lapdog.” Potter barks out a laugh, throwing his head back as his shoulders jump up, his mouth curving into a sharp smile. “And when has anyone ever asked me my opinion of anything? Asked me what I believe or what I want to do?”

He mutters something, that sharp smile flattening a little into a sneer. “ Light’s lapdog. Circe’s saggy tit*. ”

Voldemort just huffs a little laugh. “Intriguing. Well, then, Harry Potter- what do you believe? What is your stance in this war?”

“Well…”

--

It's strange that Voldemort hadn’t immediately moved into exterminate territory, but telling him the truth wouldn't hurt.

Harry jerks a shoulder in a quick shrug. “I’m definitely not on the Light’s side, but not necessarily on the Dark’s either. I'm definitely not pure Light, but I wouldn't call myself pure Dark. More Dark-leaning Grey than anything, at the moment. As for beliefs… muggleborns should be included and protected since they bring in new blood. And muggleborns bring muggles, yeah, but muggles should primarily be left the hell alone, not waged war on, because they're dangerous.”

At this, Voldemort's brow jumps up. “Dangerous?” He scoffs. “Hardly.”

Harry’s own brow raises. “Really? Didn’t you grow up sometime around the second world war?”

Voldemort scowls at him, so he takes that as a yes.

“And you don't remember, oh, atom bombs ?”

“They would hardly use them against each other. Mutually assured destruction.” He sounds dismissive, confident.

“Sure. I'll give you that. But do you know what they have now?”

--

Potter swings his arms open and his dreamscape ripples around him and flashes with images of violence and war. “They have better guns. Better bombs, without the threat of mutually assured destruction, but that’s still on the table. Mass surveillance-- they have cameras on every corner recording every second and can talk to someone across the world instantly. Mass compendiums of knowledge that anyone can access in a few seconds from anywhere. Muggles have been to the moon for Merlin’s sake!”

His arms lower and the images slow before flickering out. His arms draw in and he looks almost… vulnerable. His form flickers, the image of the taller, healthy version of him lanced through with him as he is in real life before stabilising.

“And when they figure it out? Especially if it goes down how Dumbledore wants it to? Muggles don't do well with things they don't understand.”

‘You hurt Dudley!’ ‘It wasn't me!’ Kicks. The belt.

His own childhood- the exorcisms, the canings, withheld meals- yes. Yes, he can understand that.

“Your words have merit.”

--

...what?

“Well, damn,” Harry laughs breathlessly. “Maybe you are part of my dream after all. Disagreeing with his Darkness and not only not getting cruicoed but actually being taken into consideration.”

“That doesn’t happen much with Dumbledore, does it?” Commiserating, indeed- not only that, but it sounds soft, sympathetic. A tad fawning, too, of all things.

Oh. Oh, wow.

“Ah, I see,” Harry says. He stares right into those blood red eyes. “This is a recruitment pitch, isn't it?”

Voldemort looks back down at him, and Harry can see genuine amusem*nt in his eyes. It's like whiplash, honestly. He's used to nothing but cruelty and sad*stic glee.

“If you see it that way,” he purrs, “Then that is what it shall be. Has Dumbledore ever told you why I was there that Samhain night?”

The why of the matter. Of f*cking course not. It's something he’s wondered himself, honestly. Harry shakes his head no.

“I see. He's always been a meddling old goat,” Voldemort says, tone conspiratorial but not in the way that parents are with children but rather in the way it is when you're angling to spoil a particularly juicy plot twist to a friend. “There was a prophecy. My spy-” Snape? Probably- “did not hear all of it, but it was enough to force my hand to try and murder an infant, something that I make no pastime of.”

Yeah, I sure hope you don't make a habit of being infanticidal. Merlin’s saggy balls.

--

“ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… ” He recites from memory, gauging Potter’s reaction.

He’s uncharacteristically stone-faced.

And then, a second later, he chides himself. Anything you know of the boy is a carefully crafted character indeed. It would not do to underestimate him- for the third time.

Potter laughs lightly. “I can understand now, at least…” He pauses, smile becoming stiffer. “Getting some secret weapon out of the way before it starts to mature is a strategically sound choice in a war.”

--

Deflection. He hadn't meant to say that.

He can understand now- his parents should have just ran. It might be unfair to say it, but they obviously were more dedicated to the war than they were to him.

And now they were putting it all on his shoulders? Him, some dumbarse fifteen year old? Just because of some stupid prophecy?

Earlier, even. From the first year.

No, earlier.

Has everything they've done been to win the damn war? Dropped him on the front stoop with a note in November. Left him to the fists and cruelty of the Dursley's. Made sure that he didn't know anything.

“So… let me guess,” he continues casually as if he hadn't just paused for about five seconds. “You want the so-called ‘power to vanquish’ you on your side?”

“Putting it simply? Yes.”

“Detail for me, then, what that would look like.”

--

Voldemort certainly had not planned out that far. Establish communications indeed, he scoffs mentally, keeping his expression even and open.

“How about this? A place at my side. You would not simply just be another of my Death Eaters, above even my Inner Circle.” He folds his hands behind his back. Yes, this would be acceptable. Harry Potter is his Horcrux, as precious as his Nagini, and a powerful wizard in his own right. “Your opinions would be not only heard but deeply considered. Strategy would be at least run by you. If you have your own goals and wishes, I would help make them reality. You’ve already proved yourself to be invaluable in that regard, earlier.”

Which is partially true. Of course, he saw how technology increased by leaps and bounds during the Second World War, and had intensely learned about how during the First World War, the Great War as it was known then, muggles had evolved from horses and trenches to tanks and chemical warfare in mere years.

Potter just narrows his eyes at him. “What's the catch?”

“Nothing much,” he drawls. “Fidelity. Loyalty. The enthusiastic completion of our goals. Lending your strength to the cause. Occasionally doing things that you may have no moral quarrel with but personally find distasteful.”

Ruling at my side.

--

It looks like there's something else on the tip of Voldemort’s tongue but he just raises an eyebrow at Harry, like he's asking well?

Seventeen and scorn both sides, or… go now. And being by Voldemort’s side, at least almost an equal, sounded a much better deal than whatever pawn he was currently for Dumbledore.

But…

“One question, first.”

He regally inclines his head. “Ask.”

“If I managed to bring some of my friends to… our side,” he drawls, peering up through his lashes to meet Voldemort's red eyes because even though he’s taller than he usually is, Voldemort is still massively tall, “What would happen to them?”

This, he takes a few seconds to contemplate. “Well,” he finally says with an infuriating little smirk, “ If you manage to do so, then they can become your own Inner Circle of sorts. As I previously stated, you would be above my own Inner Circle, by my side. That begets… certain benefits, liberties.”

Well, sh*te. There's really only one thing he can say to that.

“I accept, then.”

And then Voldemort smiles. As in a full, real smile. And that brings his hindbrain back into play, gods damn it.

Bloody hormones.

--

“We will swear appropriate oaths and such at a later date. Reciprocal, of course,” he adds, forestalling the questions he can see in Potter’s green eyes.

He tilts his head. How to play this?

“You have a trial tomorrow morning,” he says as a statement rather than a question. Potter’s brow shoots up all the same.

“Yes…?”

“Do not worry about the outcome,” he says simply. Candour seems to be the way to go-- Dumbledore kept the prophecy from him, so who knows how much more information has been withheld? “I have ordered mine to vote in your favour if it seems like the Light side is deserting you.”

“Thanks,” Potter says, then scoffs. “It’s all a crock of horsesh*te anyway. The muggle that I performed magic in front of? My cousin, whom I live with, the son of my mother’s sister, who knows all about magic. So underage magic, yes, breaking the Statue of Secrecy, no.”

Voldemort hums. “This seems too heavily weighed on the Ministry’s side to be anything less than purposefully crafted. Also, I can assure you that I was not the one to send the Dementors, rather narrowing the pool of culprits. I will try to find who exactly in the Ministry sent the dementors after you to make this happen. Consider it the first of many… benefits.”

Potter nods his head, once, in thanks. Then, he smiles, wide and mischievous.

“Well, Tom, you’ve finally got me. But I think this is a better arrangement for both of us, in regards to our own health and wellbeing.”

--

When he calls him Tom, Voldemort grimaces slightly. No anger, just a grimace.

Huh.

He’d been trying to push, just a little, to see where the limits lie.

“If you must,” he grounds out, face looking effortlessly blank in contrast to his slightly strained tone.

HUH.

But Harry’s smile just widens. “On pain of Nagini, got it.”

Vol-- uh. Tom looks like he’s seconds from rolling his eyes. It’s… kind of endearing, really.

Absolutely not. His conscience sounds a bit like Neville, which should be expected at this point. Perfect little Gryffindor, he. He murdered your parents whilst trying to kill you. And he’s almost seventy, isn’t he?

And then his next thought is: He doesn’t look like it.

But he wants to get the hell away from that thought, so he just casually blurts out the next thing that he’s thinking of.

“Prophecies are stored in the Department of Mysteries, right? Do you have any people in there?”

--

“I do. Why?”

Potter grins, a curling, mischievous thing with just a hint of teeth, his green eyes sparkling. “Well… all prophecies are recorded and stored down there, and anyone with a prophecy can enter, right? So if I, say, make a small disturbance after my farce of a trial and then kip down there, I could grab it for us. It would just be a lot easier if your people were at the entrances. Less questions.”

Now that is a truly devious idea. No doubt the Order would be on guard at a later date. Tomorrow would indeed be the best time to do it.

“That would be just what we need.” Us. We. Even without formal Oaths or Vows. “I will make sure one of mine is at the entrance to the DOM tomorrow. Since your trial starts at nine--”

Potter inhales sharply, cutting him off. Interestingly enough, Voldemort finds that he does not mind. His information is undoubtedly going to be of value, after all, he thinks.

“...that… is not good,” Harry mutters, slipping into a frown. “Arthur Weasly told me that the hearing would be at ten, which both Dumbledore and the formal hearing letter corroborated.” He scowls. “Should narrow your search for the person who sent the Dementors, though. Cross people who have clearance to do so with people who have clearance to change the hearing time and stop us from knowing.”

There were precious few people who could do that. “Yes, that would narrow it down quite a bit. It’s either the Minister himself, or his direct staff.”

“Great,” Potter murmurs, pushing up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You know, they’re giving me such sh*te over you . Mind you, I never gave a direct statement that you returned. Dumbledore’s putting words in my mouth again, as per usual. And I haven’t had the time to track down the bug for a quick chat either, what with being condemned to muggle hell and having my mail checked.”

Having… his mail checked. Yes, that does put a damper on things.

Potter is blinking more now, languidly. Belatedly, Voldemort realises that he’s asleep, technically, and being here is using up his horcrux’s energy. If he does not get a good night’s rest, then he will not be able to beat his accusers nor, quote, kip down to the Department of Mysteries and fetch the prophecy.

“I will arrange for an elf to convey our correspondence, then. I will leave you for now.”

Harry just hums, eyes drooping, sleepiness and… happiness and contentment, of all things, leaking over the bond. His occlumency shields, while advanced for a boy of fifteen, are simply not powerful enough to stay up overnight, then.

“Sleep,” he orders, before withdrawing out of Potter’s mind and back into his own.

The pedestal representing his Harry is more than just a sowilo carving now-- it has his eyes, just like his Nagini’s, with the sowilo over top., positioned in the same way as in life.

He takes a moment to study them-- they’re green, almost the exact shade as the Killing Curse, but they have tiny, almost unnoticeable flecks of brown and gold throughout the entire iris. They’re quite fetching, really.

From there, he withdraws completely, coming back to the world.

“ Nagini ,” he hisses. “ We have won. ”

His Nagini just co*cks her head at him-- a human gesture that she has, no doubt, copied from him-- and hisses, ‘ Your healer and your potionsss massster isss outssside, Massster. ’

Voldemort’s eyes flick over to the clock-- he did not run overlong, thankfully.

“ I will probably be in pain, ” he replies. “ Do not bite them. It needsss to happen. ”

She laughs, the crooning ki-ki-ki sound familiar and soothing. He summons the vial with a flick of his fingers as he rises, straightening his robes with another flick as he exits his bedroom to his lounge where Healer Bourke and Severus sit.

Both sink to a knee as he enters.

“My Lord,” they chorus in greeting.

“Rise, both of you,” he says, settling himself into an armchair, long fingers playing with the vial of potion as he does.

Severus steps forward, setting a case of potions on the table at his elbow. “I brought a variety of potions, my Lord-- blood replenishers, Skele-Gro, nerve regrowth, muscle growth stimulants, pain and headache relievers, et cetera-- for any myriad situations that may arise.”

He nods. All probably his own brew as well. As expected of Severus.

“If you would permit me to cast an ongoing diagnostics charm, my Lord, we can begin,” Healer Bourke says.

She does so at his nod. With a quick few flicks of her wand, rings spring up around his body before coalescing at a single point up and to his left, smoothing out into a tablet shape.

And then he uncorks the potion with a small pop and downs it.

He only barely has the time to throw up his strongest occlumency shields to prevent emotional leaks to his Harry before the pain hits.

Later, he would quite charitably define it as his bones being on fire and stabbed with wicked serrated, poisoned knives in every millimetre of skin he possesses.

In the current moment, he cannot think much at all.

He comes back to his senses some time later, reflexively checking his mental shields-- they hold steady, thankfully.

“Master Snape-- one nerve regrowth, one muscle growth stimulant, and one pain potion, if you please,” Healer Bourke directs, bustling around. “Water, my Lord, with a throat soother. Sip it slowly.”

A goblet is pressed into his insensate fingers and he brings it to his lips, the chilled liquid a blessing to his ragged throat.

Ah. So he was screaming?

Healer Bourke conjures a mirror as he down potion after potion, the pain relief soothing the last edges of agony as he takes in his form.

Voldemort looks like himself again-- whole. He possesses a nose again, and hair. His skin is pale and not sheet-white. He’s skinny, but not skeletal. There’s even colour to his cheeks.

All that remains are his eyes, the same blood-red instead of the chocolate brown they were before.

Honestly, he prefers it.

“Good work, Severus.” His voice is the same, if not dulled and ragged a tad because of exhaustion and pain. “Your diagnosis, Healer Bourke?”

She nods sharply. “I would recommend rest and light but nutritious meals for a few days, taking a stomach soother as needed. Regular exercise will help after that. I would also recommend restricting any alcohol intake to a single glass a night-- if any-- for a few weeks, after the initial period of light meals is over. Magically,” she continues, “I would recommend only light casting and meditation, similarly after the initial period is over. Your core is currently strained, but not dangerously so.

“Quite honestly, the damage you have sustained from the potion is in line with Cruciatus Curse damage.”

It felt like it as well.

“I am not surprised,” he answers, still sipping the water. “The Ritual rebuilt my form from a homunculus. The potion correcting the damage would have had to change my most basic being. Hence, the… violence,” he says, the smallest of smiles curling the corner of his lips as he quotes Severus.

It is a wonder there was not more damage, considering that Harry Potter was not truly his enemy, even at that time. As per his own words of course: ‘Dumbledore’s putting words in my mouth again.’ Perhaps his horcrux’s status as a container of his soul mitigated the worst of it, despite the misplaced ritual intention.

I wonder what Severus would say about my new partnership. Nothing good, I assume. Although…

How much of his loathing is manufactured? There lies an inherent danger when being a double spy to gain any positive inclination to the one that both sides hold import in, positive or negative. Considering that Voldemort has other sources of information within Hogwarts-- mostly the children of other Death Eaters-- he would have to continue the charade there.

And while others might take his hatred at face value, given the certain past that Severus Snape had with James Charlus Potter, Voldemort definitively knows the depths of this man’s devotion to his mother, Lily Evans. After all, few were so bold as to beg for a life marked to be extinguished by his own hand.

He dismisses the both of them before summoning parchment and a quill. Tomorrow, ‘his people on the inside’ must be stationed at the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, and unfortunately, they are all unmarked.

Chapter 2: The Game is Afoot

Chapter Text

“Mister Weasley…?” Harry asks, having long donned his ‘poor orphan Golden Boy Savior’ mask. Grimmauld Place is a bleeding nightmare. The only time he was allowed to even moderately unclench was when he was with just his godfather and Moony, and that was infrequent. “D’you think we could get there early? I mean, I’ve never been to the Ministry before…”

The Weasley patriarch breaks into a smile as he hears Harry’s nervous question. “Sure thing!”

Harry’s eyes flick to the clock above the fireplace-- eight twenty four.

“The hearing’s at ten even, but if you want to explore a bit, we should probably get going in the next twenty. Is that alright with you?”

Harry beams up at him. “Brilliant! Let me just go get changed, then. Thank you.”

So that’s one down, three to go. One, of course, is the actual trial itself. He’s ready to offer his memories since no one knows that he’s an Occlumens; he’d take the Veritaserum in the same vein, but he’d rather not. The other is the distraction and then subsequent kip down to the DOM.

Harry does actually have to get changed, but he takes a slight detour to the twins’ room. The next on the proverbial list.

Never before has he been so glad that he bankrolled their joke and prank business. He picks up a few of their Peruvian Night Powder bombs-- “New and improved!”-- as well as one of their newer experimental products. Fred had just given it to him with a grin after he asked for something very distracting, saying it would certainly give anyone nearby “a right shock,” George chiming in to call it “something truly magnetic! ”

...which, now that he’s thinking of it, certainly raises questions about how the two knew about muggle science, but he’s long since decided against asking too many questions of them for his own sanity.

He could probably steal those two over to the Dark, he thinks. They’re hardly sad*stic monsters like some in Tom’s ranks, but they’re definitely not pure little Light lambs either. Bill would continue to stay neutral as long as he worked with the goblins, and Charlie probably tends towards at least Grey, to work with dragons. Percy’s fully with the Ministry.

Ron… he hesitates, arms stilling as he pulls on his robes. He’s not sure about Ron.

His first real friend had been the one to steer him away from Slytherin in the first place-- which was probably better in the long run honestly, since Dumbledore would have been suspicious at the go if he had sorted into there-- and with each subsequent year showed him both loyalty and jealousy in equal measures. Ron had gone with him into the gauntlet for the stone.

Second year, he’d been suspicious of the Slytherins, still holding to his claim that they were all evil, dragging him into the fracas with Polyjuice and the Slytherin dorms, but had gone down with him into the Chamber of Secrets in the end. He’d shown how childish he was in their third year, squabbling with Hermione, but had ultimately stuck by him throughout the entire ordeal with Sirius and the rat.

But then their last year, he’d completely dropped him until after the first task, showing quite clearly how his jealousy could cloud his logical mind; he believed him about the return of Voldemort, however, sticking by him.

So… hard maybe, pending further investigation.

Hermione would probably never come over, believing Tom’s goals to be the extermination of all ‘mudbloods’ still, in line with what Dumbledore teaches. If he can change that and get her on the intellectual-styled outrage that certain ideas were banned just because, he might be able to get her over.

Luna… probably. She’s smarter than people give her credit for and he has a sneaking suspicion that she hides just as much as he does. Neville would be a hard definitely bloody not unless he got some sort of justice for his parents.

Benefits… hmm?

He waves to his godfather as he descends the stairs.

“Lookin’ good, Harry!” Sirius calls.

Molly looks up at his call. “Oh!” She squeals. “You’re such a handsome young man!”

He tries to duck her hands-- his hair is as good as it’s going to get, and anything further will mess it up, but his bashful act just drives her on.

Sirius is already furious with Dumbledore. He may have put his anger aside to focus on Harry himself, but the fact remains that Dumbledore knew that he wasn’t the Secret Keeper and never stepped forward with the information. Remus will go where Sirius does, and besides, he’s a werewolf-- a Dark creature.

So that’s, what, five definitely, three maybe, one no, one impossible, and one probably not unless he exercises his benefits?

He can work with that.

“Oh! Harry!” Hermione calls, face breaking into a smile as she takes in his outfit. The whole ‘ignoring him’ thing had come out earlier. She was ashamed that she had never even tried to send the letters that she wrote to him, believing Dumbledore. But, she’d given him the letters and he’d honestly been touched that she would take the time to write them knowing that she wouldn’t be able to send them.

“‘Mione,” he grins back. “Thanks for the reminder to get proper robes. I probably would have made a fool out of myself otherwise.”

They’re a more modern style of robes-- the difference being that they’re more fitted than their school robes, somewhat, closer to his body with narrower arms-- with a closed front, all the way up to his neck. The Potter family crest sits above his heart on the left side, embroidered in their House colours of maroon and gold, the cuffs and hems similarly done-- the colours similar enough to the Gryffindor colours that it should evoke images of the Golden Boy, despite his proper wizarding attire.

He’d owl ordered it, of course. No one would let him go bloody anywhere. He’d gotten new dress robes last year so his measurements were similar enough that a few well placed charms were enough to have it looking properly tailored enough, yet just a little too big at the same time.

Too put together is bad, but so is too slovenly. I know some, but not enough to matter or care about anything.

Champion of blood traitors, mudbloods, and muggles, to steal a quote from Tom.

Underneath he had his best fitting clothing-- something light and easy to move in. Harry had all of his special supplies in an inside pocket in his robes charmed with an undetectable expansion, as well as anti-jostling charms.

Wouldn’t want any of his distraction surprises to go off unexpectedly.

That would be an image. I bump just the wrong way and then a large cloud goes up right there in the hearing room…

They Floo to the Burrow and then to the Ministry. Harry had talked Mr. Weasley out of going on the Underground, thank the gods. It was too slow, and besides, he has robes on for gods’ sake.

They arrive with plenty of time to spare, so when Mr. Weasley’s coworker, Perkins, runs into the room bearing the news of a changed time, Harry isn’t too surprised.

What he is surprised about is that he’s being brought before the whole Wizengamot for an underage magic violation.

“That isn’t… normal, isn’t it, Mr. Weasley?” Harry asks, drawing his brows together as he frowns, projecting an air of innocent puzzlement.

“No, it is not,” he replies with a frown, ushering Harry into the lift. “Definitely not normal. It’s only your second violation, even if it was in front of a muggle-- it should be a hearing on the DMLE floor.”

That narrows the list further, I suppose.

Harry scans the room for surprised faces when they arrive on time. Everyone wears their masks well, but there’s one particularly toad-faced woman who scowls a bit as she sees them arrive. She shouldn’t be too difficult to describe later if he never got her name, considering the truly insane abundance of pink and frills coating her toad-like person.

Harry walks out forty minutes later tired and with rage just bubbling under his skin.

Dumbledore had someone watching the entire time . Figg was in view of the house his entire life .

And nothing. Ever. Happened.

How many times had she seen him gardening in the sweltering heat with visible injuries and said nothing? How many times had she seen Dudley chase him down and beat him bloody and said nothing? How many times had she seen Vernon grab him, slap him, or worse and said nothing ?

Or, maybe she said something and Dumbledore did not care .

If he wasn’t already on Tom’s side, he would have flipped just for that.

“Off scott free, Harry! Just like Dumbledore said you would be!” Mr. Weasley cheers quietly next to him as they enter the lift.

Harry just plasters on a smile and grins up at the man even as he internally snarls.

Dumbledore says jump, you ask how high.

Disgusting.

As they exit at the atrium, Harry sprinkles a few fingertips of Peruvian Night Powder and darkness blooms. A few flicks of his fingers set off the light and shock bombs he planted on his way in as well as scattering the majority of the remaining powder to the far corners of the room.

Instantly, there’s chaos.

He slips back into the lift just as the doors close and presses the emblazoned 9, bringing him right back down to the Department of Mysteries.

The lift lets out into a small room with a small desk, and a grey-robed and hooded figure looks up as he exits.

“Hello,” he says politely. “There’s a prophecy I need to pick up.”

“Name?” Comes the reedy voice of the Unspeakable.

“Harry James Potter.”

All at once, the Unspeakable freezes minutely. “Follow me,” they reply.

One of Tom’s people, I assume.

He’s led into a circular room with twelve doors. The Unspeakable seems to know where to go, though, and he’s led through door number six, dead in front of him.

The inside is filled with tall shelves, all adorned with faintly glowing glass orbs of different sizes, illuminated by torches set in sconces high on the wall. Some are clear, some are cloudy, some are red, and some are black. There are a few prophecies that lay shattered in their holders, but the Unspeakable just forges straight ahead through the shelves.

“Row 97,” the Unspeakable declares, stopping dead in the middle of one. “Here.”

Harry steps forward, eyes drawn towards a moderately sized cloudy orb. Engraved in delicate, flowing script on the wooden holder is the phrase: S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. - Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter .

He picks it up. It’s warmer than he was expecting-- rather than room temperature, it’s like he grabbed it right out of a warm ray of sun. It fits in his hand perfectly, and that unnerves him more than literally anything else about this situation.

“Great, thanks,” he says, storing it in his expanded inner pocket. It lies flat.

The Unspeakable stares at him for a beat longer before dipping into a shallow bow, barely a bend of their spine.

“I will lead you out.”

And like that, he’s back in the lifts. This time, he clicks over to level two for the DMLE where the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office is.

He musses his hair and robe in the lift and knocks his glasses slightly askew, managing to wandlessly cast a small notice-me-not charm, before the doors slide open.

Inside is madness-- people are running back and forth like chickens with their heads cut off and entire flocks of missives and memos clutter the air, dive bombing unsuspecting wix as they dash about their business.

He neatly slips around bodies and flailing limbs, feet light, heading for Weasley’s office. He settles himself in one of the chairs before sinking into his mind, tending to his mind palace. If Dumbledore tries to scan him, he wants memories that correspond to his story ready and the real memories to be buried far enough to hide detection.

He spends time folding the memories into nails and driving them through the floorboards in his aunt and uncle’s room in his mind, making them inconspicuous and easily overlooked, before starting to create false memories.

It’s hard work, but it wastes the time he needs. He finishes just as Mr. Weasley arrives fifteen minutes later looking out of breath, his face nearly matching his hair.

“Harry!” He cries. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

Time to act.

Harry bolts up to his feet, his pinched expression instantly melting into a relieved one, tinged with an appropriate amount of apprehension.

“Mr. Weasley! I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find you and I got knocked back into the lift and I couldn’t see, so I just came up here! I didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t see anything, and I couldn’t hear you, and we came through your Floo here…” He wrings his hands and looks up, brows furrowing in a pleading expression.

“That was a very smart thing you did,” he replies, shoulders slumping with relief as he sighs, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

Harry similarly lets himself relax, letting out a whooshing breath. “What happened, d’you know?”

Mr. Weasley slumps into a chair of his own, flapping a hand. “No one quite knows. What they’re thinking is some sort of unregulated experimental charms accident, I think.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“Some got a little stepped on, and old Aggie from Records ran straight into a wall, but no one is hurt very badly,” he replies distractedly, pulling his wand out. “Let me send a quick message off and we’ll go, alright?”

He flicks his wand in the pattern for the Patronus charm, very clearly enunciating with a concentrating look on his face. A silver weasel bursts from the tip of his wand and looks in askance at him.

“For Albus Dumbledore,” he tells his patronus. “I’ve found him. He went up to my office to try and find me when we got separated in the chaos. We’re heading back to HQ now.”

With another flick of his wand, the weasel scurries off straight through the wall.

“Alright, we’re Flooing back to the Burrow now, and then you-know-where.”

Harry nods.

It’s a bit before he can disengage from everyone when he gets back. The twins give him a synchronised, ominous wink as he leaves, causing his lips to twist up in a smile. He’s currently rooming with Ron, which doesn’t leave him a lot of privacy.

The second he steps into the room, however, an elf pops in. It’s not Kreacher, the Black family elf, but one that he’s never seen before, dressed in a soft looking grey toga with a vaguely familiar family crest stamped on the upper breast.

“Tippy brings Master’s letter to Harry Potter,” the elf says, handing a letter out to him. “You’s be calling Tippy to respond,” she says before popping away.

Seconds later, Kreacher pops in, scowling at him.

“Is there being any other elves in here?” He demands.

Perfect timing.

“Kreacher. As Heir Black, I order you not to say anything to anyone about any other elves coming into the house unless I give you leave to,” he commands.

The family magic in the home swells at the command and Kreatcher straightens up, a gleam in his large eyes.

“A new, proper Master for House Black!” He cackles, bowing low. “Yes, Master Harry.”

He pops away seconds later, completely disregarding the elf that came into his territory as per his Master’s orders, and Harry sprawls out on his bed.

“At least that went well,” he murmurs, breaking the-- green, of course-- wax seal.

Potter , it reads. To hear the prophecy without breaking the sphere, all parties mentioned in it must touch it at the same time. Thus, we will be able to hear it at our first meeting.

Great. He has no idea when he would be able to sneak away.

This, of course, is if you managed to get it. I am writing this at approximately eleven o’clock, yesterday, so I have no way of knowing if you succeeded. But you have yet to fail at something that you truly put your mind to, so I will assume that you managed to retrieve it.

His cheeks heat, just a little. That’s… sweet, almost. It makes Harry sound arrogant as hell, but sweet.

I have instructed, as you say, ‘my people’ in the Department of Mysteries to replace the prophecy orb with a decoy in case any of the Order come check on it. There is no need for them to know too soon that their precious ‘weapon’ is out of their hands.

Harry chuckles at that. True-- he was wondering if he could do that himself, but thought it might be a tad too suspicious to do it in front of the Unspeakable.

Send the prophecy back with Tippy. It would not do to be caught with it in your possession.

Yeah, that would be bad.

If you have any idea for when we might meet, pen a response. Additionally, you reside in the ancestral Black home currently, do you not?

That’s a tad concerning-- or, rather, it would be if Tom was actually hunting him down.

I assume the residence is under the Fidelius charm, as I remember it’s vague existence as a Black family residence but no specifics, such as where it is. Ask the Black elf if Regulus Black entrusted anything to him. Kreacher, is it? Regulus Black stole something precious of mine, and I require it to be returned.

That, he can do.

“Kreacher!” Harry calls and he pops in.

“Yes, Master Harry?” He asks.

“Regulus was your favourite Master, right?” Harry asks.

Immediately, the elf’s eyes bead with tears and he nods vigorously. “Yes,” he croaks. “Master Regulus… Master Regulus chose Kreacher over himself!” He wails and it’s only by inches that Harry manages to drop the letter, lunge off the bed, and catch Kreatcher’s hand before he starts to hit himself.

“Kreacher! I forbid you to punish yourself!” He looks up at Harry with big, watery eyes. “If you fail something, tell me. Do not hit yourself. Do not hurt yourself. Do not starve yourself. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master Harry,” he rasps.

“Thank you.”

Kreacher bolts upright, spine straightening.

“What may Kreacher be doing for Master Harry?” He asks, suddenly on his best behaviour.

“Did Regulus… give you anything? I think I’m looking for the same thing that he was looking for,” Harry says.

Considering he has no idea what he’s looking for, at least.

Kreacher nods. “Master Regulus ordered Kreatcher… the Dark Lord required an elf, and Master Regulus volunteered Kreatcher for the honour…” He visibly grows distressed, but doesn’t make any move to hurt himself.

Kreacher tells him, haltingly, crying, about a boat and a lake and an awful potion that he was ordered to drink. How he was so thirsty, but when he dragged himself over to get a drink from the lake, cold hands pulled him under. And then Regulus called him back and had Kreacher tell him about the lake, but how Regulus was acting so very strangely. And he tells him about later, when Regulus called for Kreacher to take him to the lake, where Regulus ended up dying himself in the lake full of inferi. Leaving one more task for the faithful house elf to complete.

“Master Regulus told Kreacher to destroy the locket, but Kreatcher could not!”

“Kreacher,” Harry says, after the elf’s sobs subside, flicking his fingers to set up a silencing spell and to lock the door. “Do you believe that the Dark Lord should win?”

Kreacher stares up at him balefully, his large eyes narrowing in suspicion like he’s trying to figure out if Harry is trying to trick him. “Mistress Walburga said that the Dark Lord will kill all the mudbloods, half-breeds, and blood-traitors,” he says slowly.

“What if I told you that wasn’t his goal? Do you believe that they should die?”

Harry needs the locket, but he also needs Kreacher’s allegiance.

Kreacher’s eyes narrow further, like Harry’s asking him a trick question.

“I order you not to repeat or in any way tell anyone what I’m about to say, do you understand?” Kreacher nods. “I’m on the Dark Lord’s side, since Dumbledore and the Light have tried to hurt me. Regulus stole the locket from him and he needs it back.”

At this, Kreacher goes stock still. “Dumbles… tried to hurt Master Harry?”

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh--! Harry nods, lips pressed together to prevent the smile threatening to rise.

“And Master Harry is on the Dark Lord’s side?”

Harry nods again.

“But… Mistress Walburga was wrong ?”

Harry nods for a third time. “I want you to choose, Kreacher. Will you be loyal to me and to the Dark, or to Dumbledore and the Order?”

Kreacher stares at the ground for a few beats before popping away.

That’s an answer I didn’t expect.

But then he pops right back in with a surprisingly familiar locket in his hands. Harry remembers it from when Mrs. Weasley made them clean the drawing room-- none of them could get it open. Harry was too distracted and irritated to try anything with it, though, and never even got close to it.

Kreacher slowly holds it up to Harry, cradled in his hands like it’s the most precious treasure in the world.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry says, taking the locket with a smile.

The magic radiating off of it is intoxicating . The moment his fingers brush the metal, he’s hit with a sense of rightness and bliss, almost.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again, staring at the little snake engraved on it.

“If Master Harry is needing anything, Master Harry is to be calling Kreacher!” The elf declares before bowing and popping away.

He throws the loop of chain over his neck and tucks the locket under his robes, absentmindedly stroking it through the fabric, before turning back to the letter.

It's a Slytherin heirloom, a locket. You will know it by the snake engraved on the casing. If you manage to retrieve that as well, send it with Tippy when you call her.

Regards,

Tom.

Wow. So he’s not actually going to have Nagini eat me if I call him that to his face?

He gestures at his trunk and his writing supplies fly at him.

He wants to add a postscript and ask what exactly the locket is and why its magic feels so familiar and so good, but he refrains. Tom obviously doesn’t want people to know what it is considering the whole lake of inferi thing.

Harry spends a few more minutes just basking in the aura the locket gives off before pulling it off and reluctantly calling for Tippy.

“Master’s Mister Harry is calling Tippy?” She asks.

“Yeah, here--” he holds out the letter. “And these too,” he says, pulling the locket and prophecy out. “Be careful with those two. They’re delicate.”

She nods before popping away.

Tippy pops into his office.

“Master’s Mister Harry is sending these to Master,” she says, holding out three items.

A letter, the prophecy orb, and his locket.

Amazing. It’s been less than twenty four hours, and yet, Potter is more competent than three fourths my Inner Circle put together.

He reverently sets his locket down on the desk’s top before examining the prophecy orb.

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. - Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter .

Right. Technically, Potter wasn’t the only child that could fit the prophecy, but seeing as how he retrieved it…

Well. He chose correctly, then.

He moves onto the letter next, just simple folded school-grade parchment, free of any seals.

Tom,

If you let me call you that, you can call me Harry, you know?

Voldemort’s lips curl up into a smile. It seems there is yet some Gryffindor still in the boy.

I did manage to retrieve the prophecy, as well as the locket.

You should really look into anti-elf wards. If they can get in and out of Hogwarts, why not your murder cave? Regulus is dead in there, by the way, from your nightmare thirst potion and your… little helpers.

That… is quite true. He is honestly surprised the elf still lived-- he should enquire as to how exactly the elf survived.

He takes a second to reread the section and snorts. ‘Murder cave’ and ‘nightmare thirst potion.’ His Harry certainly has a way with words. And it is most certainly the first time that anyone has called inferi ‘little helpers.’

Kreacher rather likes me now, I reckon. Called me a proper Master and everything. Do you thank your house elves? You should. They’re dead useful.

And yes, it's under the Fidelius charm. Dumbledore is the Secret Keeper, I think.

By the way, do you know the truth of what happened to the Longbottoms? Were all of the accused actually involved in the torturing? From what I've heard about the Lestrange twins and Crouch Jr., it doesn’t seem like them. Also, would my ‘benefits' extend to punishing a member of your Inner Circle?

The Longbottoms… Voldemort pauses. His orders were explicitly not to go after either of the prophecy children and their families. The fact that those four did-- four of his most devoted, most favoured-- sent him into such puzzlement it cut his rage effectively. But, as Potter-- Harry said, it was characteristic of none of the men involved to do such a thing.

Bellatrix, however…

Rodolphus acted more as her keeper than her husband oftentimes, and Rabastan would always follow his brother. Barty would know-- he makes a mental note to call him sooner than later, especially as his treatment is going well.

It was quite a boon that the man managed to escape from Hogwarts, even after-- Voldemort pauses.

Even after cornering Harry Potter, he had been thinking. And yet… was it a miraculous feat at all? After all he’d learned of Harry in the span of the previous less-than-24-hours, he would not put it past him to have simply helped him in some way without even seeming to. From what Severus and Barty himself had shared, it was a close call with the Dementor that Fudge had brought with him, and Barty had just barely escaped in time.

He should ask Harry. But, back to the letter.

Yes, I am trying to get Neville Longbottom on our side. His Grandmother and Uncle treat him terribly and she's so far up Dumbledore’s arse she can check his teeth for food bits.

He snorts. Augusta Longbottom was rather like that in school as well, always gravitating to the most powerful and insinuating herself there. He would ask how she was not a Slytherin, but that would be a discredit to both his House and his ancestor.

Besides that, I've got about five that I could most definitely sway-- although, one of them I don’t quite care if they don’t flip, as they’ll more than likely stay neutral-- and a couple more pending more information.

Pettigrew is expendable, right?

Cheers,

Harry

Pettigrew is expendable, the snivelling, useless rat. Sirius Black is a powerful Dark wizard, despite how he tries to run from his heritage.

Voldemort is reminded of the dreamscape with the Grim eating the rat.

Yes, Pettigrew is expendable.

Benefits, indeed.

Chapter 3: So Many Axes to Grind, So Little Time

Chapter Text

“Hullo--”

“--Harrikins!”

“How is our favourite--”

“--shadow financial backer--

“--and mastermind extraordinaire--”

“--doing today?”

The twins grin at him. It’s not at all comforting. Mischief seems to radiate from the two of them on the best of days, after all.

“I assume you’re here to ask why I picked up some things from you two before the trial?” Harry asks, a slight answering grin gracing his face as he relaxes against a dusty and sheet-covered chair.

He’d purposefully let himself be herded to and cornered in the attic with minimal prodding from pranks. It was one of the least cleaned but also most private locations in the house, after all, and he needed somewhere to talk without being overheard by nosy mothers. If he could get the thought planted in their heads that maybe the Dark was better now rather than later…

Well. It’d make his job a lot easier, to say the least.

“Absolutely!” George starts.

“Especially since there was a bit of a--”

“--disturbance, shall we say--”

“--at our fine Ministry,” Fred finishes with a suggestive wink.

“Now spill,” George commands.

“What exactly did the Marauder child--”

“--have to do at the Ministry--”

“--that warranted use of our fine products?”

They both lean forward with heavy grins, eagerness nearly pouring off of them at the thought of such ‘dastardly deeds’ committed with their products at such a public and well-known place.

Harry bites the inside of his lip, sliding his eyes off the twins and to the side, allowing his brows to pinch together and furrow as if in deep contemplation. “...promise not to tell?”

Bait: set.

They recoil slightly, as if in horror.

“Of course!” Fred exclaims, sounding disgruntled, hand pressed to his breast in feigned-- or, perhaps, real-- affrontment.

“What do you take a prankster’s honour for?” George questions, sounding almost disgusted at the question.

Harry looks away, some of his nervousness becoming real. He doesn’t think he’s misjudged them, but it’s never good to assume anything about anyone. One wrong assumption is enough to get you hurt. “It’s about the Order and Dumbledore. Really, all seriousness-- you can’t tell anyone.”

“Of course,” they chorus before looking at each other and then back to Harry in perfect sync.

“How about an Oath? If it’s that serious?” George asks, looking between his twin and Harry.

“I’m good with that,” Fred replies, doing the same.

“Harry?” They ask in unison.

Bloody hell. Alright. Merlin.

Harry nods. “...thank you. But first…” He flicks his fingers at the door and sets a silencing charm and a locking charm. It earns him an impressed look, but neither asks questions as they both draw their wands, expressions turning solemn.

“I, Frederic Gideon Weasley, swear on my magic not to tell anyone in any way anything about the contents, explicit or implied, of what is about to be discussed with me, so mote it be.”

“I, George Fabian Weasley, swear on my magic not to tell anyone in any way anything about the contents, explicit or implied, of what is about to be discussed with me, so mote it be.”

Both of their wandtips flare, like even their magic was waiting to seal their oaths together at the same time, even though they swore one after another. Interesting. But also…

They covered all the bases without me even asking.

“Thank you,” Harry repeats. How to phrase this for maximum outrage? Ah, yes. “The short story? Dumbledore's going to get me killed. Deliberately, I’m pretty sure, and not just through negligence.”

They blink at Harry and then turn to look at each other. “Give us the long story,” they chorus, turning back with ferocious expressions.

“To start with… you remember the bars, right?” He asks. They nod. “Dumbledore’s been watching me throughout my entire life and never gave a whit of a care that I grew up like that.”

“He knew?” George whispers. Beside him, Fred is well on his way to being as red as his hair, an impressive scowl building and his eyes looking more black than brown with his building emotions. Both twins’ magic trembles and lashes like branches in a wild wind. “He knew and he did nothing?”

Harry nods.

“Right,” Fred says cheerfully, still scowling hard and evilly enough to kill. “That's it for me. You have our full support.”

“No questions asked, come to us for anything you need.”

“Products? A shovel?”

“Anything. We’re your men.”

Harry blinks and then blinks again, their words taking a few seconds to register. “...what?”

Fred leans forward and George jerks back slightly, both with affronted-- and concerned-- expressions, brows furrowed and lips curved into tight frowns.

“Harry, you thought it would take more?”

“You thought it would take more than that to convince us--”

“--of anything?”

“He’s actively or inactively trying to get you killed.”

“Dumbledore’s dead to us,” George clarifies. “The Order? Bridge’s burned. No one tries to kill you and gets away with it.”

They must see something in his expression, because Fred’s scowl softens. “Harry, you know you’re like a little brother to us, yeah?”

“Less annoying than Ronnikins, that’s for sure.”

“But we'd still do anything for him--”

“--just like if Perce or Gin needed our help.”

“Bill and Charlie, too, but they can handle their own business.”

“And we were there,” George continues. “We saw the bars--”

“--the cat flap and the locks-- and not to mention--”

“--the boot cupboard,” they chorus, matching looks of anger on their faces.

“We saw how skinny you are--”

“--how skinny you are every time you come back to school, actually,” George adds.

“And, little brother,” Fred says, “The scars.”

By this point his chest, which had felt frozen, ignites. What--? How? When? He’s not sure if it’s fear or rage, but the emotion is potent enough that he clamps down with his occlumency shields to block it until he can examine it later.

Who else saw?

“Communal showers in the quidditch locker,” George says apologetically, almost as if he’s reading Harry’s mind. “Wrong kind of look-see. Apologies.”

“We beat the others off with our bats after that, though.”

“Metaphorically.”

“Well, a tad literally, that one time--”

“No one else saw, as far as we know,” George cuts his twin off before he can go on a tangent.

“So yeah-- we’re on your side.”

“Just like that.”

“Right. Just like that,” Harry repeats weakly. “Is this a good time to mention that Voldemort’s not as evil as you think he is?”

“So you're telling us Dumbledore’s been lying--”

“--about even more than we thought he was.”

They look at each other.

“Yeah, that seems right,” Fred says.

George nods. “Absolutely something that he would do.”

“So Voldy doesn’t actually want to kill muggleborns, and when you somehow talked to him--”

“--which you won’t tell us how exactly you did, props to you, though--”

“--he took your words into consideration when you said muggles were dangerous--”

“--and he changed his mind and said he’s going to leave them alone,” George finishes.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Harry replies, nodding.

It hadn’t taken long to tell them that he had been in contact with Voldemort-- Tom, but he won’t call him that in front of them since he values their lives-- and that he was not only actively trying to not kill Harry, but that he was in fact interested in allying with him.

“So…” George says after a beat. “Are you gonna be co-Dark Lord-ing or something?”

“Doubtful,” he replies dryly. “Can you imagine him giving up any power at all? Just because he’s not actively trying to kill me doesn’t mean he’s stopped being a sad*stic, egomaniacal twat in other areas of his life.”

They shake their heads in unison.

“Good point.”

“Yeah, definitely not.”

Harry pauses, mulling the point over in his head. “He does seem… more sane, though. It’s weird.”

“Hmm…” Fred hums. “Forge, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think so, Gred.”

“What?” Harry asks.

They turn twin grins on him. “Research!”

“Well, we know he’s immortal. Ish, at least.”

“He exploded because of you as a toddler, as we all know, but now he’s back.”

“And there’s magic for everything--”

“Maybe what made him a co*ckroach made him nuts, too.”

“--and it’s in everyone’s best interests for him to be less nuts,” Fred finishes. “Hence, research.”

Harry pauses. That… is a good point. And if Tom-- Voldemort-- ever manages to weasel out of whatever Oaths they’re going to swear-- because he doubts that Lord co*ckroach wants to swear an Unbreakable Vow to Harry that might kill him or worse-- he wants a backup plan.

“We’re quite good at research, you know,” George smirks.

“I mean, I don’t doubt it,” Harry replies. “Your products are actually really fiddly things, aren’t they? It’s not like your stuff comes out of thin air. You make them yourselves from scratch. Or, at least, by combining things, which is just as tough.”

The twins grin. Their products are their babies, and they’re extremely proud of them.

“Potions, runes, arithmancy, charms, transfiguration--”

“And a tad pinch of alchemy here and there, you know how it is.”

“--the whole package!”

“Although homework usually falls by the wayside because of it.”

“We’re brilliant on tests, though.”

“Especially the practicals.”

Fred grins lopsidedly. “They always think we’re cheating.”

“Never been able to prove it, though,” George winks.

“One of the best pranks we’ve ever pulled,” Fred sighs. George nods emphatically.

“What’s the best prank?” Harry asks. “If there’s anything that can top that, I’ll be surprised.”

At this, both twins pause, glancing at each other. “That’s a secret for another time, Harrikins,” they chorus, each holding a hand to their heart and sighing faux-dejectedly.

George exaggeratedly mimes checking a nonexistent watch.

“Now, mother dearest will be looking for us--”

“--if we don’t get down right soon.”

“So we’re going to head off.”

They both pull ridiculous, sweeping bows as Harry disables the privacy charms.

“Until later!”

Harry gives a lopsided grin of his own at the closed door. Just planting the idea, he chuckles, slightly agog, taking out a shrunken writing kit. Make my job easier later. We’re your men now, they say. He unshrinks it and uncorks the ink. He has a letter to write.

“Tippy!” He calls, once he’s finished. The elf pops in with a small bow.

“Master’s Mister Harry is calling for Tippy?”

He hands her a small note. “Take this to him, please,” he says.

She takes it with another small bow before popping away.

Seconds later, Voldemort pauses to take a small folded square of parchment from the elf.

Two down, three to go. The Weasley twins are on our side now.

Cheers.

When were you thinking for our first meeting?

Voldemort chuckles. That, he had not seen coming.

In retrospect, though, the Weasley twins were perhaps the least Weasley-like of the entire family. Gryffindors, yes, but with a cunning streak that rivals even some Slytherins and ambitious to boot from what he has been told of the two. It truly should not surprise him that they would be at least sympathetic to the Dark.

And, more to the point, loyal to Harry.

“My Lord?” Unspeakable Chisholm asks cautiously. “Is something the matter?”

“I have just received some good news,” he says, waving a hand to brush off his concerns. “Now, continue.”

“Of course, my Lord,” he says, bowing slightly from his shoulders from where he sits in the chair. “The Department of Mysteries is difficult to access if not accompanied by an Unspeakable…”

Of course, Harry has already retrieved the prophecy.

Not, of course, that Chisholm remembers that after the small obliviate that he applied at the start of their meeting.

However, as the saying goes, to deceive one’s enemies one must first deceive one’s allies… especially when one such ally is a spy, whereupon the saying goes slightly off the rails. He knows not who exactly, but he will find the leak. Severus is moderately accounted for; he knows the man is as Dark as they come, but one can never be quite sure with a master Occlumens.

If word gets out too quickly about his Harry, his life will more than likely be forfeit. Such an outcome is intolerable to Voldemort.

As he listens to Unspeakable Chisholm expound on the Department of Mysteries’ defences and sections, he ponders his reply.

They do need to meet in person before the start of the next school year. The logistics of such a feat, though, are not immediately clear to him. They would have to be extremely careful and quick. He starts to mentally draft out the note that he will send with Tippy, completely disregarding Chisholm, when he pauses, hurtling headfirst into the answer he was seeking.

House elves. They had literally just been discussing how the traitor’s house elf had gotten through his wards around the locket. Tippy would be able to bring Harry and his to and from his manor, bypassing both his own wards and the ones around the ancestral Black townhouse.

Then is just the question of when, but he would quite confidently state that he has more flexibility on the matter than Harry does.

Once Unspeakable Chisholm leaves, Voldemort writes his reply before sealing it and sending it off with the elf.

It takes Harry a good minute to realise there’s a house elf in the room with him. He should be asleep, but Ron’s snoring is keeping him awake.

He nearly jumps a foot in the air when he rolls over and comes face to face with Tom’s little elf.

“Master sends a letter for Master’s Mister Harry,” she says quietly, sticking out her hand.

“Thank you, Tippy,” Harry grins, palm flat on his chest to calm his racing heart. His grin just widens at her bashful squeak as she pops away.

Harry, it starts this time. Well, it seems like he’s listening to him, at least. A good sign.

All the talk of the traitor’s house elf going in and out of my ‘murder cave’ as you so eloquently put it caused me to realize something. House elves can apparate humans along with them by using their own brand of magic, effectively bypassing most wards. Simply pick a date and time and Tippy shall bring you to me.

Huh. Well, he should have thought about that.

A truly devious smile starts to build on his face. He now has one-- no, two-- dedicated elves that will answer his call. He should really utilise that more.

He makes a mental note to research wizard-elf bonds in the gorgeous ancestral Black family library before he turns back to the rest of the letter.

My time is infinitely more flexible than yours, after all.

You have my word that no harm shall come to you, on my honour as Lord of the House Slytherin. If it should settle your mind more, you may bring along your Weasleys. As I stated previously, they will stay yours.

If there is anything that you require, simply send word along with the meeting date and time. Your current circ*mstances are unique, to say the least, and part of our terms was mutual aid.

Regards,

Tom

“How… considerate,” Harry murmurs.

Should he bring the twins along? Would Tom want him to give the twins a mark like he gave his own followers? More to the point, did Harry want to do something like that? Should he? It would definitely make some stuff easier, to be sure, but--

No, he can think of that later.

He wants to do this meeting sooner rather than later and there’s only about a week left until September first. The Weasley mother wants to take them to Diagon on the 30th, so…

Harry gnaws his lip as he summons his writing supplies before dashing off the note. He can’t send it until he talks to Fred and George, so it’s rather short as of now.

That settled, he tucks the note between the bed frame and the wall away from prying eyes and draws up his covers once again.

And then bolts up once more, waving his hand for his writing supplies again.

Gotta talk to you two-- attic again?

Fancy a meeting with his Darkness himself? Not sure when to go. Send a reply with Kreacher.

Make this note disappear when you’re done reading.

“Kreacher,” he whispers. The elf thankfully pops in just as quietly.

“What can Kreacher be doing for Master Harry?” The elf asks him quietly, eyes darting to Ron’s sleeping- snoring- form. Harry takes a second to flick his fingers and set up a privacy charm before turning back to the elf.

“Take this to the twins’ room, please, and if they call for you to give their reply please go to them. They’re on my side, against Dumbledore.”

“Kreacher will be taking notes to Master Harry’s… twins,” Kreacher replies, slightly grudgingly, holding out his hand for the note. Notably, though, he doesn’t call them blood traitors.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry replies with a smile.

Just like before, the elf straightens and brightens up before bowing and popping away.

Now, it’s just a waiting game.

Chapter 4: Masks All the Way Down

Chapter Text

He wakes up to a note under his pillow.

1pm, the attic.

See you there.

The two lines are written in two slightly different hands and it brings a smile to his face.

He sets the note on fire with a small effort of will before banishing the ashes away.

Breakfast is interesting, to say the least. Molly is bustling and overbearing like usual, but Arthur is distracted-- remaining tension from the ‘experimental charms accident’ from yesterday or something else? Sirius is more grouchy than normal as well, and Remus is nowhere to be seen.

Harry resists the urge to smack himself. Sirius is out of sorts and Remus is out of sight because last night was the full moon.

Fred and George are more boisterous than normal, probably in preparation for playing a prank that will take attention off the three of them that afternoon.

It’s still morning so Ron is characteristically dragging arse still; Hermione characteristically has her nose in a book.

Ginny is… gazing at him. Just staring at him like he hung the moon. It’s kind of creepy, to be perfectly honest.

Oh, Merlin. Don’t tell me that she never got over that crush.

He questions why he’s just realising this now, studiously ignoring the realities of his last two years at Hogwarts, and decides to ignore her until he can gently let her down.

Molly declares today to be a no cleaning day in celebration of the win yesterday and Harry slips off as quietly as he can in the direction of Sirius’ room after the man himself.

The door is just slightly ajar and he knocks gently. “Sirius?”

“Harry!” There’s a faint thump from inside of the room before he hears footsteps and the door creaks open to show Sirius, but not the room at large. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

There’s a light in his eyes and an ease to his features and stance that Harry doesn’t often see in the presence of the others in the house, save Remus. He looks better-- not good, not good by a longshot because he’s still too thin and too angular and too pale-- and even a touch happy, for all that he’s in yet another prison.

“Just wanted to talk to you.” Harry gives him a smile, closer to a real one than a Golden Boy one. “Can I come in? Or we could go to the library, if Remus is still resting.”

Sirius sputters at that, colour rising in his cheeks. “Pup--”

“Hi, Harry,” Remus’ thin, reedy voice floats out from behind his godfather. “You can come in. It’s alright with me, Sirius.”

“You’re far too sneaky for your own good, Pup,” Sirius grumbles good-naturedly as he swings the door the rest of the way open, beckoning him in.

“I mean, I was supposed to be in Slytherin,” he returns in a deceptively light tone, eyes flicking to the side, monitoring Sirius’ expression. “Begged off from the Hat. Didn’t want to be in the same House as Malfoy.”

He stops where he’s closing the door behind Harry, pauses, and then groans.

“I’d owe Lily fifteen galleons right now if she were alive,” he murmurs, thunking his head to the wood lightly. He closes the door the rest of the way and turns to face Harry. “Please tell me you weren’t holding off on telling me because you were afraid of how I’d react?”

But Harry doesn’t answer, not right away, because he’s still reeling. First the twins and now Sirius. He knows he’s habitually sceptical and wary of people, but…

“A bit,” Harry responds, not looking at Sirius. “I mean… I know what the Marauders did. You and dad and Moony and… yeah. What you guys did to Slytherins. And it’s not an unpopular sentiment that Slytherins are evil.”

He’d wanted to know why Snape hated him-- hated his father-- so much, so he went digging. Covertly, of course. And he certainly hadn’t liked what he found.

He sees Sirius grimace out of the corner of his eye. “Pup… Harry. There’s… there’s so much that I regret,” he starts, circling around to be in Harry’s line of sight.

It also allows Harry a direct line to the door. Did he do it on purpose?

“First and foremost is chasing after the rat instead of staying with you that night. That, I will always regret the most,” he says, “But the second is all the dumb sh*te I got up to in school. No, not dumb sh*te. Truly horrendous sh*te.”

Harry looks up at him at that admittance and Sirius looks haunted. Wrecked. His magic clings to his skin like a wet cloak, the stillness disturbing.

“I… Moony got me some muggle mind healer books, self help stuff, since I can’t go to a proper one because of the whole criminal thing. And you know what I realised?” Sirius shakes his head, a truly painful looking regretful grin stretching across his face. “I was acting like my own bitch of a mother. I hate her more than I hate Pettigrew, even, and I--”

Remus starts to kick off the covers as Sirius continues to talk, arms shaking with the effort of trying to get to him.

“That’s how I treated people. f*ck, that’s how I treated my little brother. Just like that f*cking bitch and her psycho husband treated me.”

He laughs wetly and that’s what spurs Harry into action, stepping forward to Sirius as Remus continues to struggle against the duvet.

“Here, sit,” Harry murmurs, prodding him towards Remus and the bed.

Sirius all but collapses, plopping roughly down onto the bed, and Remus leans forward to circle his arm around Sirius’ shoulders.

“Pads, I know it hurts,” Remus murmurs, reaching his other shaking arm up to rub circles into Sirius’ breastbone. “Just feel it, let it settle, acknowledge it, and let it out.”

“Harry,” Sirius continues, sounding choked up. “I was an insufferable bloody twat of a bully when I was younger. And I’m still paying for it today. I never, never wanted you to feel uncomfortable-- or gods forbid unsafe with me.” He shakes his head violently, like a dog shaking off water. “And I don’t just mean about you being Slytherin at heart. I mean anything. You should be able to come to me with bloody anything and know that I’d help you with it.”

He looks up at Harry, his grey eyes gleaming with tears.

“If you were scared-- apprehensive, whatever-- coming to me about something as trivial as your bloody Hogwarts house, what the hell else have I missed?”

And, f*ck, it’s too much like the twins for Harry to feel anything but that gaping pit in his heart again, that ache. He didn’t even have time to consider ulterior motives yesterday-- stupid, he chides himself again, they might not be adults but still-- but what would Sirius even want that he could grant?

There’s literally bloody nothing that he would be able to get Sirius in exchange for telling the man his secrets. There’s nothing he could blackmail Harry into doing.

And besides, the man is his godfather, which actually means something in wix society. There’s a whole ritual that new godfathers go through (and had to reaffirm at different ages throughout the child’s life) that bonds them with the child. But Sirius never reaffirmed it, since Harry was in muggle hell and Sirius was in Dementor hell, so it wouldn’t count, technically, would it? But the spirit of it still stayed… probably. Right?

And Sirius had always been vocal about him knowing things, but he’d never been to get Harry from the bastards he shares blood with, but he’d been confined to Grimmauld--

“...Harry?” Sirius asks, sounding almost scared.

He realises, with a jolt, that he’s been quiet for far too long after Sirius’ pronouncement, going over and over and over things in his head.

“Harry,” Sirius repeats, sounding desperate. Beside him, Remus is looking similarly concerned. “Pup, talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“Harry,” Remus adds, quietly pleading.

“It’s--” Can he trust them? That’s the crux of the issue. It’d been easier with the twins, he supposed, because they were younger, like him. Adults never helped. Not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, not any of his muggle primary teachers, not anyone. “I…”

He draws up whatever meagre Gryffindor courage he’s managed to gain by playing at being a Lion for four years-- stuffing his panic and uncertainty into the darkness of the cupboard in his mind for good measure-- and looks Sirius straight in the eyes, flicking his fingers behind his back to raise privacy charms and lock the door.

“Swear an Oath. Swear an Oath and I can tell you. Both of you,” he adds, throwing a glance at Remus. “You can’t tell anyone about it in any way, not talking, not writing, not hinting. And you can’t act on anything unless I tell you to.”

Remus gives one sharp nod but Sirius looks to the side, and for a single heartstopping second-- Harry almost has an obliviate on his tongue, his hand halfway to his wand-- Harry thinks that he’s going to say no.

Instead, he stands and goes to the nightstand, going to a knee to curl his fingers under the bottom edge.

“I’m not supposed to have a wand,” Sirius explains, voice just on the normal side of sneering, straightening up with one in hand. He then plucks another off the top of the table, offering it handle first to Remus.

“I, Sirius Orion Black the third, Lord Black, so do swear on my magic to faithfully keep the secrets of Harry James Potter and to never divulge them under any means. I also swear not to act on anything he tells me today unless told otherwise, so mote it be.”

The swell of magic is stronger than with the twins, Harry notes absentmindedly.

“That should help with Legilimency and Veritaserum,” he says, then pauses. “You know--?”

Harry nods.

Remus goes through the same Oath as Sirius and then they both look at him expectantly.

Bugger.

He opens his mouth and then closes it again before taking a breath.

It worked for the twins, so surely…?

“Dumbledore’s going to get me killed,” he says bluntly. And then he keeps talking, and talking, and talking, the words spilling out of him. “He purposefully keeps me in the dark-- and I don’t mean just about Order stuff, it’s not just petty childish sh*te.

“He’s kept things from me that he had no right to. I knew nothing about being a wizard until my eleventh birthday. I knew nothing about the culture. I knew nothing about my birthright. He put me with the Dursleys, dropped me on the doorstep in the middle of the night for them to find in the morning. I understand leaving me there with them because of the blood wards, but then he never checked up on me, not once, but he had someone watching me the entire time. And I-- I can tell you more about that later, if you want, but it was… bad. Very bad. And Figg would have seen it.”

His back twinges. He knows a fair bit of wandless healing by now, but just the memory causes phantom pain to rise in the still-tender flesh.

“And I told Dumbledore, you know? About it. Right at the end of my first year. I begged him not to send me back with them. That they hated me. And he said that I was imagining things, that he knew they loved me,” he spits out, face morphing into a sneer at the words even though his raised shields. “And I’ve learned other stuff, too, but--”

He looks up at Sirius and Remus again. Sirius looks mad as hell, but Remus… his eyes are solid amber, almost glowing.

“I was told there’s a prophecy,” he says. “He’s trying to make me a glass cannon. I’m supposed to be his weapon, but I don’t think I’m meant to survive.”

“How--?” Sirius asks, face ashen, anger slackening into disbelief. “We were under an Oath ourselves, everybody in the Order, not talk to you about it if you didn’t know.”

So they knew. But they couldn’t tell me.

Bloody sodding Dumbledore, yet again.

Remus’ eyes narrow. “Someone told you, you said. Who?”

Harry suppresses the urge to swallow. It’s a tell, a weakness he doesn’t need.

“Remember the second part of the Oath? About not acting on any of the information unless I tell you to?” They nod. “Voldemort told me.”

Harry can see the information percolating through the men’s brains as well as the exact moment what exactly he’d just said properly registered.

Sirius immediately jumps up and starts to visually check him over, literally lifting his arms and patting him down for injuries.

“Oh, Merlin, Pup! When! How! What!”

Remus, meanwhile, is again attempting to struggle out of the sheets, this time with much more proficiency, eyes glowing a violent amber all the while.

“Cub,” Remus rasps out, literally trying to sniff him over.

It gets exponentially worse when Sirius’ hand skims over his back and he winces.

Both men go stock still and suddenly he’s being bundled into the bed, his shirt being peeled off of him, both of them little better than headless, babbling chickens.

Sirius is halfway to the door, calling out that he’s going to get a first aid kit, when Harry finally regains his senses.

“Stop!” He calls as he casts, flinging a sticking charm to his godfather’s bare feet. It has the unfortunate side effect of causing him to awkwardly start to bowl straight over onto his face before he can cast a weak levitation charm to keep him upright. “Stop, alright?” He says again at a much more moderate volume. “I’m still a bit injured, but it wasn’t… wasn’t him.”

Sirius waves his own wand to cancel the charms before moving back to the bed, Remus’ hands still fluttering around Harry as he sits up.

“Pup… who was it, then?”

He layers his shields one more time for good measure, trying to sink into calm. “Remember how I said the Dursleys were bad?”

Sirius goes sheet white and Remus starts to go red in the face, magic stilling and rippling furiously respectively.

“They did this to you?” Sirius’ voice is flat and cold and suddenly Harry is slapped in the face with a reminder that Sirius grew up in an old, pureblood house and is, in fact, a Black.

Bellatrix Lestrange née Black might have the entwined insanity and control to be a wildly flailed mace in the hands of her master, but Sirius Black had the same virtues in a combination that could make him a scalpel when he put his mind to it.

“Petunia never hit me much. She only ever swung a frying pan a couple times or grabbed me. It was Vernon, mostly. He liked the belt,” he responds in a similarly flat tone. “I got really good at wandless healing really quickly.”

Beside him, Remus jerks and then starts to cast what sounds and feels like every diagnostic spell known to wixkind.

“That’s unnecessary,” Harry grumbles. “It’s as good as healed already. Just a little tender.”

“But you’re hurt,” Remus rumbles right back. “So sit still and let me heal you.”

So he does. He’s not arguing with an overprotective werewolf, no matter how out of tune that ‘were’ might be with his ‘wolf.’

“...so… can we get back to the whole ‘the actual Dark Lord told you about the prophecy’ thing, pup?” Sirius starts the conversation up again.

Harry shrugs his shoulders listlessly. “I don’t know much. He just… popped into my dreams. Talked to me. We’ve been talking since by house elf, since Dumbledore is checking my letters.”

Sirius sputters at that. “Dumbledore’s been reading your mail?!”

That’s what he focuses on?

He hums. “He said I couldn’t write to Ron and Hermione this summer, but didn’t ban me from writing to the rest of my friends. And then one day I got a letter from him instead of a reply from Nev, saying that I ‘endangered my friends,’ talking about how disappointed he was in me.” Harry grins humorlessly, more a baring of teeth than anything. “And the letter was charmed-- no, sorry. The ink was charmed to make me feel super guilty.”

Remus inhales sharply at that. “He’s been spelling you?”

“He spells everyone, I don’t take it personally,” Harry snorts. “As far as I can tell, each ink colour he owns has a different charm on it. It’s not detectable with normal spells.”

He waits while Remus sputters a little more and Sirius scowls at the wall, fingers twitching around his borrowed wand.

“Anyway… he seems less insane than I was led to believe. A great deal less insane,” Harry says. “He’s actually downright reasonable. I told him that muggles were more dangerous than he thought so outright subjugation and extermination was probably not a great idea and he actually listened. Oh, also, I called him by his real name to his face and he just cringed a bit and didn’t even curse me.”

“You… got him to change his plans?” Sirius asks, amazed. “Pup, what the hell?”

“He offered me a place at his side, as in an ally and not a minion.” Harry shrugs as well as he can, blanketed as he is. Moony went a tad overboard. “And benefits,” he chuckles. “Sounded a lot better than being Dumbedore’s pawn or just running from both sides at seventeen.”

“...Pup?”

Ah, bollocks.

Since when is he an oversharer?

Bloody f*cking Merlin.

“You might want to explain,” Remus says slowly. “Run from both sides at seventeen?”

Harry offers a weak smile to his godfather and honorary uncle. “Plan A?”

“Explain,” Sirius prods.

“Well…” Harry reaches a hand up to tug at the fringe of his hair and stops halfway, pushing his glasses up his nose instead. No true tells. “I’m not exactly… Light? And I didn’t trust Dumbledore much. But I’m not fully Dark either, and as far as I knew T- Voldemort was trying his damndest to murder me and not much could change that. So, naturally, the third option was to leave the country and try to hack it in America. Or India, since parseltongue is revered there as a healer’s gift.”

“Naturally,” Sirius wheezes out. “Pup, were you ever planning on telling me? Us?”

Harry very pointedly does not look at him.

There’s only the sound of three sets of breaths for a few minutes.

“You know what?” Harry looks to the side and there’s an almost manic glint in Sirius’ eyes. “Sod it. You’re joining up with the bloody Dark Lord? Sod it,” he repeats firmly. “I’m going with you. Remus, are you good with that?”

Remus sputters. “Wha-- are you-- really?” His voice climbs almost a whole octave over the splintered sentence. “‘You good with that?’” He repeats, doing a fairly spot-on impression of Sirius’ deep voice. “Pads, I’m a Dark creature. We both know this. I’m only still in England for you two at this point. But, still, You-Know-Who...”

Harry snorts. “Well, if it makes it any better, you wouldn’t be his. You’d be mine. Like he has his own Inner Circle, you’d be in mine,” he hastens to explain further at the raised eyebrows.

“Yeah…” Sirius muses. “That’s better. We go with you, not snakeface.”

Harry’s lips quirk in a small, secret smile. Snakeface no longer… but some secrets can stay secrets for now.

“Right. What time is it?”

Remus flicks his wand. “Twelve fifty seven.”

He pauses for a second then starts to furiously try and untangle himself. “Bloody buggering f*ck--”

Strong arms are the only thing that stops him from falling face first to the floor.

“Harry, what?” Sirius asks as he dumps him back on the bed. “Slow down, explain!”

“Gotta meet the twins-- attic,” he only says.

His shields are a f*cking mess and so is the rest of his head if he’s been in here for an hour and a half without noticing anything. Maybe he could send a note with Kreacher to tell them he’d be late?

Wait.

“I’m an idiot,” Harry announces. “Kreacher!”

The elf pops into the room and Sirius gapes at him as he bows to Harry.

“What can Kreacher be doing for Master Harry?” He scowls as he straightens up and sees Sirius but miraculously says nothing.

“Can you bring the twins here for me, please? Warn them before grabbing them, though, and only take them if they’re alone,” he orders.

Kreacher pops off with a bow and Sirius turns to gape at Harry.

“How in the hell did you get him to like you?” The pure bafflement in his voice is almost enough to send him into hysterics.

As it is, Harry just flashes him a smile. “Well, for one, it’s thanks to you. Heir Black and all that,” he says, waving a hand. “And then I asked him about Regulus. And I said please and thank you.”

He shoots Sirius a look. “I understand you dislike him and he dislikes you, but honestly? At least be civil to him.”

As Sirius grudgingly agrees, Kreacher pops back in with the twins. They look slightly ruffled and George seems to have a spot of muggle glitter-- or is there such a thing as wizarding glitter? Food for thought for later-- on his cuff for some reason, but they both offer him wide, guileless grins.

“Harrikins!”

“This is a surprise.”

They both cut significant glances towards the two adults in the room and Harry waves a hand.

“They’re on our side now,” he informs them and twin smirks spread over their faces.

“Lugh works fast--”

“--but Harry works faster.”

Remus raises a brow at this and Sirius looks slightly impressed, but the twins forge ahead.

“So, you’re meeting with his Darkness himself,” George starts.

Harry has perhaps half a second to realise that this might not have been the best of ideas as Sirius and Remus stiffen beside him.

“He said you could bring us along--”

“--so we’re going.”

“Pup,” Sirius says very calmly. “You’re going to what?”

“Er,” Harry says intelligently. “I was planning on telling you that, at least?”

Neither adult looks very impressed with him.

“I need to go.” Harry shakes his head, arranging his thoughts. “I… trust him. It’s strange, but I do. He probably could have fried my brain if he managed to get into my dreams and yet he did nothing of the sort. Besides, the meeting is to swear Oaths and Vows that will guarantee he can’t hurt me.”

“So, you’re going without any prior guarantee that he won’t kill you?” Remus asks him, sounding outraged. “Harry!”

But he just shakes his head again. “No, he wouldn’t do anything. He swore on the honour of his House. Plus, I’m more valuable alive to him than dead, after all. The prophecy, remember? I supposedly have the ‘power to vanquish’ him, but that doesn’t mean anything if I don’t want to do any vanquishing.”

There’s dead silence to that proclamation.

“That’s… that’s what the prophecy says?” Remus asks faintly. “We know there is one, but not… not anything of what it says. Dumbledore told James and Lily what it was, but neither of us were ever told.”

“It’s not the entire thing,” Harry admits readily. “T- Voldemort only knows the first few lines. Which is why I took the complete prophecy from the Department of Mysteries the day of my trial. We both need to hear it.”

All four of them stare at him for a second, before the silence is broken.

Fred wheezes. “That’s why you needed our stuff!”

“What an absolute bloody legend!” George cackles.

“None of the Order noticed,” Sirius says. “We’ve--” he pauses, blinks. “They’ve been keeping watch ever since then. I don’t think any of them have connected the incident in the Atrium to you, though.”

Harry nods. “If Dumbledore knew, he’d already be questioning me. And since no one in the Order knows, Dumbledore doesn’t know.”

“So, when are you going?” Remus asks.

“I’m not sure,” he replies. “That’s why I wanted to call a meeting with the twins, so we could figure out the best time. They know the house better than I do. And,” he continues, turning his head to look towards his godfather and his uncle, “You two know it even better.”

So the five of them hash it out.

There’s a semi-set routine that the inhabitants of Grimmauld Place follow. Molly Weasley rises first in the morning, usually around seven but sometimes a little earlier or later, and makes breakfast. The rest of the residents soon follow, with the majority up by 8 or 8:30. Breakfast takes anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour and thirty minutes. From there, Arthur Weasley leaves to the Burrow to Floo to the Ministry to work. After that, Molly Weasley wrangles all the children into cleaning until it’s time for her to make lunch. After lunch is made and eaten, it’s back to cleaning for a few hours. At about three to four in the afternoon, the children are released to do whatever they wish with the rest of the day until dinner at seven, when Arthur Weasley returns. After that is more free time until Molly Weasley comes around banging on doors at ten to call ‘lights out’ for the night.

During free time, Hermione can usually be found reading or studying; Ron has been catching up with his summer homework for the last few days with no end in sight; and Ginerva usually does gods know what in the room that she shares with Hermione. The twins report giggles floating out of the door at random intervals.

Order members were a little harder to pin down, most floating in and out of the house randomly, Sirius says, but none usually came past dinner. Or, if they did, they stayed down on the main floor and never went up to the bedrooms.

“Whatever way you look at it--”

“--after everyone goes to sleep is the best time.”

“Right?” The two chorus.

“Mm,” Harry hums in assent. “No random Order members, and the ones living here won’t see anything. So that takes the 29th off of the list. If we’re too tired to go to Diagon, they’ll know something is up. I’d say either the night of the 28th or after Diagon on the 30th. I’ll write him and he can say which is better.”

Harry absentmindedly brings out the writing kit from his pocket and unshrinks it with a flick of his wrist, completely missing the agog looks from Sirius and Remus.

He scrawls out the letter, making a mental note to burn the draft in his room, before drying it with a flick of his fingers and folding it in half.

“Tippy!”

The house elf pops into the room, eyeing Sirius and Remus. “What can Tippy be doing for Master’s Mister Harry?”

“Another note for him, please,” he says, holding it out to her. “Thank you, Tippy.”

“Right away, sir!” She smiles at him, large ears flopping as she dips into a bashful bow, before popping away.

He looks up after re-shrinking his kit and stowing it in his expanded pocket only to meet the shocked expressions of the two adults in his room.

“Damn, Pup!” Sirius exclaims, breaking the silence first. “I know you said you got good at wandless healing magic, but that was wandless and wordless magic!”

“It’s really rare, Cub,” Remus cuts in.

“It’s not all he can do,” George breaks in, bragging on Harry’s behalf. “Check the room!”

“The door,” Fred clarifies with a sh*te eating grin.

“He put up a wandless and wordless imperturbabilis?” Remus asks rhetorically, waving his wand with a flabbergasted look on his face. “And a colloportus to lock the door. And a vox ligare, which is…” He trails off, brows furrowing slightly.

Of course, Harry had just told them that he wasn’t quite Light, but maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet?

“Vox ligare?” Fred questions, his tone far too innocent to be up to anything good.

“Dark privacy spell,” Sirius supplies. “Not much reason behind the Ministry marking it Dark, other than it’s a direct translation from Latin.”

“Well, that and it binds any unauthorised listeners’ tongues when they try to talk about the information that they learned, literally,” Remus grumbles.

“Wicked, Har,” Fred grins. “Where’d you learn it?”

“Actually,” Remus cuts in, “I’d like to know that too.”

“Well, remember my second year? With the whole… Heir of Slytherin opening the Chamber of Secrets thing?” He cuts a look towards Sirius and Remus, since the twins most definitely knew.

“The Chamber of Secrets?” Sirius asks. “Isn’t that just a myth?”

George snorts derisively. “Like hell.”

“People were getting petrified left and right--”

“--and Gin got possessed by a remnant of Lord Moldyvort,” he finishes, a scowl matching his twin’s on his face.

“The Chamber is real,” Harry sums up. “And the weapon in the Chamber was a massive basilisk. Massive, probably sixty, seventy foot long, fangs as long as my forearm. Didn’t feel pleasant, either, but I stabbed her back,” he snorts, pointing towards his still bare upper right arm.

The adults zero in on the still slightly puckered, circular puncture scar, their eyes widening.

“Pup,” Sirius begins pleasantly, evenly, if not a bit faintly. “Are you telling me that you not only killed a basilisk when you were twelve, it bit you?” His pitch climbs with every word, ending in a high squeak somewhere around ‘bit’.

“Fawkes cried on me after, so I’m fine,” he dismisses. “And parselmouths have a resistance to snake venom regardless. Anyway, it’s not called the Chamber of Secrets for nothing-- I found Salazar Slytherin’s personal library last year and learned a lot.”

Remus looks torn between continuing to hound him about being bitten by the King of Serpents and asking about the library. Secret Ravenclaw, Harry thinks fondly.

His eyes are still solid amber, though, so he quickly changes the subject before Remus can make up his mind.

“There were quite a few books on Dark Arts down there, but I just mostly memorised them and didn’t try much of anything out. I was more interested in the parselmagic books.” He grins. He loves magic. “It’s a branch of magic that’s basically dead now in Britain because there’s literally only two parselmouths in the entire country, so no one really cares about it. Or, well, they do but there’s no laws against it. Again, probably because there’s literally only two of us.”

The twins’ eyes sparkle and Harry grins.

“I assume you want a demonstration?”

They nod violently and even Sirius and Remus look interested.

He concentrates on his magic, bringing up the snake tongue. “Sāpa jyōta nr̥tya,” he hisses, flicking his fingers up, splaying them, palm facing him.

A small flicker of flame lights at the tip of his fingers and he watches as it shapes itself into a small snake, letting the thing wind between his fingers and curl around his wrist. Even though it’s made out of flame, heat never once touches his skin. Of course, if he set it loose on something, it would light it up in an instant.

“Wow,” Remus breathes softly, awed.

“It’s beautiful,” George admits.

“It’s a simple one. I found it in what’s basically a ‘Parselmagic for Beginners’ book,” he explains, twisting his hand over as the little fire snake continues to crawl around. “It’s an Indian spell. The incantation is in a modern language, Gujarati, but Indian languages usually work better because the script is similar to parselscript.”

He splays his fingers again, palm up, and the little snake climbs straight up in the air from the centre of his palm and winks out.

Remus opens his mouth to ask something, but a soft pop draws the attention of everyone in the room.

“Master sends a letter for Master’s Mister Harry,” she says, holding the standard sealed envelope to him.

“Thank you, Tippy.”

Harry,

Remus Lupin I can understand, as he is a Dark creature-- I have the allegiance of several werewolf packs. But Sirius Black? All I can say is well done, I suppose. You consistently achieve the impossible.

Also, Pettigrew is expendable. Either an ‘accident’ can be arranged, or we can wait until we are ready to visibly be seen together. I assume you would prefer the former for expediency.

“He’s surprised you’d come over, Pads,” Harry says, very valiantly fighting a blush by drowning his pleased reaction in the sink in his mind.

It’s a reasonable and common reaction to Tom Marvolo Riddle, Mr. Twelve-O-NEWTs, praising anyone he tells himself.

Sirius just grumbles. “I’m not that predictable.”

Remus snorts.

Eleven p.m. on August the 30th is acceptable to me. Call Tippy to you when the time comes. She will be informed beforehand of her duties. You may bring Lupin and Black as well, if you wish. I would recommend fidelity oaths from yours as well as any nondisclosure secrecy oaths they have sworn thus far. Perhaps a vassalage oath that includes a Mark like that which binds and adorns mine?

“‘Adorns,’” Harry snorts. “Pads, Moony, the two of you can come too, if you want.”

“Really?” Sirius asks. “He’s letting us come along as well?”

“I did tell you he’s serious,” Harry shrugs. “He’s warning me to get fidelity oaths from you guys at some point, though, probably shortly before or after the meeting. I doubt you want any sort of Mark from me, though.”

The twins hum thoughtfully as Harry turns back to the letter. He can deal with that in a moment.

I will draft the required Vow, and yes, you will be able to edit as you wish-- within reason. This is supposed to be an equal partnership, after all.

“He’s calling me his equal again,” Harry notes aloud over the twins’ sidebar about where they’d like to be marked and what it should look like, the rapid-fire exchange quickly devolving into jokes and barbs. “Makes my chances better.”

Also-- Vow? He would swear Harry a legitimate Unbreakable Vow? That didn’t quite fit into what Harry knows of the man, but like hell he’s going to turn it down.

I will have one other with me, as a Binder for the Vow, and no one else. It will be Theodorus Nott, one of my oldest friends and my first Death Eater. He is trustworthy. His son, Theodore Nott, is in your year at Hogwarts.

Regards,

Tom

“What do you know about Theodorus Nott?” Harry asks Sirius and Remus.

“He’s a Death Eater,” Sirius says immediately, and then his nose scrunches up. “Wait, that was obvious.”

Remus laughs softly at Sirius’ antics. “He’s extremely smart. He’s currently the sitting Lord Nott in the Wizengamot. His voting record is surprisingly moderate, especially for an old Dark pureblood house. His uncle, Cantankerous Nott, wrote The Sacred 28: A Legacy of Blood, but Theodorus seems to have not adopted the same fanaticism, even if he still holds at least some pureblood ideals. The Notts in general are big on tradition, and their lineage goes back to old Norse viking clans.”

Sirius grins and reaches around Harry to push lightly at Remus’ shoulder. “There’s my Moony, you walking library, you!”

Harry can’t help the smile that quirks his lips. “Anyway, it’s just going to be To-- Voldemort,” he corrects, internally cursing himself for the slip, “And Theodorus Nott, as the Binder.”

The others just give him an odd look, but none comment on it.

Good. He might have his benefits, but the rest of them certainly do not and Harry emphatically does not want his people at the wrong end of Tom’s wand.

‘His people.’ Morgana, I’m already starting to sound like him more.

To be fair, though, it’d been a great long while since he had to play this particular game so well. Playing people, teasing out what they wanted and then giving it to them in a way that would benefit him. It hadn’t worked so well on the Dursleys, but on nice old librarians and greying proprietors? Easier than breathing. The difficult part was getting a sense of when you’re about to go too far, overreaching and overexposing yourself.

Pretending to be a fool of a Lion hadn’t done him many favours-- well, other than his acting skills at least.

“Har!”

“We want a Mark.”

Harry blinks owlishly up at the twins who’ve taken to crowding close to him. Too close, honestly. He can make out a faint blue fleck fleck in George’s eye that’s not in Fred’s from this close.

At least now I have a physical characteristic to tell them apart.

“Really? Why?”

They shrug.

“Vanity? Prestige?” Fred asks rhetorically.

“A visible mark of our undying love and support,” George counters, shaking his finger at his twin admonishingly.

“Oh, yeah, that too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Sirius perk up at George’s words.

Oh, Merlin. Don’t encourage him.

“I can get behind that!” Sirius is almost bouncing in his seat on the bed.

Aren’t I supposed to be the teenager here?

A faint surge of amusem*nt that courses through him.

“Just don’t make it too Death Eater-y,” Fred jokes.

“No skulls,” George agrees. “Probably can’t sway you from a snake, though, can we?”

“Moony can draw something up!” Sirius pipes in. “He’s a dab hand with a quill. He drew most of the castle on the Map.”

Harry and Remus just share a look. Harry shrugs helplessly and Remus shakes his head in a sort of exasperated way, like ‘what can you do?’

He co*cks his head at the twins and Sirius. “You know a Mark like that comes from a lord-vassal Oath, right?” Harry asks, bemused.

“Undying love and support!” George just repeats enthusiastically, Sirius nodding emphatically.

“Children, all of you,” Harry snorts. “If you want, I suppose. I’ll start researching. Can I have access to the Library, Sirius?”

“You should already as Heir Black, but yeah, good on you for not chancing it. Smart,” Sirius praises, whipping out his wand. “I, Lord Black, Sirius Orion Black the Third, officially grant Heir Black, Harry James Potter, entry to the Black Ancestral Library.”

The tip of his wand flares and Harry can feel the house’s magic ripple, washing through him. He shivers a bit, mouth dropping open in a sigh. It’s old, powerful, Dark Family magic and it soothes him in much the same way that Hogwarts’ magic does.

“Thanks,” Harry says, keenly aware that cannot have just gone unnoticed. Ah, yes. Deflection, my old friend. “I didn’t want my hand rotting away. Nasty curse, that. Agelocked, though, I hope?”

“No, but we were never forbidden from going in there as kids and we automatically had entry because of blood,” Sirius replies, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you even found the room, honestly,” he continues. “It’s hidden itself from Hermione the entire summer. And a good thing, that, too-- she’d have likely blabbed to Molly about it.” He pitches his voice in a fairly good rendition of Molly’s shrill, disapproving tones. “Dark! Horrible Dark books! Oh, woe!”

Sirius snorts, lips curled in a half-smile half-grimace. “I understand getting rid of dangerous Dark artefacts-- I mean, my parents were pieces of work, they had some truly nasty sh*te-- but the Black family library’s been here from the start.” He sighs. “I might not give a toss about blood purity, but I know how much stuff like that means. It was here before me, and it’ll be here after me.”

“Traditions, like the Notts,” Harry summarises. “I can understand, I think. Everything I’ve learned about the Potters in the last year…” he trails off.

Sirius gives him a look, and he’s just opening his mouth to reply when Harry goes ramrod straight and starts to struggle out of the cocooning blankets.

“Kreacher!” The elf pops in. “Take the twins--” he throws a look at them. “Your mum’s coming, where--?”

“Our room,” Fred replies. Both of them are already moving, offering their hands to Kreacher.

A second later, the twins are popping off with Kreacher and Harry’s dispelling his charms and wards as he tugs his shirt on.

He prods Remus’ shoulder, wordlessly urging the man to lay back, before hopping off the bed and sitting down against the far wall.

Just in time, too, because Molly starts to bang at the door.

“Sirius Black!” She barks. “I swear if Harry’s in there--”

“Or what?” Sirius hollers back over her. “Can’t I spend some time with my godson?”

The banging abruptly cuts off and Harry raises a bemused eyebrow. Did she not expect him to truly be in there?

“He’s been here for three days and I’ve barely gotten twenty minutes with him a day! Less!” He continues, making a face at Harry yet keeping his tone just on this side of light whining.

She tries the door handle. “Black, open the door!”

“Why?” And now he’s whining.

Truly, a master. Encore!

The only answer he gets from her, though, is a rude muttered alohom*ora and the door swinging open anyway. Molly barges in with a wide smile. Harry catches her eyes and offers her a small grin.

‘Just what do they think they’re getting up to in here? Not on my watch!’

It’s unfortunate-- for Dumbledore, at least-- that the majority of the Order members have such shoddy Occlumency shields. Molly’s leaking for Merlin’s sake!

Secret society my arse.

“Oh, Harry! I was just worried about you, dear. After those no-good twins’ terrible prank.” She sighs in a put-upon way that reminds Harry far too much of Petunia sniping about Harry himself for him to even pretend to be anything close to understanding.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mrs. Weasley,” he smiles up at her, letting the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I’ve been talking to Uncle Moony-- did you know he can draw?” His little grin spreads into a full beam. “It’s brilliant! He even said he’d draw me something special. ”

Molly fully ignores the little choking sound that Remus makes at that to reply. “I’m so glad you three are getting along so well.”

“Super well,” Harry agrees, keeping that dopey little idiot grin on his face. It’s rather easy because Remus is coughing a bit now and Sirius’ shoulders shake from where he’s leant over Remus, offering him a cup of water. “Oh! I’m sorry. Did you need something with me?”

He’d levered himself halfway to standing, a little frown that pinches his brows on his lips, when Molly flaps her hands, meeting his eyes with a warm, motherly smile. “Not at all, dear!”

‘I don’t know what I was worried about,’ she huffs in the not-so-private privacy of her own mind. ‘Getting as paranoid as old Albus, I suspect.’

“Lunch will be ready in a bit. I know it’s late, but there was just so much to clean up,” she bemoans before patting him on the shoulder and shuffling out the door, muttering about nonsense and idiotic boys and thrice-blasted pranks.

Harry flicks a finger at the open door and it shuts slowly, with a barely audible creak, before softly clicking shut, basic privacy spells springing up the barest second later.

Sirius immediately bursts out laughing, deeper and more joyful than Harry’s ever heard from him before. Remus looks at him, wide eyed and gaping.

“Harry, Pup, that was--” Sirius pauses, just for a second, to grin even wider and laugh again before continuing. “I don’t even have the words!”

He just indelicately brings a shoulder up in a lazy shrug. “Everyone expects me to be someone specific. Far be it from me to deny them of that,” he drawls, voice absolutely dripping with sarcasm.

That takes the wind out of Sirius’ sails, and Harry can see Remus’ expression tighten.

“At first, I just acted for the Dursleys. One of their favourite commands was ‘pretend you don’t exist,’ after all. But then I realised that I could get things from other people if I just acted a certain way: maybe a little extra food from the lunch ladies in primary, or a place to hide out from the old librarians that ran the public library, or useful trade information from old shopkeepers.

“And then Hagrid came along to introduce me to the wizarding world and it was clear that they wanted me to be somebody else, someone innocent and good, wholly committed to fighting the evil of the world,” he says, adding a sneering flourish to the last part. “I’m far too cautious and self-serving to be the brave little Golden Boy that Dumbledore ever wanted and I knew it from the beginning.”

Voldemort sits back in his chair.

That had certainly been… enlightening. He had tuned into Harry’s mind after he had sent the letter with Tippy, in time to see the tail end of his Harry’s parselmagic demonstration. True to what he said, it was only a basic demonstration, but Voldemort himself had not achieved it until he was seventeen. Harry, on the other hand, is merely fifteen.

Truly, if he had not believed in the prophecy before he certainly would by now.

The entire conversation about Harry’s people taking his Mark was amusing, but the thought from Harry that had floated through their soul-bond had caused him to chuckle aloud.

Harry’s magic sense was truly a class above the rest. Voldemort himself was able to sense magic, but mostly types and fluctuations. It was nothing like how the Black family magic had caressed Harry, nothing like how he had felt it. Yet another thing to add to the list of things that are special about Harry James… Potter-Black, evidently.

And his acting… of course, he had an inkling, seeing the boy wreak so much havoc in his dreams and negotiate with Voldemort himself versus how he conducted himself in front of the general public, but the way he could just switch instantly and flawlessly, tone and manner both, was truly something to see, even from behind his own eyes.

To top it all off, the boy was either a natural or very accomplished Legilimens.

Quite the catch.

The further revelations about his muggle relatives, however…

“I will kill them,” Voldemort says aloud to the room, as casually as one discussing the weather. “Slowly and painfully.”

“Plotting demises again, are we, my friend?”

Voldemort turns to the door with an answering smirk on his face. “Of course, Theodorus. What else shall I do with my leisure time?”

His oldest friend comes in and closes the door, gently depositing a crystal cut decanter of what is most definitely whisky on his desk.

“I must admit that I was surprised to receive your summons,” Theodorus says, settling down on a chair of his own.

“My apologies for drawing you from your retirement,” he returns smoothly.

Theodorus cracks a smile at that. “It is good to see you again, Marvolo. You, wholly.”

That is as far as Theodorus would go in allusions to his sanity-- or the lack thereof.

“Yes,” Voldemort sighs. “There was a mistake that cost me-- us, the Dark-- much. Too much. But, enough of that. Let us get to why I asked you here in the first place.” At Theodorus’ nod, he continues. “First, I must swear you to secrecy.”

He raises a hand to stall protests.

“It is not that I do not trust you, Theodorus-- it is for another’s safety.”

That seems to adequately pique his interest, and he allows himself to be summarily sworn to secrecy.

Voldemort leans back in his chair, lacing his long fingers together, allowing a smirk to creep over his face.

“Harry Potter is now on our side.”

Theodorus blinks once, and then again. “Marvolo,” he starts. “I-- truly? How?”

Voldemort’s smirk deepens. “Let us just say that the boy the world knows does not truly exist. It is all an act and he is more than sympathetic to our cause.”

His smirk falters a little. “Mostly. When we originally conversed, however, he made a good point. Muggles are getting progressively more dangerous. Perhaps, if we had won fifteen years ago we might have been able to manage the subjugation of them, but as they are now? Not likely.”

“And he was the one to bring it up to you?” Theodorus questions.

“Indeed.”

Theodorus inclines his head to him. “Then the boy is undoubtedly intelligent, with a good head on his shoulders to match. Even if there was a question as to the veracity of his statements, convincing you of just about anything deserves some kind of accolade.”

Voldemort just shakes his head, barely resisting rolling his eyes.

“Quite,” he replies drily. “If we could get on with it? I require your assistance with drafting a Vow between the two of us, with the goal of non-aggression and mutual aid.”

“Mutual? Is he not to be in your Inner Circle, Marvolo?”

“Above, if I am to be honest.” He takes a moment to relish the clear shock on his friend’s face, breaking through his impeccable pureblood-trained mask. “Harry is not only an immensely powerful wizard in his own right, even at the age of fifteen, but… he is also my horcrux.”

At this, horror overtakes Theodorus’ features. “A horcrux?” He exhales harshly. “Marvolo, my friend…”

Voldemort smiles ruefully. “Multiple,” he reveals. “Harry Potter was the last of them, accidentally made from a ravaged soul. As previously stated, a mistake, and a grave one at that. And, quite ironically, Harry Potter was the one to help me regain my sanity through the destruction of my first one in his second year.”

Theodorus swallows. Undoubtedly, the man knew that the only reason Voldemort was telling him anything was because of the secrecy oath.

“With what little we know of the prophecy, I must admit that I believe it to be in some way directly self-fulfilling, more so than others,” Voldemort admits. “It states that a child will have the power to vanquish me-- however, if I had not gone to the Potter residence that night, I would not have created a human horcrux. A vulnerability.”

Theodorus nods sagely. “Indeed. Marvolo, I must ask, are you planning on re-integrating more horcruxes? Your sanity has improved by tenfold, but it is dangerous to have more than three.”

Voldemort co*cks his head. Of course, he knows that he has more of his mental faculties in hand-- had it been fifteen years prior, right before his demise, he would have cursed the man in front of him for speaking in such a way, old friend or not. But the information that it is dangerous to have more than three? What did Dorus know that Voldemort himself does not?

“You have books on horcruxes?” He asks instead.

“I do. Blár!”

A house elf dressed in a charcoal grey toga-like cloth with a silver stitched crest over it’s breast pops in.

“Master Theodorus is calling Blár?”

“Retrieve all the books I have that contain the topic of horcruxes from the Family library and my personal library,” he orders.

The elf pops away with a bow.

“I have three books total,” Theodorus informs him. “None are solely on the topic of horcruxes, and each contains slightly different information.”

The elf pops back in and gently deposits the massive tomes on Voldemort’s desk before bowing. “Is there anything else Blár may be doing for Master Theodorus?”

“No, that will be all,” he dismisses the elf who just bows again and pops away.

“Much appreciated,” Voldemort says, gently relocating the old, precious books to the far side of his desk. “Now, let us get on with the wording of the Vow.”

Chapter 5: Kismet

Chapter Text

“Muuuuuuum!”

Ginevra Weasley's whining was not what Harry wanted to hear this early in the morning.

“Dear, I told you, we have to go early, otherwise it’s not safe!”

Molly bustles along, hands darting out to fix everyone’s clothing the best that she can… despite the fact that they’re all about to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron and mess it up once more.

Ron was remarkably awake for the hour, but that might be because he was excited to get his new broom for being made a Prefect.

Both Ron and Hermione had been extraordinarily surprised that Ron got picked and not Harry, for some reason. Needless to say, it was both confusing and disappointing. Even his Golden Boy persona at least disliked attention, so he wasn’t quite sure what they were on, thinking that.

Besides, it was obvious that he wouldn’t be chosen; Dumbledore needed to do something to sweeten the pot for Ron, after all.

Prefect, Quidditch Captain, Head Boy, pro Quidditch player, in that order. His desires are appropriately narrow minded for an idiot Gryffindor and similarly easy to manipulate for a certain dedicated old meddler.

Harry gives the twins a wink before stepping into the flames, tossing his handful of Floo powder and calling out a name of an establishment that is decidedly not the Leaky Cauldron. Sirius watches on worriedly.

They’d decided that today would be the only time he would realistically get to go to Gringotts, and since he’s known for being notoriously bad at traversing the Floo network, well…

Harry strides smoothly out of the small pub Floo, not a stumble in sight, his small glamour charm giving him the anonymity that he needs for his errand.

He slips out of Knockturn and into Diagon proper, keeping an eye out for any redheads.

True to Molly’s words, it was emptier than normal but in no way completely vacant. Harry slips behind a group of what looks like tourists until he’s near enough to the entrance of the massive white marble edifice to break away without scrutiny.

He gives a strong nod to the goblins guarding the entrance as he climbs the steps, holding back his smile at their visible surprise.

Had he known the proper goblin customs at eleven when he first came, he would have stuck to them. It makes no sense to him to aggravate the warrior species that had their hands in every monetary exchange in the wizarding world and provided nearly any service one could ask for besides.

That reminds me… what are Tom’s plans for creatures? I need to ask.

Werewolves, he muses, situating himself in a line for a teller, are a little obvious. Tom already has several packs under his banner, so to speak, so he assumes that they will be getting what they want from the arrangement.

The rest? Hell if he knows. And that is decidedly not ideal.

The line moves more quickly than Harry would have expected, and he’s soon faced with a teller-- Rockhewn, according to his nameplate. Of course, it’s written in Zemryzyk, the goblin language, so it really narrows down the crop of people who are able to address them directly-- which was a large part of the way to respectfully address someone of the goblin race.

“I require an inheritance test with the Potter account managers,” Harry states, eyes locked on the goblin’s.

Curtness, almost to the point of rudeness, is what is expected in the realm of politeness in the goblin society. Wizards almost always tried sucking up to the goblins or were outright and overtly rude and condescending and neither would work. The first would be chock-full of time-wasting flowery words and the second?

Well, fools they would be to try and demean the only non-human race to have carved an empire for themselves outside of overwhelming wix control.

The goblin looks away first, eyes flicking up to his fringe, before locking eyes with him once more. Harry allows a small quirk of his lips before allowing part of the parselmagic glamour to fade for the goblin’s eyes only, revealing the scar and his green eyes.

Rockhewn straightens up and gives him a nod.

“Shieldcrush will escort you to Goldtooth, the Potter manager’s office.”

“Thank you, Teller Rockhewn,” he says with a nod. “May your coffers never empty.”

A snaggle-tooth grin spreads over the goblin’s face. “It was my pleasure, Heir Potter. And may your enemies fall by your hand.”

Harry gives his own toothy grin right back, turning to the guard goblin, Shieldcrush, who had come to escort him.

It shouldn’t be so interesting that he gives me a warrior’s blessing, yet still…

He gives the same respectful nod to the guard, Shieldcrush, as he swings open the door for Harry, who allows the rest of the glamour to bleed away as the guard gives him a nod back and turns smartly on his heel to return to his post.

“Heir Potter.”

Harry looks up to see an old goblin staring at him, eyes in slits.

What have I done now?

“We’ve been trying to contact you for quite some time.”

Harry nods slowly, the incline of his head deeper than any he’s given today. “My apologies, but I have not received a single letter from Gringotts since I became aware I was a wizard at eleven.”

Goldtooth’s eyes widen. “Not a single letter?”

Harry shakes his head, moving to the seat in front of the desk and sinking down into it with as much grace as he can muster, being underfed and gangly as he is. “Not a single letter. In fact, the only mail I’ve ever received has been from Hogwarts and my direct friends, the latter mostly via my own familiar.”

“It sounds like you have an illegal mail ward, young Heir,” Goldtooth rumbles. “To interfere with official Gringotts mail is against both wizard and goblin law.”

“Even if the person in question doing the interfering is the ward’s magical guardian?” Harry asks.

Goldtooth nods. “Even then. Especially then. You mean to say that your magical guardian is keeping your mail from you?”

Harry can’t quite help the snort that worms its way out of him. “That’s not all he’s doing,” he mutters a bit bitterly. “And I’m not even sure that he’s legally my guardian, either. It should come up on the inheritance test, though, correct?”

“Indeed,” he grunts, still more than likely very angry on Harry’s behalf-- or, not so much Harry’s behalf and more so angry about wizard interference in Gringotts’ business. He plunks down a small, rectangular box and withdraws a tightly rolled scroll and another thin, rectangular box. “Five sickles, to be taken from your vault.”

Harry nods.

“Write your name at the top of the parchment,” he orders, clicking his fingers to unroll the scroll, pushing the second, opened box towards Harry.

He picks up the pitch black quill. Its magic feels… stabby, for lack of a better word, like small pinpricks wherever he’s touching it.

Harry James Potter, he writes at the very top, not even faltering for a second at the flash of pain on the back of his hand.

Goldtooth gives him a faintly impressed nod as he sets the quill-- a blood quill, he thinks, illegal in the wizarding British Isles-- down back in the box.

Harry watches with interest as his script starts to waver and twitch before sweeping down the rest of the page, filling it with words.

Harrison James Potter

Harrison?

True, he did question why exactly his name didn’t follow the normal wix guidelines, but he’d marked it down to his mother’s influence, or even perhaps just because his father was similarly simply named James.

But, as he can see, he was wrong-- on multiple counts.

Born 31 July 1980, Godric's Hollow, West Country, England, Great Britain

Father: Jacobus Charlus Potter, Lord Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981

Mother: Lily Janine Potter née Evans, Lady Consort Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981

Godsfather: Sirius Orion Black III, Lord Black

Godsmother: Alice Ophelia Longbottom née Fortescue, Lady Longbottom

Harry blinks. He has a godmother? And his godmother is Neville’s mother? He wonders if Neville knows.

Titles, he reads next, then frowns, glancing back up to the top of the page.

“There’s no mention of a magical guardian,” Harry remarks. “Nor any other, and I’ve lived with muggle relatives my entire life.”

Goldtooth hums, steepling his fingers. “That is interesting. For any that have not reached their majority, the section would remain, even empty if none were legally assigned. For a fifteen year old to be missing the section would mean that you’ve been emancipated somehow-- a process, I must admit, that is not one often undertaken without the child’s knowledge, nor Gringotts’.”

Harry’s brow furrows at that. “Is there… what are the ways that someone could become emancipated?” The only special thing that had happened to him in the last few years was entering Hogwarts, which obviously didn’t count, and--

He inhales sharply and Goldtooth stops talking, instead looking at him with an expectant gaze.

“Would... entrance into the Triwizard Tournament through... a magically binding contract do it?” Harry asks slowly. It seemed like a ridiculous idea, but there was truly nothing else that he could think of. “The rest of the champions were all legally adults, and the entire tournament was set up for legal adults, so…”

“I would not know without looking at the contract, but yes, if that is the only thing that occurs to you, Heir Potter, then that is most likely it. Again, to be emancipated in such a way that even Magic knows is not an unobtrusive or undetected process.”

He breathes out a puff of air, wanting nothing more than to slump back in the chair but refraining from doing so.

“So I’m emancipated. For all intents and purposes, I can operate like a legal adult?” Harry asks.

Goldtooth nods. “Yes. You would be able to accept your Lordships, sit your Wizengamot seats, and manage your estates-- along with all the various and sundry things that would usually come with turning seventeen and having no standing Lord to your House. And, of course, practice magic outside of school and legally apparate.”

Politics, Harry thinks, keeping a slow, curling smile from his face. While he may not quite love it in the way that some do, he very much likes it and recognizes both the necessity of and his own suitability to such a thing.

“Of course. May I finish reading?” At the incline of Goldtooth’s head, Harry turns back to the parchment.

Titles, he continues to read.

Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black

Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble Magisterial House of Slytherin

Harry blinks. Slytherin? He has to suppress a bubble of laughter. He’s actually the Heir of Slytherin. All through his second year, he’d denied it, but here it is, plain on the paper. The Lord, of course, would probably be Tom.

He shakes the swirling thoughts as to the how of the situation from his head, reasoning that he could simply ask the man himself later, and continues to read.

Lord to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Potter

Lord to the Most Ancient and Noble Esteemed House of Peverell

Lord to the Most Ancient and Most Noble Imperial House of Emrys

The rest of the paper starts detailing specific vaults and then properties attached to the vaults but Harry doesn’t read through it, still stuck on his last title.

Emrys. Emrys... Merlin? Is he a descendant of Merlin?

How?!

“Are there… any genealogy services that Gringotts offers, Manager Goldtooth?” Harry asks, tone remarkably even, looking back up at the goblin. “There is a title I am a little… taken aback at, and would like to search for an answer.”

Goldtooth’s brow shoots up in askance, but he nods even as Harry starts to slide the test over in a wordless answer.

“Yes. We offer a service to reveal one’s family tree going back fourteen generations,” he responds, tugging the parchment to him. “One galleon.”

“I’m sure you’ll agree to the necessity if you look to the last title,” Harry laughs humorlessly.

Goldtooth clicks his teeth, eyes flicking up to meet Harry’s. “Lord Potter--” He stops and shakes his head. “No one has claimed the Emrys Lordship for hundreds of years, nor any of the Founders’ Lordships. All posthumously made Lords, of course, their descendants reaping the benefits after the conception of the Wizengamot,” he adds.

He takes another parchment from his desk, as well as a small bowl, a pouch, and a small, silver knife.

“Seven drops of blood in the bowl,” he orders, pinning the larger parchment back with crystal foci.

Harry slices his palm, still reeling. Of course he realised before that being able to sense magic, especially at the level that he could, wasn’t a thing that just any wix could do, but could the extent of his abilities come from his famous mage ancestor?

He allows seven red drops to drip into the bowl before wandlessly and wordlessly healing his hand and vanishing all remnants from the knife.

Goldtooth gives him yet another approving nod before sprinkling three pinches of whatever mixture is in the pouch into the bowl and stirring it with a rod he’s retrieved from thin air.

“Pour the contents onto the centre of the parchment, hold your hand over it, and say sanguinem revelio.”

He does as he’s bid and watches the blood mixture leech out across the paper much in the same way that his inheritance test did.

His eyes trace up the tree from his name-- James and Lily, his parents. Charlus Potter and Dorea Potter née Black are his paternal grandparents, and Raymond Otis Evans and Violet Grace Evans née Lavin are his maternal grandparents.

He keeps tracing his father’s side, but aside from a staggering number of other Sacred 28 or just old wix names that he finds-- Black and Peverell, to start with, but also Lestrange, Abbot, and Travers, all marrying into the Potter name-- there’s no mention of Emrys.

His mother’s side contains no man or woman with Emrys as a maiden name-- even though he recognizes a wix name, Gaunt, from the Sacred 28 marrying in seven generations ago, most likely as a squib who escaped being murdered for it-- and he’s about to admit defeat, but then he notices something strange on the male line of all things.

The male line has always borne the name Evans, but ten generations ago, there was one abnormality: an Emrys, with the next generation continuing to be called Evans. Adopted in, perhaps?

“Emrys… came from my mother’s side,” he says aloud. “I wonder if all muggle-born genealogies look like this, with a… Well, it couldn’t have been a wizard. I wonder if Ambrose Oxwaltan Emrys was a squib.”

He shakes his head sharply, reminiscent of Padfoot. “Please, ignore my conjecture. What else should I do today, Manager Goldtooth?”

“Accept your rings,” he replies, pulling out yet another box and pushing it in front of Harry. “Lay your hand on the box and call to them with your magic. I assume I do not have to explain how to do so to you.”

Harry lets a smile tug at his lips as he nudges the magic under his skin into the box, searching. The wood warms beneath his touch, the gilded edges flashing.

He pulls his hand away and Goldtooth opens the case to reveal five rings, two a touch smaller than the rest.

Harry can immediately pick out the Slytherin Heir ring among them, a thin silver band etched with a snake, its maw stretched wide as if to swallow the deep green emerald set in the middle.

The other smaller one is obviously the Black Heir ring. The band is a burnished bronze, with a deep black stone that looks like it contains a star.

“We’ll start with your Heirships,” Goldtooth says. “Start with your little finger on either hand.”

Harry picks up the Slytherin band. It’s cold to the touch, and it’s magic reminds him of a snake’s scales but also of a snake’s inquisitive and cautious nature, poking its nose into things and constantly scenting the air.

“The Family magic will judge your claim. If it finds you wanting…” Goldtooth trails off, a nasty grin on his face.

Harry smiles right back, like for like, and slips the ring onto his left pinky finger.

He can feel the magic mingling with his own-- seeking, judging.

The engraved snake twitches and peels it’s head off the ring before hissing at him. “Heir Slytherin. Your claim is heard and accepted.”

“Many thanks, little guardian,” he hisses back.

The little snake just laughs, a crooning ki-ki-ki sound that Harry finds he rather likes, before sinking back into the ring with a gentle wave of magic that feels so familiar yet not, the ring resizing to fit his finger perfectly.

Ah. It feels like Hogwarts. Just… not all of it.

Goldtooth just watches him with a probing gaze. “The Black Heirship next, if you please, on your other little finger.”

He reaches towards the bronze ring, the magic already singing to him. The one good thing about staying in Grimmauld Place the past week or so is that he’s already very well acquainted with the Black family magic and it with him.

He slips this one onto his right pinky as he’s bid and the familiar Black magic rushes into him, dancing through his veins with a vigour like birds playing in the air. The star in the stone pulses once, twice, before a deeper wave rushes through him, the same as the Slytherin ring.

“Your Lordship rings next, young Lord. Start on either index finger and go outwards.”

He slides the Potter ring on next, onto his right index finger. It’s an understated blood red carnelian, he guesses, on a gold band engraved with curling laurel leaves. The magic is warm and he gets a feeling of a crafter’s hands from it-- something caressing and encouraging. The laurel leaves wave slightly as if caught in a breeze as the Family magic rushes through him.

Goldtooth’s voice breaks his reverie, stopping him just before he lays hands on the next ring. “The next ring you were reaching for is the Peverell ring. According to your family tree, you are descended from the youngest of three Peverell brothers, Ignotius Peverell, through one of the man’s descendants, Iolanthe Peverell.

“The original Lord, Antioch, passed the mantle onto the middle brother, Cadmus, not caring for the responsibilities that came with the title. However, Cadmus died with the Family ring hidden and no search, goblin, wix, or otherwise, could reveal the ring’s location. Ignotius was unable to find it, and thus commissioned the one you see before you when he took his place as Lord Peverell.”

Harry nods, plucking the ring out of the velvet depression.

The stone is similar to the Potter ring, just a deeper red closer to blood, directly engraved with a symbol of a line inside a triangle inside a circle, the lines inlaid with a contrasting grey against the red. It’s cold, colder than what should be possible from merely picking up the room’s temperature. He realises it’s that the magic itself is cold in the next beat, but… it’s comforting, somehow. Like a blanket. Something inevitable, but welcoming.

It’s the same feeling that he gets from his dad’s cloak, he realises. Just fainter. And less… complete? There’s a definite difference between the two, but he can’t put his finger on what exactly it is.

...that will have to be figured out at a later date, he thinks, firmly shelving the information away between Petunia’s cookbooks in the kitchen in his mind before slipping the ring onto his left index finger.

The comforting feeling swells, the bitter cold easing as it rushes through him.

When he exhales, he can see a puff of his breath. It dissipates quickly in the warmer room, quickly enough that he might have called it a trick of the light or something but for the magic he could also see in it.

Finally, he gets to the Emrys ring. It is, by far, the plainest ring of the lot and just barely bigger than the heir rings. The band is gold and the green stone is tiny, about the size of a pea. The colour looks rather like his eyes, he realises belatedly as he examines it.

He reaches for it tentatively and the moment his finger brushes against it, sparks fly-- literally. A small shower of white sparks bursts from the contact point between the two, but Harry doesn’t pull away.

It’s exhilarating. It almost feels like when he touched his wand for the first time. The magic flows into him, lighting up every nook and cranny of his body, all the way from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It feels like wide open air and freedom.

When he slips it on his left middle finger, the feeling explodes tenfold before receding, leaving a smile on his face.

It takes him a few minutes to reorient himself after having so many different magics rushing through him and becoming part of him. Even now, he can feel the different Family magics in the rings. It’s distracting, but the feelings and meanings meld together in a way that he thinks shouldn’t work as well as it does.

“All the rings are goblin made, young Lord,” Goldtooth interjects into his semi-trance. Harry blinks, still slightly disoriented, but nods. “If you so wish, you can will each type, Heir and Lord, to come together under one ring.”

Harry stares at the Emrys band, imagining the other Lordship rings disappearing. After a few seconds, they do, leaving just the one slim ring on his middle finger.

I love magic.

He focuses on doing the opposite, watching the Lordship rings reappear on his fingers, before doing it again but with the Potter and Black rings, leaving behind two of the five.

“Is there anything else that I must do today, Manager Goldtooth?” Harry asks.

“Three things. All are more recommendations rather than requirements. Firstly, I would recommend that you buy a money pouch. It connects to a certain vault, so you may limit your visits to Gringotts. It comes part and parcel with a bank card. Three galleons.”

At Harry’s nod, Goldtooth puts a black dragonhide pouch with gold clasps in front of him. Harry pulls it closer to him, but doesn’t do anything with it just yet.

“In addition, I would recommend purchasing a postbox from us as well.” Goldtooth pulls out yet another box, this time spinning around in his chair to retrieve it from a low cabinet behind him. “It will allow Gringotts to directly send you mail and the reverse, as well as any others who send the mail first to Gringotts. Seven galleons now, with a subscription fee of seven sickles a month.”

Harry nods. “Take it from…” he frowns. “Whatever vault has the most in it. I want a rundown of every vault I own as well, please, and take the fee from the same place.”

Goldtooth cackles. Evidently, that was the right thing to say. “Very well, young Lord. An audit of your vaults was what I was going to next suggest.” He slides the box over and Harry automatically takes it. “Add a small amount of blood to the stones on the pouch and lid of the box and it will link to your vaults and the Gringotts postbox network respectively.”

WIth a small effort of will, he opens up a slit on the tip of his right index finger with a wandless, wordless, and very, very underpowered diffindo and smears the welling crimson on the stones.

The small fingernail sized stone set into the money pouch clasp glows softly. The box flashes three times before going dark, but Harry can feel the way his magic is in both of them now, meshing with the enchantments that are slowly starting to wake.

“Does it connect only to Gringotts, or can it connect to other boxes on the network?” Harry asks, intrigued, running his-- now healed-- fingers over the lid, feeling the magic. It’s intricate, almost alien in some places. But that’s probably because it’s not wix magic.

“You are correct. On the bottom of every Gringotts postbox is a serial number. Simply write the number on a scrap of parchment and toss it in before sending a letter. Or, in the case of official Gringotts correspondence, write the serial number in the corresponding section on the forms.”

Goldtooth stands as Harry does.

“Thank you for your help today, Manager Goldtooth. Oh, and before I forget-- would you assume the position as manager for all my estates? For a fee, if needed. And if not, consider, perhaps, a thousand galleons as a gesture of goodwill and thanks.”

Goldtooth gives him a broad, toothy grin and offers him a short bow, to Harry’s surprise. “It would be my honour, young Lord.”

“Thank you again,” Harry says, slipping the box into his expanded pocket. “May your investments bring great yields.”

“And may your gold flow as your enemies’ blood does, young Lord.”

Harry slaps a wandless and wordless notice-me-not onto his two visible rings as he exits the bank, his glamour snapping back up as well. That kind of magic is old hat to him, easy as breathing.

For some reason, it’s even easier now.

His fingers flex as he walks down the stairs.

Obviously. Family magics were powerful and unique, and he now had several old, old Family magics as a part of him.

Merlin.

He snorts at the expletive. Merlin, indeed. And wasn’t that a surprise?

He assumed that he’d have two titles at most, maybe one more if he fulfilled the magic’s requirements for a new Family Head. The Potter family was plenty old and probably at least a little inbred as is idiot pureblood custom, and with the previous war, there were plenty of unseated Houses. But five total? And one from his ostensibly muggleborn mother?

Circe.

Well, he could have technically collapsed Peverell into Potter, because it was the siring line of the name-- or the reverse, Potter being, in turn, the child line of the name-- but it seemed a little sacrilegious to just wantonly destroy a whole name and history like that.

But, small crises aside, he’s completed his errand.

Now, all he has to do is stumble back into the Leaky and play the idiot Golden Boy. Easy.

He hadn’t been in Gringotts for too long, and besides, the last time he got lost he was gone longer. And he was barely a second year then.

To be fair, though, it would probably be harder now since ole Tommy boy was back and ostensibly still committed to hunting him down and murdering him, but some reckless stupidity was expected of his persona.

Yeah, Harry winces as Molly screeches at him, hands on his shoulders, I should have seen this coming.

“Harry! We were so worried! Never do that again, young man, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry says, affecting a despondent air. “I choked on the ash and then I was somewhere I didn’t know.”

“You should have Flooed back to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry,” Hermione pipes up, looking cross. “Once you arrived wherever you went, you should have asked for Floo powder.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles, looking down at his and Molly’s shoes, the latter still so close to him that he could probably try and divine what she ate for her last meal by studying her tonsils. “That sounds smart, Hermione.”

She just sniffs and packs her book away.

It’s decidedly not a smart solution. If he had, like in his second year, ended up in a Knockturn shop, he’d most likely be attacked. One does not simply stroll up to, say, the hag proprietor of the questionable meat shop and ask kindly for a pinch of Floo, even if said teenager is too skinny for their tastes.

Shopping is similarly dreadful. Molly presses the usual fifty galleons in his hand and smiles at him. He slips it to Fred and George when everyone else’s backs are turned and clicks open his money pouch in his pocket.

It’s a fine line he dances the entire morning between getting everything that he needs and keeping the ‘extraneous’ purchases from Molly’s notice but he manages it. Somehow.

He’s already through the introductory and intermediate level ancient runes books that he bought earlier in the summer and he just barely manages to slip in the advanced and beyond books among the rest of his course books and pay for it without notice. Dumbledore always ‘gave him’ the exact amount he would need for his supplies for the school year-- nothing less, nothing more.

Cheating bastard. How did he even get the money this year? I’m emancipated from the bloody tournament that he forced me to compete in. He shouldn’t have had access to any of my accounts.

Perhaps the goblins would know. They don’t take well to theft.

The thought is more than enough to make him grin savagely, but he keeps it hidden.

“Mate,” Ron says from his elbow mere seconds after the last book is put into a brown shopping bag, his own impending purchases in hand. “Have you seen the Defence textbook for this year? It sounds awful.”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione huffs, elbowing past the redhead and dumping down an armful of books onto the shopkeeper’s table. “Just because it sounds difficult doesn’t mean it’s going to be awful. For all you know, we’ll have a decent Defence professor this year.”

Outwardly, Harry nods along, grinning. Inwardly, Harry groans. Saying something like that was bound to curse them. First year was Tom himself parasitically implanted in the worst fake stutterer he’d ever seen; second year was the greatest goose to ever quack; third year Remus was nice but then almost ate them at the end; and then fourth year was a half-insane auror that turned out to be a half-insane literal Death Eater under Polyjuice the entire year.

Yeah, that would curse them.

At approximately 10.55 p.m. later that night, once Ron is snoring away, Harry calls Kreacher to him. He’s dressed in a fine, well-fitting robe that he owl ordered from Twilfit and Tattings, a deep shimmering black embroidered with silver and gold though bare of any House crests.

No way was he going to try to reconcile all his Houses’ colours, especially not the Potter and Peverell and Slytherin ones-- he didn’t fancy looking like a muggle Christmas decoration, thank you very much.

He pops into Sirius’ room (which, honestly, is really Remus’ as well) before sending Kreacher to pick up the twins. No sense in them apparating if they could use the much more discrete method via elf. Both men are similarly dressed in proper wix attire, both wearing House Black colours and crests. Harry’s eyes alight on a ring on Remus’ right ring finger and he smiles.

Fred and George are the last to come, and both are also dressed properly in the Prewitt colours of royal purple, red, and gold, with the Prewitt crest embroidered on the left breast. They’d had an interesting talk with their aunt, Muriel Prewitt, and realised the the two of them by virtue of being twins have a greater claim to the Prewitt Lordship, more than Charlie has. They’d not accepted the title yet but would as soon as they were able, most likely before the first day of classes seeing as how they could apparate anywhere they so wished.

All the new robes had been owl ordered, the form sent off that morning by Harry before Ron had awoken, using Pigwidgeon.

Hedwig had been angry, nipping at his fingers in admonishment for the slight of using another owl that was not her, but she’d calmed down knowing that she would draw too much attention. It helped that she was very intelligent and somehow knew what Harry was saying.

Ron hadn’t even noticed Pig missing when he had gotten up that morning.

“Are we ready?” Harry asks, breaking out of his reverie. “Last call.”

They all glance around at each other, hands going to wands, before nodding.

“Tippy?” Harry calls.

A few seconds later, the elf pops in. “Master has told Tippy to bring Master’s Mister Harry and his friends to Master when Master’s Mister Harry calls,” she says, dipping into a bow. “Can Tippy be bringing them now?”

Harry nods and Tippy snaps her fingers. The journey is smoother and more instantaneous than wix side-along apparation-- one moment he’s in Sirius’ room and the next he’s in a tastefully decorated sitting room. The walls are panelled with dark wood that isn’t overbearing and the furniture is upholstered in emerald greens and rich, chocolate browns with silver accents. Magelight flickers in sconces on the walls, lighter and brighter than torchlight.

Everything is filled with a Family magic that’s now familiar, making his Heir ring sing: this must be an ancestral Slytherin property.

A smile threatens to tug at his lips. He wonders if Tom knows that he’s his Heir.

If not, he will soon.

“Master is through here, sirs,” Tippy says, gesturing at a door with a bow, a subtle wave of her elf magic pushing the door open.

Harry squares his shoulders and leads on.

Tom sits behind a large dark wooden desk, a fire crackling merrily away on the far wall, surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves. His desk is clear of any clutter save a few sheets of parchment and the prophecy orb, and another man-- presumably Theodorus Nott-- sits at his right hand.

The edges of his pale, noseless face ripples nearly imperceptibly for a beat in time with his magic and Harry lets a smile curl over his lips.

“A glamour, Tom? I thought we were friends,” Harry mock pouts, grin widening as Nott starts. Behind him, he can feel his people freeze in alarm.

Tom simply sighs in a put-upon way, only slight aggravation making itself known. “Always full of surprises, Harry.” The glamour ripples before starting to fade. “Although, I simply should not be surprised that you should be able to see through a parsel glamour.”

It falls completely and Harry can only think of how he’s even more attractive than when they met in his dream. He's got more colour to his cheeks, and his cheeks have filled out while still keeping his angular cheekbones. His hair has even more lustre to it, somehow. He looks livelier, healthier, and bloody hot.

Completely sodding unfair.

“Mmm,” Harry hums in assent, moving to claim the closest-- and only-- seat on his side of the desk. “Especially when I use them myself, you know.”

“Indeed.” Tom leans forward to slide the parchment towards him. “The drafted Vow, for your perusal.”

Harry lifts it from the table before sitting back in his seat. “Sirius, Remus, I need your eyes.”

The two move forward to stand at each shoulder as he reads.

The Vow, as all Unbreakable Vows are, is threefold. One, stating that neither party will intentionally or unintentionally do lasting harm physically or mentally to one another. Two, both parties shall support each other to the achievement of both parties’ goals. Three, that their first priorities will be to each other in all ways previously mentioned, without question, reciprocally, and a few other operational things.

It certainly is vague in some areas, but the vagueness equally favours Harry as it does Tom.

“Remus? Sirius?” Harry questions.

Both shake their heads. They’re in agreement, then.

“The only thing that I wish to add is an additional Oath covering those that bear my Mark, forswearing harm towards them,” Harry says. “That would be non-negotiable, I’m afraid,” he adds, flashing a charming grin.

Tom looks like he’s seconds from rolling his eyes.

“Decided to take my advice? I’m flattered,” he drawls. “While it is agreeable, it is unneeded. The type of Lord-vassal Oath that mine have taken carries Vows sworn by their Lord unto them. Should you pick a similar one when the time comes, then all should be well,” Tom says.

Harry hums before grinning. “Which did you use? ” He asks Tom, utilising their shared language to keep the discussion from the others in the room.

Nott startles again, his magic dancing strangely, as do all four of Harry’s people.

Tom smiles, a small, sharp thing. “A parsel variant of the pietas discipulum, the magical Sacramentum, also known as the Legionnaire's Oath. Although, you may want to twist it so as not to brand yours. I understand if that would upset your delicate sensibilities. ” He crooks a finger and a book comes whizzing off a shelf into his hand before offering forward to Harry. “How is your Latin? ”

“Serviceable, ” Harry dismisses, crooking his own finger to summon the book to him straight from Tom’s hand in a casual show of equivalency.

Tom’s eyes flare, but instead of anger it looks more like… appreciation? Though, he supposes that anyone would be tickled pink that their new ally was suitably powerful.

“Send it back with Tippy when you finish,” Tom says, smoothly switching back to plain English. “Now, on to the main part of the evening.”

Harry speaks, preemptively cutting him off when he notices Tom’s hand going to the prophecy. “If it’s alright with you, I would much rather swear the Vow first. I understand that it talks about how I supposedly have the power to ‘vanquish’ you,” Harry says, throwing a heavy slant on the word vanquish, “But shouldn’t it be moot if we swear non-aggression anyway?”

He gives Tom a wry smile. “I’d rather not be immediately set upon if you hear something that you don’t quite like.”

Tom sighs. “I can understand that.” He gives one last look at the prophecy before holding out his hand for the sheet of parchment with the Vow on it.

Harry can understand that, at least. Knowledge is power, but even Tom must agree with the sentiment of covering one’s own arse first.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Tom raises a brow.

“You have to add a few titles to the Vow for proper binding,” Harry says, unable to help the slight smirk on his face as he drops the notice-me-not and parsel glamour on his rings before shifting them apart.

“The Potter Lordship and Black Heirship I recognize,” Nott says, “But what about the rest?”

Tom’s eyes are still fixed on his left pinky finger, however.

“Heir Slytherin,” Harry says, lifting the same finger and watches Nott’s eyes widen, darting between Harry and Tom. The Family magic preens at the attention of it’s Lord, the same Family magic pushing up against his senses as Tom sends his own out. “Lord Peverell, siring line of the Potters,” he continues, lifting his left index finger. “And Lord Emrys,” he finishes, tapping the diminutive ring on his middle finger instead of choosing to flip them the bird.

“Emrys?” Sirius croaks out from behind him.

Tom’s eyes rise to meet Harry’s. “From my mum’s side,” he says, relishing in the hint of surprise that he can see there, the Emrys Family magic feeling almost… amused?

Great. It's at least mildly sentient. Probably because it's so bloody old.

“Lily Evans…” Tom says. “A muggleborn.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder in an indolent display of casualness. “I did bring my Line test from Gringotts. A copy. It shows back fourteen generations.” He withdraws the scroll from his expanded inner pocket and places it gently on Tom’s desk. “Came from her dad’s line, too, surprisingly. One Ambrose Emrys seems to have been adopted into the Evans family about ten generations back. I assume he was a squib that was sent away. But, that’s food for thought for later. Shall we?”

Tom and Nott stand, the former still staring at him, and make their way around the desk. Harry rises as well, Sirius and Remus stepping back.

Tom towers over him just by virtue of being so bloody tall-- he must be seven foot, at least, if not more, and Harry’s at a measly half five.

When he clasps Tom’s right forearm in preparation for the Vow, his scar sings. Tom’s magic is incredible. It feels so right-- like home. It’s bloody confusing and soothing at the same time. But he allows none of that to show on his face, firmly raising his occlumency shields to their highest strength.

While Unbreakable Vows don’t normally need incantations, the version that Tom chose does. A more formal version, if he remembers right, and more protecting-- the inclusion of the ritual blocks legilimantic attacks as well as veritaserum. No one would be able to pry the exact wording from his mind.

Nott steps up and lays his wandtip atop their wrists. “Hoc spatium in nomine Domina Magica sanctificetur,” he intones, magic starting to whip around them. Hallowed be this space in the name of Lady Magic. “Duo filii tui veniunt ante te ad jurandum ad invicem. Si Vota sua ruperint, morte multabunt.” Your two sons come before you to swear to one another. If they break their Vows, they shall be punished by Death.

“Verba nostra nos alligent,” Harry and Tom chorus. Our words will bind us.

Harry is the one to start. He is the supplicant in their arrangement. Even if Harry holds more Lordships than Tom does, the Lordship that matters the most is the one Tom won by rites of blood and magic, making him the Dark Lord.

“Will you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Dark Lord Voldemort, Lord Slytherin, forswear harm upon my person or psyche, intentionally or otherwise, by your own hand or word?”

“I will.”

One band of softly glowing magic lashes itself around Tom’s wrist, looping in a cross to bind Harry’s as well. The gold looks even more ethereal over the dark of their robes, the embroidery on Harry’s catching the light.

“And will you pledge your full support to my goals and aims, whatever they may be, barring cases that would break the first Vow?”

“I will.”

A second one appears, crossing at a slight angle over the first.

“And finally, do you swear that you will always offer a place at your side to help guide our efforts, an ear to voice my concerns to, and a hand to shield me and strike down our enemies?”

“I will.”

A third appears and twines their hands together, tilted the opposite from the second band.

“Per voluntatem Domina, sic erit,” all three chorus. By the will of the Lady, it will be so.

The magic bonds flare, but don’t sink into their skin just yet. Harry knows that if this was one way and not reciprocal, it would have already been gone.

“Will you, Harrison James Potter, Lord Potter, Lord Peverell, Lord Emrys, Heir Black, Heir Slytherin, forswear harm upon my person or psyche, intentionally or otherwise, by your own hand or word?”

“I will,” Harry replies.

Another band, this time tinted silver, lashes around Harry’s wrist before looping back across Tom’s.

“And will you pledge your full support to my goals and aims, whatever they may be, barring cases that would break the first Vow?”

“I will.”

Yet again, another band in the same way as earlier.

“And finally, do you swear that you will always offer a place at your side to help guide our efforts, an ear to voice my concerns to, and a hand to shield me and strike down our enemies?”

“I will.”

The sixth and final band appears, the silver and gold twined together. It feels like lightning against Harry’s skin. The Emrys ring buzzes.

“Per voluntatem Domina, sic erit,” all three chorus. By the will of the Lady, it will be so.

“Domina Magia, tibi gratias agimus quod per vota filiorum tuorum compagem testantes. Vota suum servabunt, ne Mors puniat.” Lady Magic, we thank you for bearing witness to the bonding of your children through their Vows. They shall keep their Vows, lest Death punish them.

With Nott’s closing words, the bonds flare once more, this time climbing so bright that it sears his eyes before he can close them, before twisting tighter and sinking into his skin.

When Harry opens his eyes, blinking against the remaining lingering glare, he catches a glint of metal underneath his robe cuff.

He lets go of Tom’s forearm, already mourning the loss of contact, to pull it up and see.

On his wrist is a braided band of silver and gold, flush to his skin, with no sign of being able to be removed. It’s low profile, barely a half centimetre tall. As he twists his wrist, it moves like fabric. When he touches it, it’s cold and feels like metal.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “That’s certainly… different.”

“It occurs, while infrequently, especially with this particular variation,” Tom replies, staring at his own identical band on his wrist. “However, some Unbreakable Vows conclude with a more tangible proof of the bonds created based on several different factors, including wording of the vows, severity of the vows, duration of the vows, or powers of the bonded. The common outcome is a sort of tattoo etched upon the skin. Whatever this is, however...” He trails off, touching his fingertips to the band.

“It also certainly does not hurt that the Vow was reciprocal,” Nott chimes in, studying his Lord’s band. “Between the two of you… I can most definitely see it.”

As Harry sits back down in the chair, Sirius, Fred, George, and Remus circle up around him in that order from his left to his right. They’re all looking at the band on his wrist.

Tom and Nott retake their own seats and this time Harry doesn’t stop Tom from reaching for the prophecy.

They both touch their fingers to it. The orb is still as warm as if it just came out of a ray of sunlight, but since he’s expecting it now, it’s less unsettling. Not completely, just some.

Harry grimaces when he sees the projection that rises out of the orb-- Trelawney.

But then she opens her mouth and goosebumps prickle up and down his spine. Her tone is raspy, almost a growl, and unearthly in a way that Harry really does not like.

Just like in his third year, he realises, when she spoke of the Dark Lord’s servant-- Pettigrew, he had come to realise, not even a few hours later that night.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…”

Harry and Tom both sit forward more, waiting. This is what they need-- the rest of the damned thing.

“...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not..."

Unconsciously, his other hand goes up briefly to touch his scar. Tom’s eyes flicker to follow the movement before snapping back to the projection.

“...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

Harry lets out a small exhale, mostly stifling the large puff of air that had wanted to come out as Trelawney dissipates back into the orb.

Bloody hell.

He doesn’t even want to know what Tom would have done if he heard that before the took the Vow. And he couldn’t begrudge him that response either-- it's an extremely sensible decision that Harry himself would undertake.

Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.

But… divination is so multifaceted, and prophecies in general were tricky, tricky things. Maybe--

“It was self-fulfilling, then,” Tom says, breaking him from his thoughts. Harry looks up to see a small, bitter smile on his lips. “Had I gone to the Longbottom residence instead… Had I not gone at all that night…”

Tom pauses. Then, his shoulders square, chin lifting, and his eyes lock onto Harry's.

“In the spirit of our communications thus far, one of total honesty… I suspect I know what the prophecy refers to when it states that I marked you as my equal.”

Harry co*cks his head. “I thought that was fairly obvious-- my scar.”

“Yes,” Tom says, inclining his head. “But… have you never questioned why or how I was able to visit you in your dreams?”

“Well, yes…” Harry says slowly. “I assumed it was a spell of some sort. You’re far more skilled than I am in terms of the sheer amount of spells that you know. You are older than I am.”

“It was-- is-- no spell,” Tom says steadily, holding his gaze. ‘We have a connection, you and I.’

“That makes sense,” Harry hums. “Last year, I saw you several times in my dreams-- but when you were awake. You wanted to feed me to Nagini, I remember.”

Tom just smiles.

“Pup?” Sirius questions. “Didn’t you just say that you thought it was a spell?”

Harry looks to Sirius. He has a strange expression on his face-- puzzled and a tad worried. “I mean, did you not just hear him?” Harry asks, gesturing at Tom. “He said we have a connect…ion...”

Harry closes his eyes briefly before looking back to Tom.

“You just want to make me look insane, I expect,” he huffs. “More than the Ministry, and that’s saying something. How did you just speak inside my head? There should be no way. I was looking into your eyes, but I didn’t feel anything to indicate you had broken my shields.”

“It was not Legilimency that you just experienced. The connection that we have is not one simply of our minds,” Tom says. His expression is blank. “It is of our souls. When I was young and foolish and fearful, I delved into magics that I should not have. Terrible magics.”

Unbidden, Ollivanders’ admission flashes across his mind’s eye. A terrible man, but a great man.

“I gained immortality at the cost of my sanity. Have you ever heard of horcruxes?”

Harry has not, but by Tom’s own admission, the way that Nott presses his eyes closed tight and his magic shivers, and how Remus recoils beside him, the force of his magic prickling Harry’s skin, to say they’re probably not good would most likely be an understatement.

“When one commits certain acts, the soul is torn asunder. The horcrux ritual draws out a piece of the torn soul and embeds it in a vessel. As long as the vessel remains, the wix that cast it cannot die.” Tom co*cks his head, red eyes boring into Harry’s green. “I assume that you’ve come to the conclusion already, just from that information.”

“How?” Harry asks, just barely keeping his voice steady. As it is, he almost stuttered. Beside him, all four of his are tense. Sirius is stock still and Remus trembles faintly. Harry suspects that if he could see his eyes, they’d be a glowing amber.

“When I arrived at the Potter residence that night, my soul was already ravaged beyond comprehension. It was my intention that night to create my final horcrux that night. My only guess is that my intent held true, and with nowhere else to go, my soul shard sought out you, a healthy, strong wizard-- young as you were-- for lack of ritual guidance.”

The room is so silent that you could probably hear a pin drop.

He takes a breath, mind whirring, but before he can say anything, Tom is talking again.

“I would also hazard a guess that the horcrux inside of you is what the prophecy refers to when it states that you have the power to vanquish me.” Tom sighs. “In your second year, you encountered an object of mine, yes? It was a horcrux. In destroying it, you have done me a great favour, allowing the majority of my sanity to return.”

Beside him, Fred and George tense. Harry nods, trying for levity with the room so tense. “No problem. And nice anagram, by the way. Sixteen year old you certainly had a flair for the dramatic. But, not much’s changed on that front I guess.”

The twist of Tom’s mouth looks somewhere between a grimace and a slightly annoyed smile. Nott looks like he’s a second away from gaping. Fred and George relax minutely.

‘Always a pleasure,’ Tom grumps, straight into his head.

Harry snorts and tries to push a thought back. 'I live to please.'

Judging by the incredulous scoff that Tom lets out, he’s successful.

'And I'm just chock full of surprises and insane feats,' Harry continues. He practically has a licence to mouth off to one of the strongest wizards of all time and he’s bloody well going to take that with both hands and run. 'Killed a basilisk at twelve, managed a full patronus at thirteen to drive off near a hundred Dementors, won the Triwizard cup at fourteen, and managed to get the hang of soul-to-soul mental communication after one go at fifteen. Harry grins at him. I hope that’s all that happens this year, but knowing me, I’ve already cursed it.'

“Most likely,” Tom says dryly, shaking his head. “Is there anything else you desire to discuss with me tonight?”

Harry twists his wrist sharply, casting a silent, wandless tempus. Almost midnight and they need to be up at seven tomorrow, and there’s still yet things to be done at Grimmauld Place.

“There is one thing,” Harry says. “What you said earlier, about the Longbottoms. What did you mean by that?”

Tom inclines his head. “There were two boys born around the same time, as the seventh month dies. The child of prophecy could have been you, or it could have been Neville Longbottom. In truth, any decision I made would have been the correct one, now knowing the rest of the prophecy.”

Tom’s lips twist into a frown. “Which, of course, is why mine had orders disallowing them from coming into any sort of contact with the Longbottoms-- orders that were disobeyed.”

He shakes his head. “Is there anything else?”

“Nothing that we could feasibly get to tonight, time-wise. I would like a comprehensive rundown on what exactly you plan to do. I have a decent grasp on your goals, I would like to think, but obviously none of the specifics. Is that something that can be sent over in writing, or will we have to arrange another meeting?”

He’s not particularly arsed that he had to swear to support Tom’s goals before seeing them, considering that the last part of the Vow was to require the man to listen to him when he voiced his concerns. And, of course, he had already demonstrated that they should be taken into consideration.

Tom leans back in his chair, obviously considering his words. “If the correspondence is spelled with privacy enchantments and carried by elves, it should be safe enough to send in writing. Further if written in parselscript, if you’re familiar enough?”

“Yes, I am. Is there anything else that we should do tonight?” Harry smiles regretfully. “I’m afraid we’re all slated to get up rather early tomorrow and it’s fast approaching midnight.”

“Not as such. Just two short things. One, an update. And the other, a warning.” Tom laces his fingers on his lap. “The one who sent dementors after you left a paper trail but used a false name. I will hold to my assumption that it is either Fudge or his direct support staff. With that as a segue, the warning.”

His eyes flick to Fred and George as well when he says this, before flicking back to Harry.

“Fudge has appointed his Senior Undersecretary to the Defense Against the Dark Arts position this year. I assume I do not have to tell you the inherent danger for you and yours in that.”

'Definitely cursed it,' Harry wryly pushes through the bond that he’s now beginning to feel the edges of. Now that it’s been pointed out to him, he can just barely feel it. How exactly he’d missed it all these years-- especially when he was training himself in Occlumency-- he has no idea.

Tom’s lips twitch as Harry pushes himself up out of the seat.

“Well, thank you for the fine evening,” Harry grins, dipping into an informal half-bow as he tucks the book underneath his arm, slightly teasing tone clear. “May we ask Tippy to bring us back directly from here or do we need to exit into the previous room first?”

“Tippy!” Tom calls, as good an answer as any. The little elf pops in, bowing.

“Can you please take us back to--” Harry’s forcefully cut off, wheezing, when the words won’t come. “Bloody Fidelius. Can you please take us back to where you brought us from?”

“Yes! Tippy will be taking Master’s Mister Harry and his people back to the place, now,” she says before snapping her finger.

Instantly, they’re back in Sirius’ room with nary a small pop. She bows to him before popping out.

Harry slowly turns to face the others.

“So? How’d you think that went?”

Chapter 6: And it's the end of the world as we know it

Chapter Text

In the end, it takes three doses of Remus’ semi-illicitly brewed Wide-eye-- about three over the recommended dose for someone his age and body weight-- in the morning to get Harry up and out the door in time. It had taken the better part of the night to rework the Oath and for Remus to draw something up, but that morning as they’re all lining up to go back to the school, Harry can feel the first two vassal bonds in the back of his mind.

As if Sirius is reading his mind, he rubs over his left breast, right over his heart. Harry knows that underneath his (and Remus’) shirt is his new Mark, hidden with conditional parselmagic glamours.

He’s particularly pleased with what Remus managed to draw up. First is an ouroboros, front and centre. No one was surprised at the choice for a snake, but there were a few questioning looks about the ouroboros part. In the middle of the ouroboros is a pair of phoenix wings, for the core of his wand that he shares with Tom, and in the centre of that is a sowilo, the same rune that sits high on his brow, marking him as Tom’s equal.

Where the horcrux is, he thinks, still reeling just a little that a piece of his prophesied enemy’s literal soul sits inside him.

Harry puts on a good show for the rest of the Order, helped greatly by left over Wide-eye jitters and the sleep deprivation, and so does Sirius, the man pouting and ranting about not being able to go to the platform with his godson. He eventually just slips into his animagus transformation, holding a leash in his jaws, and prances circles around Moody, begging wordlessly to go.

With a grumbled, sighed curse, the man relents and Harry takes the lead from Sirius with a small smile.

Thankfully, the Mark didn’t show up on his animagus form. Harry thought that he would have a heart attack the moment the man had shrugged and changed, but there was not one hair out of place.

To be fair, though, he thinks, McGonagall’s form has lines for her bleeding specs. How was I supposed to know that the visual representation of his magical fealty bond wouldn’t show up?

Of course, he then belatedly realised that the rat’s Dark Mark never showed up during his time as Scabbers.

Now wouldn’t that have made it all so much easier.

Harry lifts his eyes to the sky as Ron and Hermione get all awkward at having to leave him by his lonesome once they settle in on the train.

“Go,” he says, waving them off with a shooing motion. “You’re prefects, I get it. Don’t worry.” He gives them his best and brightest ‘I’m trying to pretend everything’s fine’ smile. He kind of hates that he has to lie so outright to Hermione-- not at all feeling bad about lying to Ron, the prat-- but he can’t be quite sure of her loyalties yet.

It’s nary a minute later that the compartment door slides open to admit two people.

“Luna, Nev,” Harry greets with a soft smile. “Apologies for what happened over the summer. I didn’t think…” He trails off, unsure of how much exactly to say but discreetly flicking a locking charm and a Light privacy charm at the door.

Luna smiles at him as she sits down across from him, Neville claiming the seat next to him. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. I already told Neville.”

That, of course, begs the question of how she knew, but Harry has long since stopped questioning the things she says.

The boy bobs his head emphatically. “I didn’t expect Dumbledore to start stealing your mail either! Everything’s fine. Gran might be a...” he winces, moving his hand in a you know kind of gesture, “But she doesn’t like Dumbledore at all. He came to talk to her but I didn’t get in trouble.”

“He sent Papa a letter,” Luna says. “He didn’t care.”

“Thanks, you two.” Harry shakes his head. “Ron and Hermione never wrote me at all either. And then when I got… there, to where they were staying together all summer,” he says, unable to actually speak the name, “They weren’t even sorry. Just went on talking about how Dumbledore said it wasn’t safe. They’ve been there with me since first year, but it’s like we don’t... match up as well anymore.” He waves his hand in an all encompassing gesture, trying to convey the depths of his feelings without the words.

Luna hums sympathetically. “Growing up sometimes means growing apart, especially if there are different goals in the mix.”

Again, Harry is abruptly reminded of a certain suspicion he’s had about the slight blonde girl. As it is, he just sends her a grateful smile.

“Plus,” Neville adds, “Ron was especially awful to you last year. I’m surprised you still put up with him, to be honest. Hermione was more bearable, I saw, but she still picked Ron most of the time, right?”

Harry nods slowly. True, Hermione had stood by him when Ron had scorned him after his name came out of the Goblet, but she had tried to spend time with Ron during it. A lot of time, actually. He knows that they-- try to deny and covertly-- fancy each other, but gods damn if he hadn’t needed someone that year.

Indecision grips his chest. He has to be completely sure of moves before he makes them, otherwise his life is forfeit. If Dumbledore gets wind that he’s on the other side… Harry suppresses a shudder.

It wouldn’t just be him, either. It would be Sirius, Remus, Fred, and George on the chopping block with him, along with anyone else he manages to collect from the Light’s side in the time before Dumbledore figures it out and catches him.

“Yeah,” he says aloud. “Yeah, you’re right. I guess we don’t know each other as well as we thought. Did you know that they expected me to be angry that Ron got made prefect over me?” Harry asks them.

Neville outright snorts. “Mate, even I know that you’d hate it.”

“What are you talking about, even you?” Harry quotes, leaning to bump shoulders with him. Harry’s a lot scrawnier than Neville is, what with his friend losing a fair amount of baby fat and gaining a bit of muscle over the summer while Harry lost weight being stuck in Muggle Hell with his starvation-happy relatives. “You’re one of my best friends. I dare say you deserve the title better than either of them at this point, Nev.”

He starts to tear up at that. “Really, Harry?”

“Of course, Nev,” he replies softly. And it isn’t even a scheme or a play-- he genuinely believes it. “You were there for me this summer, more than anyone else. And even before that, even if we didn’t really interact much before last year. You really saved my arse with that gillyweed, mate.” Harry pulls a face. “Another mark against those two, I guess. They never wanted me to hang out with anyone except for them.”

Luna hums. “The goat’s eyes never wanted you to be too far,” she says, eyes distant and unfocused. Her magic dances, wrapping around her like a gossamer shawl, ebbing and twinkling like a liquid night sky. “Pity, then, that he has lost you anyway.”

Instantly, Harry’s blood goes ice cold. “Luna?”

She just blinks at him before smiling. “I hope it was something that you needed to hear, Harry. We just want to help you.”

Luna, Harry had begun to suspect, was a Seer. It was around the time he first properly met her, out in the corridors around Yule, when she had just smiled and told him that she was glad that the nargles had failed-- just after a meeting with Dumbledore when he tried to get him to eat what he suspected were potion laced sweets.

This, though, only confirmed it.

“My answer is yes, by the way,” Luna tells him bluntly, breaking his train of thought into a billion tiny pieces and leaving only shock behind. “But wait until later to tell Nev. The castle may have ears, but they’re not for the same people that the train has. Besides, She likes you, doesn’t She?”

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters as Neville starts to ask her what she’s talking about. “I’ll do that, Luna, thank you. Nev,” he says, catching his friend’s attention and only mildly cutting him off. “I’ll tell you, like Luna said. I just have to find somewhere that we won’t be overheard first.”

He’s tempted to use the Chamber, since that’s where he’s planning on Marking Fred and George day after tomorrow-- Sunday night-- but he’s not entirely sure that his talk would go over quite like he wanted if Neville was effectively trapped down there by him.

Neville just raises a brow at him, but he lets it slide.

Harry’s honestly proud of him-- his first year, he was a stuttering mess, but now?

A true Gryffindor in all the ways I am not.

By the time Ron and Hermione come back, the three of them are laughing together.

“And then!” Neville wheezes, tears shining in his eyes. “And then Milburn stuck his hand into the pheromone-laced lacewing flies!”

“No,” Harry breathes.

“Yes!” Neville replies, grinning ear to ear. “The sundew could not keep its tendrils off of him for the rest of the day! Or the rest of the week! Merlin, he was so embarrassed!”

“Served him right,” Luna replies placidly, dazed look returning as Ron and Hermione look at her. “He’s working with the Blibbering Humdingers, you know.”

“Errr…” Ron starts.

“Oh!” Harry turns to them, bright smile still on his lips. “Nev was just telling us about his trip to Australia this summer to work with herbologists at one of the Longbottom holdings. Some of the plants got really, er, handsy with one of the workers there.”

Neville snickers. “That’s one way to say it.”

Ron takes a seat at Neville’s side, since Harry’s sitting next to the wall, and Hermione takes one next to Luna, sitting a half an arm’s length away from her.

“When I left, he still had little sucker marks all up and down his arms,” Neville continues. “I’m just glad it wasn’t Philips, since he’s allergic to the compound that they secrete. It’s a potions component, did you know?”

“Yes, well--” Hermione butts into the conversation. “We have to tell you about the prefects meeting, Harry.”

He cuts an apologetic glance to Neville who just shrugs.

“What about it?” Harry asks.

“Mate, Malfoy’s been made a prefect!” Ron whines.

“Makes sense,” Harry replies, nodding.

Hermione rears back, disgruntled look on her face. “Really? I would have thought that it would have been Nott or Zabini. They’re much better academically than Malfoy .”

Debatable. Just because he’s a childish twat sometimes doesn’t mean he’s not capable sometimes. “I mean, he’s top of the politics, isn’t he?” Harry co*cks his head, affecting a slight ‘I thought this was obvious’ kind of tone. “He’s the leader of their year. It might be because of his father, but everyone takes their orders from him.”

Ron mutters something that sounds like dirty Death Eater scum as Hermione exclaims, “That’s horrible!”

This has to be some kind of act that they’re doing. Are they having me on?

Harry just shrugs. “It is what it is, Hermione. Was there anything else?”

Evidently, the answer is yes, but it’s all absolutely useless information. Harry’s entertaining the idea of pestering Tom through their link just to stave off boredom when the door clatters open to admit Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

“Potter,” Malfoy sneers in greeting.

Now, Harry had already decided to start changing his persona slightly this year. He’d decided to be more studious, more serious, less quick to anger and all around more cool and controlled. Not many would question the change after the events of the last year, after all. Now would be the perfect time to implement part of that.

“Malfoy,” Harry returns evenly, offering nothing more.

Malfoy blinks, actually looking visibly surprised at this.

Harry suppresses a grin.

“Come to gloat, Malfoy ?” Ron sneers.

He turns to Ron, the new and easier target, an answering sneer rising. “Weasel. I must say, I was surprised to see you turn up to the meeting earlier. Has McGonagall gone senile?”

Hermione and Ron both bristle at this.

“It’s Professor McGonagall, and that is a horrible thing to say about a teacher!” Hermione barks out, shooting to her feet. “Just because you’re a prefect doesn’t mean that you can be rude to our teachers now!”

“It’s a simple statement of fact, Granger. The only worse pick would be this lump here,” Malfoy says, jutting his chin out at Neville in a surprisingly unmannerly way. “She’s very nearly scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

Harry would love to snap back with something about Malfoy not being quite adept a politician as he thinks he is, alienating a Heir to an old House like that, but Neville just snorts and turns the page in the herbology book he’s reading, both not rising to the bait nor refusing to cower.

That almost shakes Malfoy more than Harry’s own cool-headed response did. It’s funny to see the sheer amount of emotion-- while scant-- breaking through his pureblood mask.

“Just because I can’t dock you points, you git, doesn’t mean that your lackeys are safe,” Ron challenges. Hermione looks sharply at him while Malfoy just tuts.

“What was it you were just saying, Granger, about ‘just because you’re a prefect’? How uncouth, Weasel,” Malfoy chides softly, looking far too delighted. “Abuse of one’s powers… now, that’s the true measure of privileges inflating one’s head.”

“I’ll inflate your head,” Ron snarls, jumping to his feet, hand going to his wand, and it takes everything in Harry not to laugh at the pitiful, childish rejoinder.

Malfoy, however, has no such compunctions and laughs out loud, daintily waving a hand. “Now, no need to strain your wandhand trying to cast a spell out of your ability.”

And then he leaves without another word to Harry, which is definitely out of character for him. He doubts, though, that it’s anything to do with Tom.

You didn’t tell any of yours about me, right? He thinks hard towards Tom, tugging on the bond. Other than Nott, of course, and he’s under secrecy Oaths.

‘No, and you are correct,’ comes the swift reply. ‘Why?’

Just a strange interaction with Malfoy the younger. He hardly said a single word to me, which, while appreciated, is most definitely out of character for him. I was wondering if his Father said something to him.

‘Perhaps he is simply growing up,’ Tom replies dryly.

Harry has to suppress a snort at that. He uses the building argument between Ron and Hermione to pull out his own book, this year’s Charms textbook, in an attempt to both subtly work on his new image and to actually get ahead for once.

He manages a good forty five minutes of uninterrupted time with his book, easily tuning out the shouting, before Ron notices that he’s reading.

“Oi! Mate! Bloody hell, Hermione, I think you’ve infected him somehow,” Ron snips, definitely running out of things to argue about.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione exclaims, completely ignoring Ron now that she’s cottoned on to the fact that he was doing something outside his usual ken. “It’s wonderful that you’re taking school more seriously now! But…”

Harry plops the book on his lap. It’s dark out, so he knows they’re almost there-- it should only be about forty more minutes, by his count.

“But what, Hermione?” He lets his exhaustion seep into his voice. It’s rather easy, considering he only slept about an hour last night. “It’s OWLs year.”

“But--” She screws up her face. “But V-V-Voldemort,” she stutters, “Is back.”

“Wouldn’t knowing more spells be better?” He asks. “I don’t particularly want to die, you know.”

Ron and Hermione both flinch at that, while Neville tenses beside him. Luna simply lets her eyes flutter closed behind her magazine.

“Oh, I guess,” she says slowly. “I mean, yes. I don’t… yes,” she ends up saying again, resolute this time. “I’ll draw you up a revision chart tomorrow, Harry. We can study together. If only Ron would put that much effort in too!” She says, rounding on Ron again, evidently starved for a way to get herself out of this trainwreck of a conversation.

Harry just leans back against the wall again, shooting a commiserating look at Neville. He matches his expression, brow raising.

Harry lifts his book slightly in a subtle salute before diving back into it.

What the hell kind of response is that? You shouldn’t study because Voldemort is back? I thought she would be immediately delighted beyond words, the little swot.

A little while later, Hermione stands. “We better change,” she announces.

The train slows as they pull their robes on. Harry, amusingly, catches Ron checking himself out in the dark window multiple times, fingering the shiny prefect’s badge pinned on his lapel.

When they get to the carriages, Harry stops walking.

There, where there was nothing before in his previous years, were great skeletal horse-looking things.

“They’re beautiful,” Harry murmurs.

Luna, at his elbow, looks up at him. “They are,” she agrees quietly.

“They’re thestrals, right…?” Harry asks, walking forward slowly.

The Peverell ring hums on his left hand as he brings it up to stroke the thing’s neck. It tosses its head as if pleased, nickering quietly.

“Yes,” Luna confirms, standing behind him. “They can only be seen by those who witnessed death. They quite like you, don’t they? Just like Her.”

“Harry?” Hermione calls out from behind them. “What are you doing? Get in the carriage!”

He just gives the thestral another pat before bowing his head to it and turning on his heel.

“Just meeting what pulls the carriages,” he tells her as he climbs in after Luna.

She gives him an odd look. “Nothing pulls them, Harry, don’t be daft.”

“I can see them too, you know,” Luna pipes up as the carriage starts to move. “They’re quite lovely, aren’t they, Harry?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a grin.

“Nothing pulls them!” Hermione repeats, angrier. Ron nods beside her. Neville, next to Ron, looks to the sky in wordless exasperation.

Harry is abruptly reminded of the reason he never tries to do very well in classes.

“They’re called thestrals and they’re very nice,” Harry informs her, tone bland but word choice maudlin. “They’re in our Care book if you want to double check.”

Hermione gives him a pitying look, sighing. “Thestrals are myths, Harry,” Hermione responds, voice more patronisingly patient now like she's talking to a child.

Anger licks up in his chest and he’s suddenly not as sad over the fact that he’s going to have to cut her out of his life.

“It might just be the stress. Besides…” she cuts a heavy glance to Luna and Harry has to tug on his occlumency shields not to hex her into next year.

How dare she. How bloody dare she say something like that to Luna!

Thankfully for Harry’s reputation and Hermione’s continued good health, the carriage ride is rather short. Hermione makes several attempts to change that, however, by trying to talk to Harry, evidently undeterred by his stony face and sharp silence.

He strides into the Great Hall with Luna and Neville by his side, Ron and Hermione trying and failing to catch up. Luna gives him a smile and a pat on the shoulder before she peels off to go sit with the rest of her House and Harry returns the former.

He slides into a seat next to Neville, with Pavarti on his other side. She greets him with an overly wide smile and Harry has to resist rolling his eyes. Ron and Hermione claim seats directly across from him, looking rather put out.

“Oh, no,” Neville whispers quietly as the noise in the room starts to reduce, the time for the Sorting drawing near.

“What?” Harry asks him just as quietly.

“Look, up at the High Table. Next to Dumbledore.”

Harry looks and immediately wishes that he hadn’t, catching an eyeful of pink and frills .

“Umbridge,” he scowls.

“You know her too?” Neville’s voice drops lower, the large double doors swinging open to show McGonagall and a gaggle of little firsties. “Gran hates her, and it’s one of the only times that I agree with her on things.”

“She was at my trial, looking sketch as hell. She was very disappointed that I didn’t get expelled and have my wand snapped.”

Neville winces at that and lets it lie, the Hat’s song starting to flow.

In times of old when I was new

And Hogwarts barely started

The founders of our noble school

Thought never to be parted:

United by a common goal,

They had the selfsame yearning,

To make the world’s best magic school

And pass along their learning.

“Together we will build and teach!”

The four good friends decided

And never did they dream that they

Might someday be divided,

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffndor?

Unless it was the second pair

Of Huffepuff and Ravenclaw?

So how could it have gone so wrong?

How could such friendships fail?

Why, I was there and so can tell

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those

Whose magic is purest.”

That catches Harry’s attention. Whose magic is purest? Not blood? From the light muttering he can hear over at the Slytherin table, he knows that others have caught it too.

Up at the High Table, Dumbledore frowns.

Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose

Intelligence is surest.”

Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those

With brave deeds to their name,”

Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot,

And treat them just the same.”

This is getting long, Harry thinks.

These differences caused little strife

When first they came to light,

For each of the four founders had

A House in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,

For instance, Slytherin

Took only pure wizards

Of great cunning, just like him,

And again, no mention of blood purity.Oh, the Slytherins must be going out of their minds.

And only those of sharpest mind

Were taught by Ravenclaw

While the bravest and the boldest

Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff she took the rest,

And taught them all she knew,

Thus the Houses and their founders

Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony

For several happy years,

But then discord crept among us

Feeding on our faults and fears.

The Houses that, like pillars four,

Had once held up our school,

Now turned upon each other and,

Divided, sought to rule.

All of the Houses sought to rule? Is that what the Hat’s saying? Interesting. It certainly tracks with some of the journals I found in the Chamber…

And for a while it seemed the school

Must meet an early end,

What with duelling and with fighting

And the clash of friend on friend

And at last there came a morning

When old Slytherin departed

And though the fighting then died out

He left us quite downhearted.

And never since the Founders Four

Were whittled down to three

Have the Houses been united

As they once were meant to be.

And now the Sorting Hat is here

And you all know the score:

I sort you into Houses

Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,

Listen closely to my song:

And it’s getting longer. This must be the longest Song that’s ever been, Harry thinks, amused. Do they keep track of each song? I wonder if I could find out if it’s actually the longest or not.

Though condemned I am to split you

Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfil my duty

And must quarter every year

Still I wonder whether sorting

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,

The warning history shows,

For our Hogwarts is in danger

From deadly foes

And we must unite inside her

Or we’ll crumble from within.

I have told you, I have warned you…

Let the Sorting now begin.

Murmurs break out and Harry can see people glancing at him. Of course, some must take it to refer to the Dark Lord’s return. But, for some reason, he just can’t see the current Tom storming Hogwarts or anything like that.

One by one, the first years are Sorted. He claps for every one, no matter the House.

As McGonagall bustles forward to retrieve the Hat and Dumbledore stands with a great flare of his robes, something unexpected happens.

The Hat’s mouth seam rips itself open and bellows into the room.

“I REQUIRE AN AUDIENCE WITH HARRY POTTER!”

All eyes land on him and he’s abruptly reminded of last year when his name came out of the Goblet. The only thing that he wanted to say at that time was...

“No thanks!” Harry yells back.

Laughter ripples among the tables, cutting through the murmurs.

“HARRY POTTER! GET OVER HERE!” The Hat bellows back to him.

“Hat, may I inquire why?” Dumbledore asks, projecting his voice throughout the entire room like it’s everyone’s business.

The Hat’s tip turns like he’s looking over his shoulder to Dumbledore. “NO!”

Did you do this? Somehow? Harry thinks almost desperately to Tom. Any way you can tune into what I’m seeing right now or something?

‘Whatever it is, I have done nothing.’ There’s a pause.

“HARRY POTTER! I REQUIRE AN AUDIENCE WITH YOU!” The Hat bellows again.

Dumbledore looks at him.

‘Oh, now, that is something. I am seeing through your eyes currently. Good luck.’

Harry wants to sputter and curse his name, but Dumbledore starts talking.

“Harry Potter, please come up to the Hat.” He manages to sound disapproving. As if it’s my fault!

Neville just gives him an encouraging pat on his back when he finally-- reluctantly-- rises to his feet.

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asks the Hat once he gets in front of it.

“Why, put me on!” The Hat responds.

If I do, you should probably get out of my head. That would be difficult to explain, he thinks at Tom.

Harry gets a feeling of assent back, which is weird.

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Hogwarts has demanded a resort!” The Hat proclaims, and Harry’s stomach drops to his shoes.

All his carefully laid plans, just like that, were gone. Even if he managed to wriggle out of it, there would be no erasing it from peoples’ memories. They would forever be wondering why Hogwarts Herself thought that he was not fit to be a Gryffindor anymore.

“And what if I say no?” Harry continues to argue, digging his heels in like the Lion he’s pretending to be. “I’m a Gryffindor!”

“I’m afraid if you say no, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cuts in gently, “You’ll be removed from the school effective immediately. This has happened before, after times of great tumult in the student’s life, and after last year…”

Harry winces in time with McGonagall.

Right. Last year. The cornerstone of his plan to slowly become more like the real him. Not the cornerstone of hurtling bloody headfirst into a new persona!

All I can do is sit there and argue for anything other than Slytherin. If I get Sorted there…

“Now sit down!” The Hat orders.

Beneath his feet, Hogwarts’ magic flares gently, chidingly. He’d missed the initial cross over the wards and onto the grounds earlier in the carriages, but he can’t help but slump slightly at the admonishing brush of magic.

His Slytherin Heir ring sings.

‘Unfortunately, there is no way you will not be Sorted there. And I say again: good luck.’

He can feel Tom disengaging from his mind as he takes the Hat in hand, sitting down on the short stool.

Since he’s bigger than in his first year-- barely, mind you-- the Hat doesn’t slip down to cover his eyes, giving him a great view of all the questioning faces in the crowd.

Hello, Harry grumps at the Hat. Did you really have to do this?

“Indeed I did!” The Hat chortles back like the bastard he is. “You are an Heir! Heirs go to their correct Houses.”

So it’s absolutely impossible to persuade you to put me in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, then?

“You’re not a Raven,” the Hat chides. “While you thirst for knowledge, it is for your own ends and not for knowledge’s sake. And the Hufflepuffs?”

The Hat laughs out loud, startling the other students.

“Why, you’d eat those poor ‘Puffs alive! Not to mention that while you have intense loyalty, it is far too difficult to obtain and the lengths you go to for those you are loyal to belong to another House entirely. Your House. Your ancestral House.”

Please, you can’t put me there, Harry thinks desperately. He’s certainly not above begging. Dumbledore would either spell me within an inch of my life and make me his puppet or kill me. Or both!

“Hogwarts would not let a false Headmaster harm an Heir. If nothing else, believe in Her.”

False Headmaster-- what?

The Hat continues on like Harry hadn’t spoken. “No, you are far too wily, far too self-serving, and far too ambitious to put you anywhere else.”

No, explain that first!

“From the start, it’s been--

“SLYTHERIN!”

Instantly, all noise in the Great Hall cuts out. Then, there are small murmurs before the sound builds.

A hand plucks the Hat off his head as magic swirls around him, turning his red and gold edged robes and tie to silver and green before his very eyes.

Part of Harry likes it, but the vast majority of him is frantically occluding his fear away. He emphatically does not want to be here for the rest of the feast. He emphatically does not want to turn around.

Bugger me sideways.

“Professor?” Harry asks, turning to McGonagall, letting some of his apprehension leak through to his face. “What…?”

She smiles down at him. It’s tinged with sadness. “You may not be one of my Lions anymore, Mr. Potter, but my office is open to you whenever you may need it.”

Bugger. Right. Lion. Act like a Lion who has no clue why they’re being shoved into the snake pit.

Harry slowly turns to face Dumbledore, letting his visible apprehension build and forcing small amounts of fear onto his face-- just a slight widening of eyes, a tight mouth, and pinched brow.

He forces mind-numbing shock to the front of his mind, tightening his far shields, as he meets eyes with the man. Immediately, he feels tendrils of the Headmaster’s legilimency in his mind and throws up a hastily created sound-memory of the Hat saying he needs more cunning to defeat a snake.

Harry can see the Headmaster relax, but just minutely.

He doesn’t dare look at Snape for fear of laughing. No doubt the man will look like he’s just swallowed an extra large batch of fresh dungbombs.

“Professor…?” Harry calls out to him. Beside Dumbledore, Umbridge shifts.

As if his words have snapped him out of some reverie, Dumbledore raises his arms.

“Hogwarts has not demanded a resort for quite a long time!” He calls out, his tone jovial. “What a wondrous display of the Founders’ magic.”

Hogwarts’ magic flares beneath his feet like She takes offence to that, and Harry can see himself agreeing. She’s not some echoing remnant, after all.

“Go on, my boy, and join your new housemates!”

It sounds like a threat.

Harry lets himself swallow hard, once, before turning to the Slytherin table.

While he would absolutely love to start power plays here, he can’t. Dumbledore and the rest of the school are watching.

So, where to sit?

He starts to walk over, the murmurs in the room rising in volume.

“Harry Potter--”

“--Slytherin?”

“--looks kind of good, actually--”

“A Snake!”

“--not really surprising--”

“--resorting hasn’t happened in--”

“Is he on His side?”

“Liar--”

“-- Daily Prophet said--”

“--and remember his second year?”

“I knew it!”

“He’s a parselmouth, I mean--”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes, hunching his shoulders inward slightly instead while keeping his chin up. He needs to show that while he’s defensive, he won’t be cowed. He has to play the perfect Lion going into the snake pit.

Not, of course, that it will matter once he’s in the dorms. There he’ll be free to actually be a Snake as well. And it’s not like they don’t know about masks.

Harry stops a few feet away from the table, glancing over his yearmates. His new housemates.

Parkinson subtly turns her nose up at him while Malfoy outright sneers. Crabbe and Goyle glower at him. Greengrass and Davis glance at him before going back to their own conversation.

No one moves, but then Zabini makes eye contact with Harry and scoots over closer to Nott, opening up a space between him and someone Harry thinks is a fourth year.

Blaise Zabini-- neutral, by and large, since his power is more weighted in Italy. And of course, Nott. His father is one of Tom’s most loyal but not as involved anymore-- less political clout than Malfoy or the others.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, sitting down.

Zabini is potentially a decent ally, if I can sway the Contessa through him. And Nott the elder is trustworthy, so Nott the younger will most likely be as well.

Dumbledore clears his throat. “I’m sure you’re all hungry after that excitement, so I’ll be brief! Hello to the newcomers, and hello again to those returning!” He sweeps his arms out. “Tuck in!”

All the Slytherins in my year are either Dark, Dark-leaning Grey, or Grey. Ripe for the picking, he thinks as the food appears on the tables.

He starts with dishes close to him, serving himself a small portion of chicken and vegetables-- larger than what he would usually have, thanks to the solid week and a half he spent eating more at Grimmauld, but not exactly a ‘full serving.’

Well, he mentally amends. Not exactly ripe for the picking. Tom might be a tad put out if I stole the children of his followers from him.

He reaches for the potatoes, serving himself a portion.

Harry can feel the eyes on him. He eats at a measured pace, keeping his mouth shut to listen to the-- scant-- conversation around him.

The third years and below are staring at him, goggle-eyed. Especially the first years. If he can at least get their support, if not their loyalty, he’ll be in a better position than having no one.

But, Harry thinks, eyes flicking briefly over his yearmates, That shouldn’t be too much of an issue.

“Hey, Potter!”

The noise around the table drops sharply and Harry sets his fork down, turning to Malfoy. He opens his mouth to talk, but Harry cuts him off.

“Don’t you think that this can wait until later?” Harry asks mildly. He turns a little bit more, making sure his face is completely hidden from the High Table, and smiles.

It’s small and sharp and not at all like his Golden Boy smile and Malfoy flinches . Just slightly, barely perceptible to all but the sharpest eye, but it’s there.

“There are better places to do this than the Great Hall,” he continues, tone as even as before. “No matter either of our feelings on the subject, I am a Slytherin now. Wouldn’t you rather wait to do this somewhere not so public?”

Unfortunately, Malfoy’s pureblood training wins out and he doesn’t respond nonverbally in any way other than a quick nod of his head, his mask flawless once more.

From beside him, Zabini laughs softly as Harry picks up his fork again.

“You’re going to make waves, aren’t you, Potter?” Zabini asks quietly, amusem*nt clear in his voice.

Harry hums noncommittally, swallowing his current mouthful of food. Maybe he can get Neville to owl order the ingredients for nutrient potions? He really needs to build his strength this year. “We shall see.”

Harry internally winces. Or maybe he can filch them from Pomphrey? If she even has them. He’s not sure if Neville will still be willing to do much of anything for or with him after the whole, ‘ oh yeah, I’m a Slytherin now ’ thing.

Zabini just laughs again.

The rest of the meal is quieter, tension hanging like dark storm clouds overhead. Harry just slowly and methodically eats as much as he’s able to physically stomach, listening.

Most of it is gossip, true, but even gossip has its place.

Eventually, the dessert fades off the table, back down to the kitchens, and Dumbledore stands once more. His speech is par the course-- the Forbidden Forest is still, surprise surprise, forbidden and Filch is still trying to ban the unbannable. The fact that Grubby-Plank is the new Care teacher is a little surprising, begging the question of where exactly Hagrid is. Dolores Umbridge, the pink toad, is their new Defence teacher.

“Hem hem.”

And then she interrupts Dumbledore.

I don’t like her at all, but that takes serious bollocks to do.

He likes her even less after her flowery little speech about the impending Ministry crack-down on the school. He’s got far too much to do this year to also deal with that.

Dumbledore, recruiting, getting stronger, and now the Ministry and its little toadie as well. Fun.

He stands smoothly as the others do, but hangs back as they start off. Malfoy struts off in front of the rest of them, prefect badge gleaming on his proudly puffed out chest, to intercept the little first years.

Harry casts around, looking for Neville at least, but a warm body crashes into him from the side, arms coming to wrap around his chest.

“Harry!” Hermione cries. “Oh, it’s terrible!”

“Hermione,” Harry breathes, somehow managing to sound audibly relieved and not abominably pissed off. “Is Ron…?”

“Harry,” Hermione says, finally unwinding her sodding arms from around him. “He’ll just need a little time…”

“So it’s like last year then, yeah?” Harry asks, forcing out the words. He makes eye contact with Neville over Hermione’s shoulder.

Later, Neville mouths, giving him a thumbs up.

“Well, no,” Hermione starts.

“It’s fine,” Harry cuts her off. “He can make his own choices.”

Hermione starts to say something but is interrupted yet again, this time by a deep voice from behind both of them.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry turns to face Snape-- his new Head of House.

The man’s face is smoother than stone, completely emotionless. As expected of him, he’s not leaking anything, and Harry is loath to try to do a surface level scan.

“Yes, sir?” Harry asks, trying his best to strike a balance between respect for his new head of house and disrespect and disdain for the man like he’s been playing the last four years.

Snape’s lips twist, so he’s done something wrong (right).

“Come with me,” he responds, tone clipped.

Harry glances one last time at Neville-- who is now just a little paler than before, seeing Snape, poor sod-- and nods, stepping away from Hermione. He gives her a lopsided smile as Snape brushes past them before turning on his heel to follow him.

Chapter 7: Out of the frying pan...

Chapter Text

How much do you trust Snape? Harry thinks to Tom as he follows Snape out of the Great Hall and into the dungeons.

‘Somewhat, but not wholly,’ Tom replies. ‘He has proven himself quite effectively to me recently, but he has been by Dumbledore’s side for the last fourteen years.’

He’s definitely Dark, though, Harry says, absentmindedly stepping up his pace to keep just behind Snape. Damn the man and his long legs. He really needs to start brewing the nutrient potion. I don’t see what could possibly keep him on the side of the Light.

‘There is… one thing,’ Tom says. His tone is clear and even, but hesitancy and the smallest thread of apprehension bleeds through their link. ‘Your mother. He begged me to spare her life, and, in his eyes, I completely disregarded that earnest plea. To my knowledge, they were friends from a young age.’

Of course. Because it can’t be about just Harry with Snape, no. It has to be about his parents, and evidently it’s both of them. Joy.

But she’s dead, so, what keeps him here? He should have nothing else to lose. And he should know that this side is incompatible to him, even if you did kill her. I don’t get it.

Harry stops stock still in front of Snape’s office door.

His mother. His mother.

The man sweeps in, leaving him behind.

If I’m right, we have nothing to worry about. If I’m wrong, I get to test how well my obliviate works on a Master Occlumens.

Harry follows in after him.

Are you a gambling man, Tom?

He takes a seat across from Snape, settling down into the chair with grace belying his thin form.

‘Absolutely not, you brat. I forbid it, whatever it is you’re planning.’

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” This time, his tone is completely even, no trace of any animosity or tenseness. He keeps his posture relaxed, hands lying on the arms of the chair, clearly away from his pockets, where his wand presumably sits.

By the way that Snape’s brow raises, he picks up on it.

I refuse to be in his house if he’s committed to being a sh*theel, Harry replies. Besides, he’ll be a good ally to have. I have too much to do this year.

“What are you playing at, Potter?” There’s an emotion to his tone, but it’s not exactly anger.

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor.” Snape scowls, opening his mouth to reply, but Harry continues. “If you mean the resort, no, I had no hand in that. The charter states that the only way for a student to ask to be resorted is to get the approval of all four heads of houses. Hogwarts simply did not think that I was suitable for Gryffindor anymore.”

Snape eyes him with what looks like… suspicion? The silence stretches on and then all at once Snape is on his feet, wand pointed between Harry’s eyebrows.

“Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?” Snape’s expression is downright murderous.

“Aw, I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Professor,” Harry replies, a teasing smile on his lips. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee while releasing his wand from it’s forearm holster. He doesn’t point it anywhere but up. Snape’s eyes widen and his lips start to form an incantation, but Harry’s already talking.

“I, Harry James Potter, so do swear on my magic that I am currently telling the truth, and I will continue to tell the truth for the next… thirty minutes,” he says, his wand tip flaring. He lights a nonverbal lumos and looks up at Snape, co*cking his head slightly as he locks eyes with the man. “So?”

‘Congratulations on the wording of that Oath.’

Harry feels light tendrils of legilimency in his mind, an even lighter touch than Dumbledore’s. A Master Legilimens, too.

Interesting.

Excuse you, he projects, making sure that his shields are up, and Snape stumbles back.

“You are an Occlumens?” Snape asks, eyes widening.

“I have secrets to hide, so yes,” Harry replies mildly. “I learned last year.”

“Like what?” Snape demands, absolutely taking advantage of Harry’s Oath.

Harry hums. “Well… I was never actually supposed to be in Gryffindor. I begged the Hat at my first Sorting to place me elsewhere because I didn’t want to be in the same House as Malfoy.” Among other things.

Snape goggles at him and Harry suppresses a smile.

“That’s not the whole truth,” Snape declares, eyes narrowing.

This time, Harry can’t help but smile. “No, but it is the truth.”

Snape stares at him for a beat before all but collapsing into his office chair, wand out of sight once more.

“Merlin,” he sighs, almost imperceptibly. Then, louder, he asks, “Who do you have to hide secrets from? Specific people,” he clarifies with a light glare.

“Everyone, really, but a specific person would be telling,” Harry replies, sliding his own wand very visibly back into its holster. Snape follows the motion with his eyes. “If you’d really like to know, an Oath in return to not divulge the contents of what we’re speaking of would be greatly appreciated.”

Snape eyes him before sighing. “Fine.” His wand appears in his hand again-- forearm holster? Probably, very handy, that -- and he clears his throat. “I, Severus Tobias Snape, so do swear on my magic not to divulge, hint, or intimate Harry James Potter’s secrets to anyone in any way.” His wandtip flares and Harry feels just that bit more at ease.

‘He is committed to hiding your secrets. He would not be able to tell them even to me,’ Tom remarks, surprise bleeding through the bond.

“Now, if you please, the names.”

“May I ask why, sir?” Harry asks instead. “I understand you have some stake in my wellbeing, but I want to know for whose sake.”

Harry’s quite sure that Snape can read between the lines: who is your real master?

Snape takes what looks to be a fortifying breath, his back straightening and his shoulders squaring.

“Yours,” he says simply.

Surprise radiates through his bond with Tom, a sentiment that Harry shares.

“And what do you mean by that?” Harry asks. “For all I know, you could be saying it in regards to another’s plans.”

Snape almost looks approving, weirdly enough.

“Your mother was my first and greatest friend, and I loved her like a sister,” he starts. “And… it was partially my fault that the Dark Lord bore down on your parents as he did.” Snape pauses, looking at Harry as if to gauge his reaction. Harry just blinks at him.

Snape swallows.

“There was a prophecy. I overheard part of it, and wanting to please my Lord, I told Him of it. He chose to believe that it meant a child being born, and soon realised that only two children applied to the prophecy: one Neville Longbottom, and… you. And so, he chose to plan an attack on the Potters.”

Harry just sits there, face blank, as Snape studies him for a response. Eventually, Snape swallows and begins talking again.

“After I went to the Dark Lord to plead for your mother’s life, I… went to Dumbledore with the knowledge that he would be hunting the Potters.”

Rage rips through Harry, pouring out from the bond. ‘How dare he? Traitor!’ Harry doesn’t so much as blink at the pain radiating from his scar although he would dearly love to tell him to pipe down a tad.

“Although I believed in the majority of the Dark and the Dark Lord’s goals, I could not abide the thought of losing Lily,” Snape says, voice soft and choked with emotion-- so unlike him. “And then, that night, I was proven correctly. She died, and he disappeared. I went to Dumbledore soon after and he made me swear a Vow to protect you, Harry.”

Harry twists the Potter ring around his finger. Harry, he thinks. Snape called him Harry, and not Potter. A ploy to intimate closeness between them, or genuine care?

“Alright,” he says eventually. “First and foremost would be Dumbledore. Secondarily, you. I know you’re a spy, and I would like neither your Lord, Riddle--”

‘Brat.’

“--nor Dumbledore to know what’s in my head,” he says, not faltering in the least at Tom’s interjection.

I’m not calling you Tom to his face, and he has serious issues whenever anyone says Voldemort in his presence. Ergo, Riddle.

“What do you have to hide from Dumbledore?” Snape asks, leaning forward, completely ignoring the latter person in his admittance.

‘Fair enough,’ Tom grumbles back to him.

“Well, he wouldn’t take too kindly to his precious Saviour having any Slytherin inclinations, now would he?” Harry asks, a small, bitter smile quirking his lips. “Not that it’s quite a secret anymore.”

Would you mind terribly giving him to me? I doubt you want him any more, if he is truly not your man, Harry asks Tom suddenly. Since I am your ally, nothing would change much. He’d still brew whatever potions you need, when you need it. Besides, he’s Bound to protect me. It works for both of us.

“I… yes. He has scheduled an emergency Order meeting for later tonight,” Snape says. “Most likely to talk about your resort.”

“Figures,” Harry snorts. “He wants to make sure his pawn is still the right colour, I suppose.”

‘...fine. I do not wish for a traitor to stay in my ranks.’

“I wouldn’t quite say you’re his pawn,” Snape replies. “He’s set you up to be his king piece.”

Harry hums. “Not king, exactly, when I’m almost certain he expects me to die before this is all said and done. You can’t win the game if your king is taken, after all. Queen, perhaps? Important, but not vital.”

Snape chokes. “Excuse me?” He questions, voice faint. “Are you insinuating that Dumbledore is directly trying to manoeuvre you into a scenario where you die? Directly counter to the Vow he required that I take?”

Many thanks. We’ll have to work something out so Dumbledore still believes him to be yours, though. I assume you want your Mark off of him?

“I’m saying it outright, but yes,” Harry replies, juggling the two conversations expertly. Where to go from here? Ah, yes. “I know about the prophecy. The complete prophecy.”

‘Yes,’ Tom answers, tone clipped.

Snape’s face pales dramatically, going from simply untanned to milk-white. “How?” He chokes out, fingers tight on the arms of his chair.

“Well, first I was informed of its existence. And then, after my farce of a trial at the Ministry, I simply walked in and took it.” Harry grins like a cat that caught the canary with teeth to match. “It was easier than I thought it would be.” Not a lie. “They let in anyone with a prophecy on record, you know.”

If he’s to be mine, I don’t want you murdering or torturing him, the same as any other of my people. He’s going to go through torture enough being forced to serve me.

“That-- what does it--” Snape’s eyes flick towards the wall, seeking a clock that Harry hadn’t noticed before. Smart, keeping an eye on the time. “No. Answer this: who told you about the prophecy?”

Harry uncrosses his leg and settles his feet firmly against the ground, reaching out with his magic and the Slytherin Family magic, asking the castle to deny Snape exit if he ran for the door.

He gets an affirmative pulse of energy from Her and throws caution to the wind.

“Voldemort.”

Snape goes stock still, face frozen. His magic is even still, before it vibrates so intensely it makes Harry a bit apprehensive.

Amusem*nt-laced anger leaks through the bond. ‘That is acceptable. He shall have to contend with the rest of your ilk, as well. Black, the Weasley twins, and whomever you recruit in the future. The bare minimum, but acceptable non-harmful torture… I suppose.’

“The prophecy said that the Dark Lord shall mark the child as his equal, and that the child will have a power he knows not. And that ‘neither shall live while the other survives,’” Harry quotes. “Dumbledore wants me to die so he can dispose of Tom. However, since there’s a proper Unbreakable Vow in the picture, complete with a blessing and incantation, the prophecy is pretty much null and void.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not making this better, am I?” He mutters. True enough, he thinks back to Tom. “He won’t kill you.”

“He will,” Snape replies, voice just a hair under hysterical, his knuckles white from where he’s gripping the arms of his chair. “And if he does not, Dumbledore shall see me thrown into Azkaban. Either way, my life is now effectively over.”

“He won’t, nor will he torture you,” Harry replies sharply. “Neither of them will touch you. As much as you have Vowed to see me from harm, I very much doubt you like me by any stretch of the meaning; he’s said that he will cast you out from his service, but require you to come into mine , as an acceptable non-harmful form of torture for you.”

Snape narrows his eyes at Harry.

“Yes, nearly the exact same Oath that he used. I got the book from him,” Harry says. “Modified to not cause nearly as much pain as his, among other things.”

‘Tell him I will kill him if he does not accept.’

“I’m fairly certain he’ll try something if you don’t accept, though.”

“As if not accepting was an option,” Snape mutters.

Harry just offers him a crooked grin. “I promise I’m not as unbearable as I seem,” he says. “It’s by and large an act. Ever since he sent Rubeus bloody Hagrid to tell me that I was a wizard on my eleventh birthday I knew that he would want me to be someone else entirely.” Harry huffs a soft laugh. “There is a reason the Hat wanted me to be in Slytherin from the start, after all.”

Snape straightens himself up, visibly pulling himself back together.

I should get some good whiskey sent to him. Or brandy. Whatever he prefers. Perhaps in a gift basket. With potions ingredients? I can grab a jar of basilisk venom when I next go down to the Chamber. Yes, that seems right.

“I certainly have seen nothing to indicate the sort,” he sneers, at least sounding like he’s back to normal. “Do endeavour to show some of that this year.”

‘I will be leaving now,’ Tom says, and Harry pushes through an impression of him waving goodbye. He has no idea if it works or not. ‘He prefers gin.’

His tone is clipped and Harry gets exactly one hint of hurt before Tom is gone from his mind.

Ouch. He’s… really beat up over this, isn’t he?

“In the common room, maybe,” Harry snorts, hiding his wince. “If Dumbledore figures out I’ve put even a toe out of line he’ll either try to spell and potion me more or outright move up the timeline for my death.”

Snape sputters, even as Harry can feel the magic of his Oath disentangling itself from him. Thirty minutes are up, then.

“More?”

“Not that it will work,” Harry says, waving off his concern, literally and figuratively. “Not only do I have a spell to counter it, I now have these,” he says, dropping the glamour on his hand.

“Your Lordship?”

“Not that I knew anything about it before my third year,” Harry huffs. “Anything I’ve learned about the wizarding world, I’ve researched myself. He didn’t see fit to tell me that I wasn’t anything other than a freak before my eleventh birthday, after all.”

Snape’s face creases in a frown. “He told me, upon asking after your health, that you lived the life of a prince and wanted for nothing, receiving the best tutors the wizarding world had to offer.”

Harry blinks once, twice, before doubling over in laughter. He barely has the presence of mind to throw up the strongest block between himself and Tom that he can so the other man doesn’t know that there’s anything wrong before something in his chest breaks . He clasps his hand over his mouth as he wheezes, trying to pull himself together.

“A prince?” He giggles, recognizing his manic tone but not giving a whit of a damn about it. “A prince! Now, that takes the cake!”

“Explain,” Snape orders, but Harry is already standing.

“Sorry, sir, but your thirty minutes are up,” Harry says, wide smile fixed on his face. “You’ll have to ask again later.”

“Potter!”

Harry pauses where he’s halfway to the door and spins on his heel to face Snape. “You get one piece of information, and if I’m right, it should explain quite a bit.” He more so bares his teeth at him than grins. “I grew up with my Aunt Petunia, her husband and my Uncle Vernon, and their son and my cousin Dudley. Good night, Professor Snape.”

The door opens of its own accord, allowing Harry to stride out into the dungeons.

He walks and walks and walks, only slowing down and changing his posture when he catches sight of the first portrait.

I need somewhere to think, he directs at the castle, laying a hand on the wall next to him.

Magic tugs at his left pinky finger, where the Slytherin Heir ring would sit, drawing him forward. He follows it down the corridor to a wall, heeding the urging magic to place his hand on the wall.

It clicks lightly, rolling back to reveal a pathway. He follows it, the insistent tugging on his finger still present, forwards and then up a spiral staircase. He climbs for a few minutes before coming out in an area he recognizes as a ways down from the Gryffindor common room. He continues to follow the tug until he comes face to face with an empty stretch of wall across from a portrait of trolls wearing tutus.

What do I do now? He thinks, directing the intention into the castle.

He receives back an impression of his question and another tug on his finger.

I need a place to think, he thinks, following the tug back and forth three times.

A wave of magic causes him to lift his head, and he sees a door set in the stone where there was none before. A gentle tug on his finger urges him forward, and he opens the door to reveal a small room that looks remarkably like a mash-up of Tom’s study and Salazar’s office. It even has a wall full of books and a roaring fireplace to go with the plushly upholstered chairs.

Well.

It’s certainly a place to think. A very nice place to think, actually.

Harry stalks forward and all but collapses into an oversized armchair, burying his face in his hands.

That didn’t go half the way he wanted it to. Especially towards the end.

That feeling rises in his chest again. Snape Vowed to protect him and then Dumbledore told Snape that he was treated like a pampered prince.

A prince!

A hysterical laugh bubbles through his lips again.

“A prince!” He repeats aloud. “A bloody prince! Why yes, your highness, would you like another broken bone before we toss you in your cupboard? No? Well, too sodding bad!”

I really need something to destroy, he thinks, before I destroy myself.

The room abruptly warps around him, leaving only the chair that he’s sitting on as it twists and morphs to a long, grey, stone hall. Vaguely humanoid shapes spring up against the far wall, and various weapons drop into hooks forming on the walls.

It looks like a training room.

Harry shan’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though, and shoots to his feet, his wand snapping into his palm.

He strides forward and starts unleashing unholy hell on the dummies.

About a half hour later, with debris all around him, he stops, chest heaving.

Something hits the back of his hand, and Harry looks down to see a droplet of water. He blinks, frowning when his vision blurs.

He raises a hand to his cheek to discover that it’s wet.

Huh. I’m crying?

Now, Harry knows his strengths. His own emotions are not one of them. After all, who needs emotions when one has cold, hard logic?

Oh, divining others’ emotions was easy enough. He could tell by the minutest twitch around his Uncle’s eyes that he was about to get another beating, for example, or how some young idiot on the streets tilted his head just so indicated that he had a good hand for the current pot. But his own emotions, mucking up his head and chest?

Absolute bollocks at figuring out what’s what.

But, he has occlumency for that now. He clamps down on his emotions, boxing it up for later study. Far, far later.

He stumbles back to the chair, only feeling pleasantly drained. He flicks his wrist in a wandless and wordless tempus , checking the time.

Ten minutes past curfew. Great.

“As Heir Slytherin, may I have a Hogwarts house elf attend me?” He calls out to the room. A second later, a small elf pops in, bowing. They’re dressed in a grey tea cloth toga with green stitching around the hems.

“Master Heir be’s calling?”

“Hello,” Harry greets. “What’s your name?”

“Jibby’s name be Jibby!” The little elf squeaks. “What may Jibby be doing for Master Heir Slytherin?”

“Would you--” Oh, I need writing supplies.

At his thought, a small table with a stack of parchment and ink and quills appears at his elbow.

Harry shakes his head, amused. So this room responds to his every wish, evidently. Good to know.

“Would you take a note to Professor Snape for me? Make-- wait.” Harry closes his eyes slowly. Sometimes, he’s an idiot. “Would you be able to bring me to the Slytherin common room, if it’s empty?”

“Yes, sir, Jibby can be doing that!” He bows before popping away, likely to check the state of the common room.

The desk and parchment shimmer before disappearing, and the room starts to right itself into the previous form.

It’s all the way back to its first incarnation by the time Jibby pops back in.

“The Slythy common room is not being empty, sir,” the elf reports.

“Is my room in the dorms empty?” Harry asks.

“Jibby will be checking, Master Heir sir!” This time, he returns much more quickly. “Master Heir sir’s Heir room is empty, sir.”

“Can you take me there, please?”

Jibby beams at him and sticks out a hand, which Harry takes. A second later, he’s standing in what’s decidedly not a dorm room, but is Slytherin all the same.

“Where exactly am I?” He asks the little elf as he steps away from Harry.

“This is being the Slytherin Heir room, sir,” the elf explains. “It’s being at the very back of the dorms.”

sh*te.

“Do all the people in the dorm know it exists?” Harry asks, mind whirring. He can’t expose this particular secret too early to the rest of the snake pit, no matter how much regard it would gain him. It’s not exactly well known, but some of them know exactly who the Lord of House Slytherin is, and that would generate too many questions before he’s truly ready.

“No, sir! The door is being hidden until Master Heir wants it not to be!”

Harry grins. “Thank you for your help, Jibby,” he says to the small elf.

Jibby squeaks, blushing. “Is there anything else Jibby can be helping Master Heir with?”

Harry glances around the room, eyes alighting on his trunk.

“Is the regular dorm room set up for me as well?” Harry asks. He’ll need to maintain some kind of cover until the time comes to reveal it.

“Yes, sir!”

“Is it empty right now?” Harry asks, mind whirring. The existence of the Heir room is a great secret and even better hidey-hole, but he really shouldn’t sleep in it. He needs to be seen tonight, at least by his roommates.

“Yes, sir. All the snakeys is being down in the common room!”

“Can you take me there, and take my stuff as well?” Harry asks. “Thank you for showing me the Heir room, but I can’t take it just yet. It’s supposed to be a secret for now,” Harry says, bringing a finger up to tap against his lips in the universal gesture for quiet .

Jibby nods furiously. “Jibby will be keeping Master Heir Slytherin’s secrets!” He says, puffing his chest out. Harry feels a small wave of magic and his eyes widen. That… was binding. Wow. “And Jibby can be taking Master Heir and his things!”

Another second and he’s in what looks like a proper dorm room, except there’s only two beds.

One of the walls has an Italian flag on it, among other things, so Harry guesses his roommate is Blaise Zabini.

Potter, P, Zabini, Z. No one else in the middle. Makes sense.

“One last thing, Jibby. Would you put wards on my bed and my trunk so that no one but me is able to get into them?” He asks. Of course, he can cast his own wards, but unless the person trying to menace his things or his person is exceptionally skilled and could actually identify it as elf magic and then actually have the thought to bring an elf, it would be extra safe.

“Of course, Master Heir!” And with a snap of his fingers, it’s done. Harry can feel the magic take hold. It feels like a hearth and good food, if those things were feelings instead of things.

“Thank you, Jibby,” he repeats. “May I call on you again if I need to?”

“Yes, Master Heir sir!” Jibby chirps, blushing again. “You’s be having a good night, sir!”

He pops out with a bow, and Harry sucks in a large lungful before exhaling noisily.

This is the day that will never end, he thinks, shaking his head.

He lifts his wand. The base ward on his bed has a set of runes carved into the cardinal points on the bed frame followed by intricate wand movements and a lengthy incantation, followed by consecrating it with his blood. He found it in one of Slytherin’s books, down in the Chamber. It’s… not exactly Dark, he thinks, but it’s pretty close. A very, very dark Grey, if one will, saying nothing about the inclusion of blood. It’s kind of a last defence, but triggered by intention. He doesn’t want to violently incapacitate someone breaking his wards with good intentions, after all.

He layers other wards over it. The penultimate one is an alarm ward, to more vigorously wake him than, say, the second layer, which is a simple bell alarm.

The third deepest is a freezing ward, similar to an impediment jinx, except longer lasting and tied to an area. The very top one provides sting to whomever tries to touch his bed. No bad intentions is a mild shock, all the way to lethal intent, which is much more debilitating. Triggering that one will ping him wherever he is.

It’s not Light, but it isn’t Dark either. Still, having a Grey ward as his outmost ward one will generate chatter as much as a Dark one would.

His trunk gets much the same treatment, save for the modified rune-held ward fueled with his blood, before he pulls it open to retrieve his pyjamas.

They’re ratty, old ones, but he takes his wand to them to freshen them up, using a fabric transfiguration charm he picked up from one of the random books he allowed himself for ‘fun reading’.

Not exactly high class like Malfoy’s undoubtedly is, but passable.

After he hits himself with a couple hygiene charms, he pulls out a book and climbs behind his curtains, shooting a one way silencing charm at the hangings.

He reads for about thirty minutes before the door to the dorm opens up. He instantly douses his lumos .

“--wonder if he went to Dumbledore about it,” Nott mutters. “He obviously wasn’t very happy to be sorted here.”

“Well,” Zabini answers. “He hasn’t-- cazzo . Nott, look.”

Footsteps draw closer to his bed. He can just sort of see outlines of them through the vaguely sheer curtains. They shouldn’t be able to see in, though.

A hand reaches towards the seam of the hangings and instantly withdraws as the owner of the hand yelps.

“Merda! ” Zabini curses. “Well, he’s certainly in there. Didn’t hurt much, but still. Warning shot?”

Time to start the game, I guess.

Harry cancels the one way silencer with a snap of his fingers and opens the curtains with a wave of his hand, simultaneously throwing up privacy spells just inside of the walls of the room and a heavy duty locking charm on the door.

“If you don’t have a burn that means you’re just curious,” Harry states, not entirely suppressing his grin at the way the two take a healthy step back. “It’d be worse if you wanted to hurt me.”

“Merlin, Potter, that’s some neat spellwork,” Zabini grins, hand shaking out the sting exaggeratedly. “Teach me it?”

“For a price,” Harry responds mildly, shutting his book.

“Oh hoh!” Zabini crows. “Maybe there’s actually some Slytherin in you, little Lion!”

Harry just lets his smile widen, setting his book by his pillows. “You’d think the Hat would stick just anyone in any house?” He questions.

“Anything seems possible for Gryffindor’s Golden Boy,” Nott mutters without heat.

“Why, thank you for the compliment,” he drawls. He slides off the bed to his feet, a little gratified to see the half step back that they take. “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever formally introduced ourselves,” he says, a small, sharp smile rising on his face.

Zabini eyes him with a small amount of wariness. “No, I don’t think we have,” he says slowly.

Harry’s lips quirk just a bit more and he sticks out his hand, greeting the two as equals instead of inferiors. “Well met, Heir Zabini, Heir Nott. My name is Harry James Potter, Lord Potter, Heir Black…” He trains his eyes on them, “...Heir Slytherin. Nice to formally meet the two of you.”

Nott’s eyes go wide like saucers and Zabini mutters yet another curse in what’s undoubtedly Italian. Nott recovers first, though, and moves forward to grasp Harry’s forearm.

“Well met, Lord Potter,” he says, voice smooth, hand shaking just a bit. He lets Harry’s forearm go and steps back with a shallow bow anyway, putting himself at least a little below Harry. “I and House Nott are pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Well met, Lord Potter,” Zabini says next, stepping forward to grasp Harry’s forearm as well when he offers his hand. “Greetings from the Contessa as well. House Zabini welcomes you.”

Harry just smiles as he steps back, dipping his head into a shallow bow as well.

Interesting.

“Now, you can both understand why I wouldn’t like this to leave this room just yet, yes?” Harry asks. “And at the very least, just imagine Malfoy’s face when I pull the same stunt-- in the common room”

Both nod, Nott a bit more vigorously than Zabini.

“Merda , Potter,” Zabini breathes. “How did you get sorted to Gryffindor in the first place?”

“A well reasoned argument and a small amount of begging,” Harry answers primly, bringing his hands to clasp behind his back as he straightens. “The Hat wanted me in Slytherin from the first time it was set on my head. I managed to convince them that my life and education would be much harder if I didn’t go where the Headmaster obviously wanted me to go.”

“From the very beginning?” Nott asks, eyes wide.

Harry just snorts. “Even just looking at my ward scheme, what signals to you virtuous Golden Lion?”

Nott peers around him, and Harry steps aside with a grand sweep of his arm, inviting him forward.

“Ward scheme,” Nott mutters, barely audible. His eyes dart over the wood of the frame and he pulls out his wand and casts what Harry’s pretty sure are some serious detection charms. “Bloody hell,” he breathes. “I don’t think a single one of these are pure Light, and I can’t even identify two of them.”

Zabini whistles, high and impressed.

“And one of them is rune-bound! Blood rune-bound!” Nott says, stepping a bit closer while still staying out of the boundaries. Smart. “Potter, I haven’t seen you in a single Ancient Runes class-- what ?”

“Self study,” Harry replies, shrugging. “I literally can’t tell you why I chose the electives that I did-- haven’t the foggiest, no recollection whatsoever-- and that should tell you something.”

Both boys pause at that, as if the information is registering, before their eyes go wide.

“Mmhmm,” Harry hums. “So take that as a preface to why I won’t be acting at all friendly with any Slytherin outside of the common room, maybe save Zabini. Neutral territory and all that.”

“ Porca puttana , Potter,” Zabini says, shaking his head. “You’re really in it, aren’t you?”

“That’s an understatement,” he snorts as Nott moves back to stand next to Zabini once more, the former eyeing him with a tentatively awed expression as the latter shakes his head incredulously.

“I would like to thank the two of you for not immediately going for my blood, by the way,” Harry says with a charming smile. It’s Golden Boy-adjacent, but with far too many teeth for that persona. “I wasn’t sure if I could make the… acquaintances I needed so soon. Hence the ward scheme around my bed.”

Harry shifts his weight to his other foot, clasping his hands behind his back again, urging the Slytherin Family magic towards the door and locking it up tight with a little help from Hogwarts Herself, right on top of his locking charm.

Play ball.

Zabini opens his mouth to say something but then pauses, before smiling. It’s sharp in a way that Harry rather likes, because a Slytherin’s not a proper Slytherin if they don’t do something brilliantly sneaky once in a while.

Zabini seems like a proper Slytherin.

“Acquaintances, hmm?”

“Caught that, did you?” Harry tips his weight forward, dropping his chin just a little, casting his gaze up at Zabini. “Formal alliances would be quite nice, but I do understand that neither of you are Lords of your houses yet. Informally is another story altogether. Or… something else.”

Here, he shifts his gaze to Nott. He obviously feels the weight of his gaze, because Nott’s eyes snap to Harry’s. “I can’t tell either of you everything I would like to, yet, since I have no real guarantee of your silence, but I can tell you this: Nott, your father won’t care what you do in regards to me. And,” he says, shooting a quick glance at Zabini to gauge his reaction before bringing his gaze back to meet Nott’s, “Neither will He.”

Nott inhales sharply and Zabini freezes.

“Oh, so we’re doing this now now,” Zabini murmurs. “We wouldn’t be able to leave this room with these memories if not, yes? I can feel your spellwork around us.”

“I’m glad you catch on quickly. But not exactly.” He grins, all teeth. “You’d keep your memories, but I would bind them so you wouldn’t be able to talk about it in front of anyone not in the know, give it up via legilimency, or blurt it out under veritaserum. You’d still remember, still be able to think about it, but not tell anyone.

“I wouldn’t want you to feel like you didn’t have a choice, after all,” Harry continues. “Fear and desperation are important tools, but they only go so far. They create more backstabbers than real... friends, after all.”

He knows he’s not being quite as subtle as he could be, but Merlin if he didn’t want to just finally get to his bloody bed and sleep .

“Santi , Potter,” Zabini breathes. “Just whose side are you on?”

“What will it be?” Harry just asks instead. “A lip locker, permanently or otherwise, or an Oath?”

The words hang between them almost tangibly in the silence.

Nott takes a breath before stepping forward. “You’re powerful, Potter. You’re gathering followers, not friends. What do we get in return?”

“Hey, I never said not friends,” Harry fake-pouts. Mostly. “I am quite serious about making sure you’re both completely on board, and that you truly do have a choice. And anything like a Mark would be more for your protection and fast relay of information, anyway.”

Zabini startles at the word Mark, but Nott hardly moves at all, even to breathe.

“You’d get power, first and foremost. All of my knowledge will be at your fingertips.” He sweeps an arm towards his bed. “You said you couldn’t identify two of my wards. There’s a lot more where that came from. I have the ancestral libraries of several Houses at my disposal. Politically, you’d have quite the bloc with all my votes, if you manage to successfully pitch me your ideas. Training, too, if you need it.”

He curls his finger in a come hither motion and the book on his bed shoots into his hand. Or, rather, hovers in place above his hand. He suppresses a grin at their agog expressions. “I have quite a lot of skills that hardly anyone’s seen, after all, and would be amenable to teaching them.”

“What else?” Zabini presses. “You said ‘first and foremost.’”

“Protection,” Harry answers promptly, sending the book spinning gently end over end back to his bed with a lackadaisical wave of his hand, dropping it gently to rest near his pillows once more. “And prestige. There is a war coming. It’s not going to be exactly like you think it is, but you’d be on the winning side.”

“But is that your side, or are you on another’s?” Zabini questions.

Harry sighs. “If that’s a deal breaker, let me cast the lip locker first. The spell’s not harmful to you, but that information getting out will be harmful to me.”

“No…” Zabini says slowly. “You’re on the Dark Lord’s side, aren’t you? That’s why it would be dangerous. And why Nott’s father wouldn’t care, and why… He wouldn’t care. Am I right?”

“You are correct,” Harry says with a nod. He was dropping hints, after all. And maybe the hints were the size of the Atlantic, but that's all the more reason for them to figure it out quickly. “But I can almost guarantee our arrangement is different than you think it is. So, the lip locker.”

“Hey!” Zabini protests. “Neither of us gave you our answers!”

“I won’t be able to Mark the two of you until Sunday,” Harry says flatly. “I’m not taking the chance with Dumbledore and his wordless and wandless legilimens or his loose wandhand to obliviate you after. Especially since he most definitely knows that you’re my roommate and thus close to me-- at the minimum physically.

“That is, of course, if both of you are going to choose to be Marked,” Harry continues. “Otherwise, I can make this whole conversation go away for both parties’ protection.”

They share glances before turning back to him and nodding.

“I will,” Zabini says. “I’ll take your Mark.”

“As will I,” Nott adds, standing straighter.

Magic ripples softly around them, echoing their pronouncements.

“That’s semi-binding,” Harry mutters, blinking. “Alright. That’s good, at least. I’m going to cast the lip locker now. It’ll do as it sounds-- if you try to tell anyone about anything we just talked about, your mouth will just close and you won’t be able to talk unless you change the subject.”

Harry’s wand slides into his hand and he raises it slowly.

“Prohibar labioispor,” he chants, moving his wand in a deosil circle in the direction of Zabini’s face, followed by a slash upwards with a loop at the end, vaguely reminiscent of a silencing charm.

Zabini shudders as the magic washes over him. “Oh, that’s definitely Dark.”

Harry just offers him a lopsided smile while giving Nott the same treatment.

“Well, gentlemen,” he says, flicking his fingers outward from his palm like a bursting bubble, cancelling all the locking and privacy spells around the room, “Thank you for your time. But I’d rather like to get to bed. I’ve barely slept a wink in the last twenty four hours.” He dips his head. “Have a good night.”

He clambers back into the bed and the curtains snap shut behind him, the one way silencer springing up.

Harry points his wand at the hangings. "Pervidere unus.”

Instantly, the hangings become transparent-- but from only his side. It’s like a muggle one way mirror.

Nott and Zabini exchange glances, briefly sparing one towards Harry’s bed, before heading over to Zabini’s bed. They both climb in, kicking off their shoes as they go. He gets maybe a few seconds of murmured conversation before their own silencing spell goes up.

Well. That was certainly eventful.

He’s in Slytherin now and has Snape and two of his yearmates on his side.

Ach. He winces. Nott. I hope Tom won’t be too cross with me for stealing someone he might already see as his.

Well. They’ll talk tomorrow some time.

I wonder if I could Floo out of that room from earlier… or the Chamber, maybe.

I really need to learn how to apparate.

But, that can wait for tomorrow.

He casts the counterspell to the transparency charm and burrows under the covers. Tomorrow.

Chapter 8: ...and into the fire.

Chapter Text

Harry, a habitual early riser, is up before Zabini despite his general lack of sleep. The other boy’s hangings are still closed up tight; he’s not sure if Nott is in there with him or not, but all things considered, it’s not exactly his business.

He swings the Cloak around his shoulders, Peverell ring humming, before he steps out of his dorm room with a book tucked under his arm and no real destination on his mind just yet. He needs to figure out the layout of the Slytherin dorms since he never actually walked through it before.

And besides, it would be a powerful move to just be in the common room before anyone else, just casually reading with a nice cuppa. Maybe he can get Jibby to bring him something?

His room is at the end of a small hallway, his name engraved over Zabini’s on a small silver plate set on the door. It’s all dark wood on dark stone, remarkably like the furnishings of the ancestral Slytherin manor that Tom’s set up in. There are two more doors down the hall-- Nott has his own room, it looks like, and Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are all in the same room.

Why weren’t Nott and Zabini roomed together, then?

Politics, he realises a second later. Nott and Zabini might not have as much political clout as Malfoy but what they do have is still noteworthy. And it’s not like the two were ever deprived of each others’ company, it seems.

Harry suppresses a snicker at the juvenile thought before he eases out of the unmarked door into a… smaller common room? Does every year have their own space?

Bloody hell. This is amazing.

He should have accepted the Hat’s decision in the first year, bugger Dumbledore and his machinations. The ‘cosy’ (read: stifling) tower and all it’s loud Lions have nothing on the Slytherins and their dorms.

The two other doors in the small common area lead to the girls’ rooms and the rest of the dorms, respectively. Harry eases out into the main thoroughfare, glancing up and down the corridor. There’s seven doors, each emblazoned with a silver number, one through seven, dotted on each side of the wall as evenly as possible for an odd number.

At the end of the hall is a blank wall. Harry’s Slytherin Heir ring hums as he approaches it.

That must be the Heir room, then. Good to know.

He turns on his heel and stalks down to the general common room. It’s empty, but there are fires roaring in the fireplaces and a small cup of something pops into existence as he nears a plush armchair near one of them-- the one with the portrait of a familiar large, coiled, sleeping snake over it.

A smile tugs at his lips.

“Thank you,” he calls out softly to the air. He can just faintly hear a surprised squeak before a plate of scones and fruit drops next to the cup, followed by a barely audible pop of the house elf leaving.

He casts a quick homenum revelio to guarantee that no one is there with him before swinging his Cloak off and sitting down, methodically folding it up before tucking it away in an expanded pocket.

Harry picks up the cup and takes a sip, sighing in contentment. Just the way he likes it. The Hogwarts house elves are truly the best.

He pulls out his book, crosses one knee over the other, and starts to read.

Once he drains the last drop of tea a time later, a small pop sounds at his elbow. He looks over to see a refilled cup of tea just as he likes it, but also a beautifully patterned ceramic pot of tea with a small plate of sugar cubes and matching patterned creamer.

“Thank you,” Harry calls out softly again.

More scones drop out of thin air and land on his plate, this time speckled with red berries and topped with thick icing.

He turns back to his book with a smile.

That’s how the first person down twenty minutes later finds him.

Harry sees Cassius Warrington stop abruptly at the bottom of the staircase to the rooms from the corner of his eye and calmly takes a small bite from his scone before using a small push of magic to turn the page in his book.

Warrington turns on his heel and hurries back up the staircase.

Harry allows himself to grin sharply at his book-- heart thumping with excitement in anticipation of potentially scaring the sh*te out of the seventh years-- before composing himself again, placing the scone down and retrieving his cup.

He wonders for the barest second if Dumbledore was right in his second year, that Tom’s soul shard-- for all that he never said exact words-- influenced him in some way. And then he realises that he rather does not care. Even if it did do something to his psyche at a young age, it’s only helped him.

If he was any softer, he would have died long before coming to Hogwarts.

Warrington returns ten minutes and another cup of tea later with his friends and fellow Quidditch team members Adrian Pucey and Miles Bletchley behind him. They march into the common room shoulder to shoulder, heading straight for his chair.

“Potter,” Warrington greets. “You’re playing Quidditch this year?”

Harry blinks at the pages of his book before looking up at him. Actually, he hadn’t thought about that. Should he? Socially, it would gain him more ground. It’s also good for keeping himself in shape. But would it be in character for his persona to join the ‘opposing’ team, no matter how much he might like the game?

“I assume you want me to play Seeker?” Harry asks wryly, tucking his bookmark between the pages and closing the book. “May I give you my answer Monday afternoon? I want to see what people are saying first. Being on the Slytherin Quidditch team might not be a statement I want to send to certain people.”

Warrington blinks at him while Bletchley gapes.

Pucey just laughs. “Pay up, boys,” he grins. “Twenty galleons, each of you.”

“What was the bet?” Harry asks mildly.

“That you were more than you seemed,” Pucey grins as his two friends groan.

Harry shakes his head. “I swear, everyone is either insulting the Hat or praising me.”

“Praising?” Bletchley asks.

“Well,” Harry grins, small and sharp and sly, “If you couldn’t figure out that I was anything other than what I seemed to be, then I was doing my job excellently, now wasn’t I?”

Pucey grins back at him and Warrington gets a look in his eye.

“What do I have to do to get you on the team, Potter?” He stops, shakes his head. “No, what would be the easiest way to help you get on the team?”

Warrington, unlike what Harry had assumed, does seem to have a proper modicum of intelligence to enact his cunning.

“March up to me in a public or semi-public place in front of my friends,” Harry starts after a few seconds of thinking, letting his lip curl just the slightest bit at the last word. “Offer me the position in a way that makes it seem more like an order. Then walk away. I’ll do my best to look suitably baffled like I hadn’t even thought of how I would play Quidditch this year, then be suitably mopey because why would the little Lion want to play for the snakes?”

He grins wolfishly at Warrington. “Hopefully, they’ll try to talk me into playing ‘anyway,’” Harry says, lifting his hands from where they’re laced together on the top of his book to scribe air quotes around the last word, “Because they know just how much I love playing Quidditch, and wouldn’t it just be a shame if something else bad happened for poor little Harry Potter this year on top of being kicked out of his beloved House? Even if it meant playing for the ‘slimy Slytherins,’” Harry finishes, sneering at the last words.

By the end of his instructions, Warrington is grinning back at him. “You’re alright, Potter,” he says gruffly, digging a coin purse out of his pocket to slap a token into Pucey’s hand. “And take your money, you damn ponce. I should know better than to bet against you at this point.”

Pucey just winks at him before sliding his wand out and gesturing a chair over. He sits down beside Harry and Warrington and Bletchley stand next to him.

“You’re the wildcard this year, Potter,” Pucey says.

Ah. I see what’s happening. Is Pucey the ‘King’?

A little known fact about the internal workings of the Slytherin House is its predilection towards order. While some would think that the snake pit is one giant free for all like it’s namesake, the reality couldn’t be more different. Everyone knows their place in their year and in the house in its entirety.

At the very top of the hierarchy is the King or Queen, the de facto leader of the entire house, with each year Prince or Princess under them.

If Harry can secure Pucey’s support now, he can rest more securely. Or, well, if he doesn't-- or can't-- it would just be one more thing on his list of things to do this year: topple the King.

But he likes Pucey so far, so he smiles at him, a mostly polite thing with only the slightest twist to the corners that would suggest otherwise.

“Why, thank you,” Harry grins. “I aim to please.”

Pucey huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head lightly. “You do, don’t you.”

It’s a statement rather than a fact and Harry can see that his previous feeling is not misplaced. Pucey catches on rather quickly, it seems.

Harry tips his head forward. “Take this as a preemptive apology, then, because I’ll have to continue being… ungenial, shall we say, to my House outside of our walls.”

“I understand,” Pucey grins. “And you do your job excellently, by the way. No one from Slytherin has ever once thought you were something other than what you were showing us and that’s quite a difficult thing to accomplish.”

“Well,” Harry drawls, “No offence, but I had to fool someone with a much more... intent eye, shall we say, than any of yours.”

Pucey hums. “I see.” He rhythmically taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. “What is it that you intend to do in Slytherin?”

Very to the point, almost in an un-Slytherin-like way.

“Am I that transparent?” Harry asks, amused. He knows he’s not-- Pucey is just that good. “I won’t start anything, but just know I will end it if it happens. Other than that, I’ve already made a few… friends.”

Pucey gives him a heavy side eye but Harry just smiles a perfectly nice smile at him.

“How about this?” Harry proposes. “I don’t undermine your authority, and you let me act however I want otherwise. It’s not like I intend to bring the entire house to heel, after all. I just want myself and my friends to be left alone to… prepare.”

Pucey lets out a whistling breath and a muttered, incredulous, “Bloody hell.”

“All I would need from you, King ,” Harry says, watching the way that Pucey starts a little with an almost morbid fascination, “Is to impose an Act of Silence on the topic of… well, me in general outside of the dorms. It would be to both our benefits.”

An Act of Silence is a Dark tradition, usually used after large gatherings like balls, but there’s no way that King Pucey doesn’t know it.

Usually, it stays just a tradition-- one that everyone adheres to on pain of dishonour and/ or death, depending on the severity of the infraction against their fellows-- but there is an actual spell to enforce the sort of Silence that the Act demands. It would be similar to the lip locker spell that he put on Nott and Zabini, but more large scale.

Plus, it’s mostly the little firsties that he’s worried about spreading anything, as well as the younger years. There’s no way they’d be able to stand up against even a surface scan from Dumbledore.

“Do I even want to know how you know all of this?” Pucey asks wryly, rhetorically. “I can do that.” He shakes his head as he stands, Warrington and Bletchley coming to flank him. “You, Potter, are an entirely different beast than I was expecting.”

And Harry just smiles.

He’s still there reading his book and sipping tea forty five minutes later when a group of little first years come tottering down the steps. They freeze when they see Harry, but he just smiles at them and gives them a little wave.

It’s not even ten minutes later when one of them comes up to him, a blankly determined look on his face, like he was trying his hardest to mask all emotion, but didn’t get there all the way.

Cute.

“Well met,” Harry says, sliding his bookmark back into his book. “I’m Harry Potter. What might your name be?”

“Well met,” the boy replies, just a little shakily. Not scared, he gleans from a few leaking thoughts-- mildly apprehensive, though, and excited. “My name is Beaumont Alden, Heir Alden.”

“How may I help you, Heir Alden?” House Alden was neither Ancient nor Noble, but it was getting up there, nearly old enough to soon tip into Ancient status, if he remembers correctly. They actually have a seat on the Wizengamot through the virtue of their current Lord, Bryson Alden, being part of the Ministry… somehow. He doesn’t quite remember exactly what position he holds, but it’s probably an unimportant position in the long run, then.

Alden shifts from foot to foot, eyes more on Harry’s hands than his face, like he wanted to be looking at his feet but he knew not to behave like that. Then, he blurts, “Did you really outfly a dragon?”

Harry smiles softly. “Yes, I did. She wouldn’t listen to me, so I had to go with my backup plan.”

Alden’s eyes raise to Harry’s face as he co*cks his head. “Listen to you?” He repeats, plainly puzzled.

“If you want to go get your friends, I can tell you all about it,” Harry offers, glancing over to the four other nervously shifting first years with a grin.

Soon enough he has a ring of five eleven year olds sitting in front of him.

“So, Heir Alden, do you want to introduce your friends?” Harry asks.

“Oh!” The boy perks up. “Call me Beaumont! This is Anaïs Romilly--” the petite blonde girl to his left smiles shyly-- “Phoebe Langley, Heiress Langley--” the brunette next to Romilly nods-- “Finley Warrick--” the androgynous child to his right waves-- “And Benji Ogden, Heir Ogden.”

Benji Ogden. Merlin.

Ogden, of Ogden’s Finest Firewhisky, is a huge name. He wasn’t aware that Tiberius Ogden’s heir was so young, but this is a chance he can’t miss. Especially since Ogdens usually sort Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw more than Gryffindor or Slytherin.

Harry smiles at them. “Well met, all.”

“Well met,” four young voices chorus back at him.

“I promised Beaumont a story about outflying a dragon. Does anyone else want to hear it?” Harry asks, his smile twisting into a wicked grin.

All five seem liable to nod themselves right over with how hard they’re bobbing their heads.

“So, let me set the scene…”

Twenty minutes later he’s talking animatedly to the five children who are hanging on his every word. He doesn’t pause a single second when he sees some fourth year troop out into the common room. It takes them a couple seconds to register exactly what they’re seeing.

“...I practised the Summoning charm a lot beforehand, but I was still nervous standing there right in front of the dragon. It was very large and extremely spiky and very, very mad that people wanted her babies,” Harry says, leaning in as if telling a great secret. They all solemnly nod.

The fourth year turns on their heel and hurries back into the stairway.

No doubt to wake up all their yearmates to gawk at Harry Potter.

“But my first plan was to just talk to her. See, dragons are similar to snakes. If I could just ask her to give me the big golden egg in her clutch, then everything would have been so much easier.”

Romilly gasps, then blushes so hard her entire face reddens. Which technically isn’t that hard since she’s fairer than Malfoy, which is saying something.

“I-- you can talk to snakes?” She whispers.

Harry nods, smiling. “I can. I’m a parselmouth, just like our House’s Founder, Salazar Slytherin.”

‘That’s so cool,’ she projects out of sheer excitement, her baby blue eyes wide and sparkling. “I have a snake, Mister Potter. Would you talk to her for me?”

“Of course!” Harry replies, grin lighting up his face. “And call me Harry, okay?”

She shoots to her feet with a determined nod, strands of blonde hair whipping around her face. When she reaches the door to the short staircase, she has to edge past what looks like the entirety of the fourth year Slytherins.

They all freeze when they notice that Harry’s looking towards them.

But then Romilly is barging back in and they all literally jump back, seeing the distinctively colored snake in the terrarium in her hands.

“This is Noir!”

Harry blinks at the snake. Noir is… a coral snake. A blue coral snake, if he’s not mistaken.

“Is Noir your familiar?” He asks carefully. Coral snakes are highly venomous, and while this type doesn’t usually kill doesn’t mean it can’t. He has no idea how she got her into the school.

“Yes,” she responds shyly. “We lived in India for a while when I was very young, and one day my papa found her in my crib. She was very young and had come up when it rained, or so the Abhyasi told us. He was in the house speaking to papa about business at the time, and papa was very thankful that he was a Speaker. He told Noir not to hurt me or anyone else, and that we would take care of her if she wished.”

Harry hums. “Alright. Hello, Noir,” he greets the snake. She perks up in her terrarium. In the portrait, the snake stirs.

‘A Speaker!’ She exclaims.

“What do you want to tell her?” He asks Romilly, who, like the rest of the Slytherins in the room, is looking at him goggle-eyed.

“Can you tell her hello from me?”

Harry smiles. “Your little Mistress greets you. Do you have anything you want to tell her? ”

‘I want a mouse,’ the snake pouts. ‘It is cold here.’

“Noir says that she wants a mouse and that it’s cold,” Harry informs her. “May I cast a warming charm on her terrarium?”

Romilly bobs her head. “Please!”

“I will make it warm for you. Be still.”

Obligingly, the coral snake stills, lying it’s head flat on the leaf litter. Harry slips his wand from its holster and swishes his wand in time with the incantation, not wanting to show off any untoward magical prowess to the growing crowd.

What seems like the entire third year and much of the second has joined the gaggle, spreading out through the room like a growing weed.

‘Many thanks, Speaker,’ Noir says, burrowing most of her body into the detritus, her little red head poking out.

“Can you tell her that she’ll get her mouse when it’s time?” Romilly asks him. “She just had one yesterday.”

Harry nods. “Your little Mistress says that your mouse will come when it usually does. Apologies.”

The snake burrows deeper, grumbling. ‘That is just what the Other Speaker would say. When will I talk with you again, Speaker? It is boring in the small-box that I have to stay in because of the big-cold-nest.’

“When your Mistress allows me,” he responds, a light laugh working its way out. “I will tell her to bring you out often if you promise not to bite anyone. Your venom is strong and can be deadly to us.”

‘I know! ’ The snake whines. ‘Other Speaker told me. I promise.’

“She’s a very opinionated snake, Ms. Romilly,” Harry says. “She says that she’s bored because she has to stay in her terrarium while in the castle and if you choose to take her out, she promises not to bite. Again, evidently, because the other Speaker told her not to.”

The upper years all pale at that, but Romilly beams. “Thank you, Harry! And call me Anaïs!” She reaches out for the lid of the terrarium but frowns. “Does she want to come out now?”

“Do you want to come out now, Noir? ” Harry asks her.

‘No. I will sleep,’ comes the response from the now mostly buried snake.

“She just wants to sleep,” Harry translates. “I don’t blame her. If she’s from India, she’s used to hotter temperatures than the Scottish highlands.”

Anaïs blushes. “I know. I wanted to bring her along, though. She’s been with me since I was four.”

Harry’s just thankful for familiar bonds, because Noir would be, to put it indelicately, kicking it in a couple years if she was a regular snake and he’s not sure that Anaïs would be able to handle that.

“I get it,” Harry says. “I’ve got a familiar too, my owl Hedwig. She’s very smart and I don’t know what I would do without her.” Harry smiles at the group of little first years. “Speaking of my owl, I have to write a few letters. Do you want to continue the story now, or another day?”

He can’t help the way a soft laugh bubbles out of him from the round of groans that his words elicit.

“Really, it would be no trouble,” Harry insists.

“No, we can wait!” Finley Warrick pipes up. “Whenever my da writes letters on a weekend, it’s important,” they say with all the gravitas of an eleven year old’s boundless wisdom.

“How about later tonight after dinner then?” Harry proposes.

The five exchange glances and nod firmly to one another.

“We can bring the others, too,” Benji Ogden says. “They’re gonna-- going to be jealous,” he corrects himself. “They didn’t want to get up,” he says, grinning up at Harry like he’s confiding in him.

“Ah, I see,” Harry replies. “You all must have been very excited to have gotten up so early. Do you know anyone else in the upper years?”

They all shake their heads.

“If you want, then, I can show you around the castle sometime,” he offers. The little firsties would make excellent messengers if he got them looking up to him, yes, but he also just genuinely likes kids. They’re very cute. “I even know where the kitchens are,” he leans forward, bringing his finger up to his lips in the universal gesture for silence or secret.

Their eyes get big at that as they stand.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter!” They chorus, even Beaumont and Anaïs, who he had told to call him Harry.

“Just call me Harry, alright?” He smiles. “It was nice meeting you all.”

He drums his fingers on his book as they scamper off. The room is mostly full-- or, well, not full because the Slytherin common room is actually pretty bloody large-- of third and fourth years, with a smattering of second years and the random sixth year.

None of his yearmates are up yet-- or, if they are, they’re not here yet.

Should he leave to postpone the inevitable confrontation between himself and Malfoy, or should he stay?

He does have letters to write but he also wants to finish his book.

And he wants to establish himself.

Well. He should probably at least wait until King Pucey is in the room with-- and, ah, there he is, walking in with Warrington and Blechley and quite a few other seventh years and one sixth year.

Pucey catches his gaze and gives him a quick smile and nod.

Judging by the way about seventy percent of people stop staring at him, the others have gotten the message-- King Pucey approves of their newest and strangest housemate.

Whoever isn’t here, though, won’t have the same advantage. He tucks his grin at the thought far, far away.

Decision made, he opens up his book again, tucking the bookmark to the back of the book once more, hand going for his-- newly refreshed-- cup of tea.

He’s actually nearly three fourths of the way through the book before the first of his yearmates troop on down-- a group of Nott, Zabini, Davis, Bulstrode, and Greengrass.

Interesting. I would have thought that Bulstrode would be attached to the Malfoy clique.

While Nott and Zabini don’t sit right next to him-- seemingly more a practical choice than a personal one, seeing as his chair next to the fireplace is freestanding with no other furniture beside it, Pucey having moved his chair back before he left-- they settle down near enough that he would call it within his sphere of influence.

He can just catch snippets of their conversation. Either they hadn’t bothered with a privacy charm or it was one of the boys that cast it and included him in it.

Unsurprisingly, they’re talking about him. He’d wager a good amount of gold that the majority of the conversations going on right now in the common room are about him, though, so they’re not especially noteworthy.

Or, they wouldn’t be, except the boys seem to be doing their damnedest to get around the lip locker. But it does sound like they’re trying to get the girls to join him, which is nice. Greengrass is a powerful Dark-leaning Grey name, Bulstrode is a middling name in the Dark faction, and Davis is an up-and-coming name despite the recent scorn they’ve received from having a muggleborn marry into the family.

Which was a boon, he thinks, watching Davis’ magic move around her, easy as breathing and as powerful as a gale. Add that to how he’s never quite noticed her standing out and it paints a particularly appealing picture of a quiet, secret powerhouse.

And then Malfoy enters the room. Behind him are the rest of his yearmates-- Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle.

The volume dips sharply for perhaps a few seconds before returning to a buzz just a hair quieter than it was before.

Malfoy’s grey eyes seek him from across the room and, surprise surprise, he starts to stalk over to him.

It’s almost lunchtime, Harry thinks absentmindedly, tucking his bookmark into the page in preparation.

He stays seated even as Malfoy draws nearer.

Nott and Zabini wear their masks well, but he can see by the way their magic starts to whip around them that they’re excited for the coming showdown.

Malfoy’s magic, on the other hand, is sludge. It clings to him in a way that suggests determination and a small amount of… fear?

Hmm...

“Potter,” Malfoy sneers at him in almost the exact same way as the train compartment.

So he returns the same cool, “Malfoy.”

It has pretty much the exact same result as on the train, amusingly, leaving him flailing.

“Potter,” Malfoy says again, rallying quickly. “I don’t know how you managed to get the Hat to put you into Slytherin, but there’s no way you belong here.”

Behind him, Harry can see Pucey shaking his head, a faintly exasperated look on his face. The rest of the room holds their breath, the noise level lowering drastically.

Harry rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and plops his chin into his palm.

“You’re really insulting the Founders like that?” Harry smiles as Malfoy’s eyes widen. “I will let you in on a secret, though, Malfoy. The Hat wanted me in Slytherin from my first year. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t let the Hat do that.”

“There’s no way!” Malfoy sniffs haughtily, nose rising in the air. “You’re Dumbledore’s lapdog!”

Does he possess even half an ounce of cunning to go with that boundless ambition of his? Harry thinks to himself, wryly amused.

“I won’t deny that I’ve changed the way I’ve presented myself to more appeal to Dumbledore. You and the rest of our House would know, after all, just how he treats Slytherins.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “There’s not a Slytherin bone in your body,” he declares.

Ironic, considering just what ring I wear. And how quickly he forgets that I’m a parselmouth. Considering I’m as white as the rest of them, there’s no way for there not to be some Slytherin blood in me.

Harry tilts his head from where it's resting on his palm, casting his gaze up to the grey eyes of the boy standing in front of him.

"Malfoy," he chides softly. "Just because you've seen the hammer in my toolkit doesn't mean the scalpel doesn't exist."

And he scoffs and blusters, what are you saying this and muggle tools, really, that, but Harry just lets his smile grow and Malfoy cuts himself off.

Point, Harry.

He tilts his head the other way, straightening up, hand falling to the side.

"Think, for a moment, of the Daily Prophet." Harry asks his question equally as softly as earlier, sounds dying out the rest of the way in the room to catch his low tone. "Have you ever seen a direct quote from yours truly? Or, has it, as it is in all actuality, only ever been Dumbledore putting words in my mouth?"

Malfoy stares down at him, eyes slightly wide.

"I will excuse you from your ignorance, if you excuse me from mine," Harry says, smoothly standing. He affects a saddened smile, placing a hand over his heart. "The first few times we met were rather less ideal, and I must apologise. I grew up with muggles, you see, and did not even know of the existence of magic until my eleventh birthday, much less proper customs and such."

He hears soft gasps throughout the room.

"My magical guardian evidently did not find it prudent," he says with a bit of a sneer, "To raise me properly."

Now, how many will already know that his magical guardian is (was) Albus Dumbledore? Who will know?

Malfoy seems to be a step away from gaping at him and Harry resists the urge to cluck at him and antagonise him for being uncouth.

He catches himself, though, and squares his shoulders.

"Of course," Malfoy says, only slightly sounding like he's gritting the words out.

Bravo. Encore, encore!

"Thank you,” he continues, sounding even more pained. “I accept your apology. Such mannerless behaviour certainly shouldn't be held against you, in that case."

Harry smiles. It's nothing like a Golden Boy smile and Malfoy seems to know it, uncertainty flashing over his eyes.

"Thank you," Harry emphasises. "We're housemates, now, after all, and Slytherins stick together, yes?" Harry two, Malfoy zero. "May we try again?"

Harry sticks a hand out, watching indignation flick over the boy's eyes-- the social superior initiates greetings, after all. But then the indignation turns to shock when Harry continues to talk.

"Well met, Heir Malfoy. My name is Harry James Potter, Lord Potter, Heir Black."

"W-well met, Lord Potter," Malfoy stutters- stutters! Point, Harry - extending his hand in return, clasping Harry’s forearm.

His eyes flick up to meet Harry’s when he feels the wand holster right there on his forearm. Harry gives Malfoy’s forearm a small, ‘friendly’ squeeze before they unclasp hands.

And then Malfoy gives him the smallest bow he’s ever seen as he steps back, just barely a tip of his head and incline of his shoulders, but it’s there.

Harry three, Malfoy zero.

The revelation that he’s Heir Slytherin can come later, once he’s more secure in his place here-- and once Pucey has cast the spell to enact the Silence.

Pucey stands up from his seat and clears his throat. Immediately, all present look to him, quieting down.

“On that happy note, we’re having a meeting before we leave for lunch. Get anyone that’s not already down here,” he orders.

Several people rise, including the prefects. Soon enough the entire house is in attendance, packed in and watching Pucey with attentive eyes.

Funnily enough, the little first years come to sit in front of Harry again.

“So, as we can all see now, Potter’s obviously not exactly what he seems,” Pucey starts.

Understatement.

“But what we do know is that he’s a Slytherin. And Slytherins watch out for their own here at Hogwarts. To that end, I’m calling for an Act of Silence-- both for his protection and for ours.”

Pucey smiles grimly at them, ignoring the raucous outbursts.

“Like Potter said, we all know how Dumbledore treats Slytherins. And since Potter is Dumbledore’s pet project, he will have exactly zero compunctions about trying to get information from any of us in a… less than gentle manner if need be. The Headmaster is a master Legilimens, so the spell I’m about to cast will help everyone be protected from him.”

The first years startle, looking back at Harry with wide and somewhat frightened eyes, but Harry gives them a comforting smile.

“You all are heartily encouraged to lie about what Potter’s like in here if asked, but make sure the story’s straight, got it?” Pucey calls, pulling his wand out.

He gets stately nods back, the entire Slytherin student body evidently resigned-- at least outwardly-- to their fate.

“Good. Now, don’t move too much.”

He moves his hand in a flat circle in front of him as if he’s casting a loop around the people present from the tip of his wand. “Maleficus noster ad silentium vocat praesidium.” Our fellow Wizard calls for a guard of Silence.

He jerks his wand up, tip gathering magic as it goes, starting to look like he’s lighting a lumos .

“Hoc nobis praesta. Mentem protege, protege animam. Linguam tene, gestum liga.” Grant us this. Protect the mind, protect the soul. Hold the tongue, bind the gesture.

Magic starts to seep out from the tip of his wand, the glow intensifying.

“Sic erit, in nomine Domina Magia.” So it shall be, in the name of Lady Magic.

The magic around the tip bursts forth, the line of light spreading out through the crowd. Almost every person gasps slightly as they feel the magic take hold.

“You will keep Harry James Potter’s secrets from those that would harm him and us. Sic erit, in nomine Domina Magia.” So it shall be, in the name of Lady Magic.

Hogwarts shudders gently with the force of the magic, but Harry gets the feeling that Dumbledore won’t know about this somehow.

“Right, so that’s it. You’re all welcome to go to lunch now,” Pucey says. “Meeting adjourned. Don’t do anything stupid.”

About half the people in the room immediately get up, but Harry only rises when Nott, Zabini, Davis, Bulstrode, and Greengrass do.

“You work fast, Potter,” Zabini murmurs as they step out of the dorms, the stone closing softly behind them.

“I have to be,” he replies equally as softly. “Though, Pucey approached me on his own.”

“He’s pragmatic, I’ll give him that,” Greengrass says, stepping in closer as they walk to keep her volume low. “Welcome to the snake pit, Potter.”

“How did you get into the dorm last night?” Davis asks. “We were all in the common room. You couldn’t have gotten through there.”

Harry sighs in mock disappointment. “First Malfoy and now everyone else. Does everyone forget I’m a parselmouth?” It’s truth-adjacent, at least. “All I had to do was ask Hogwarts for entry,” he says, slipping into the snake tongue to at least hide some of his secret. “It’s Slytherin’s House, one of the most famous parselmouths in history. You don’t expect him to have left secret passages for others with the same ability?”

“That’s almost… too normal,” Bulstrode mutters.

Harry just shrugs. The complete, real answer was actually more boring in the long run. At least stories of secret passageways webbing the walls held an air of mystery; all he did was get a house elf to bring him in.

“Oh, that reminds me. Davis, Greengrass, Bulstrode, this is a preemptive apology. I’ll be continuing to act how I did before, if not a tad more irascible, considering everyone will be expecting me to be… put out, shall we say, that I now have to live with you all.”

All the girls seem taken aback, but nod at him.

Harry’s eye catches something on the far wall.

“And this is where we shall part,” he sighs. “The portraits can be commanded into giving the Headmaster information. Ta.”

Potter gives them a wry smile and wiggles his fingers in a lax wave before lengthening his stride.

Immediately, the change is obvious. His entire body language changes, the easy confidence visibly bleeding away as he slouches and his shoulders turn inwards.

Theo catches sight of him flicking his wrist to release his wand and--

He blinks, and then blinks again.

“Did he just do nonverbal transfiguration?” He asks Blaise quietly. “Nonverbal textile transfiguration?”

“I think he just did,” he replies at the same shocked volume.

Morgana, he hadn’t even noticed that Potter wasn’t wearing his usual baggy rags. The form fitting, fine clothing had just seemed… natural.

Potter runs a hand through his hair as he tucks his wand away in his pocket, mussing it further.

They continue to follow him at a distance up the stairs towards the Great Hall.

“Hermione!” Potter cries out as he crests the last steps.

“Harry!” Comes the girl’s reply. “Oh, Harry…”

Theo just shares a glance with Blaise.

Merlin, even his accent is different, more loose and lazy compared to how tightly he was speaking just moments earlier. How did they not notice it before?

Harry Potter might just be the consummate Slytherin. Literally as well, if he’s actually Heir Slytherin.

They all, by unspoken agreement, hang back until Potter leaves with Granger.

Daphne shakes her head, speaking for the soul of the group.

Potter is… something else.

Draco takes a breath, and then takes another.

His Father must know this information. Their Lord must know this information.

But the wording of the secrecy spell… Linguam tene, hold the tongue.

And ‘You will keep Harry James Potter’s secrets from those that would harm him and us.’

That might be the loophole that he needs. Him and us. His Father would never hurt him, after all.

So he retrieves a sheet of parchment from his desk and uncorks his inkwell before picking up a freshly sharpened quill. He dips the tip into the ink, but when he goes to put the quill to parchment, the words won’t come.

“What was I…” he murmurs, brow creasing.

Parchment. Ink. Quill. He’s writing to… someone.

His Father? That sounds correct, but what...

His lip curls in a sneer. Yes, that’s right, Potter. Not a single Slytherin bone in his body. Why in Morgana’s name was he Sorted to his House? Such a disgrace! The Sorting Hat’s enchantments must be going batty!

Dear Father, he writes.

Severus eyes the bottle of gin in the cabinet on the far wall once more with undisguised longing in his eyes, safe within the walls of his rooms.

While he would very, very much like to get drunk again, he is decidedly out of Sober-Up potions and they would take altogether too long to brew, especially whilst intoxicated-- not to mention it is barely noon.

So no, he cannot get drunk.

Unfortunately.

Even if Potter somehow managed to obtain the current King’s support already, to the effect of a formal, spell-enforced, binding Act of Silence on his Slytherins.

But Potter is one of your Slytherins now, too, a small voice in the back of his head pipes up. Annoyingly, it sounds like Regulus, the little bugger.

He had absolutely gotten absolutely sozzled last night after returning from the farce of an Order meeting. All of them were unduly concerned about their Golden Boy after being Sorted into Slytherin-- but, no, not for his safety, even with the staggering number of Death Eater spawn inhabiting the House.

Severus had noticed straight away that McGonagall was not in attendance.

No, they were concerned that he would-- or was-- somehow ‘go’ Dark, as they put it. That he would get corrupted from the pure little lamb that he was and turn into the next Dark Lord. Dumbledore himself had looked particularly nervous about that little postulation, which had of course bled over into the others’ psyches.

If Potter wasn’t already at least a Dark-leaning Grey, Severus would eat his hat. No, he’d eat the thrice damned Sorting Hat itself.

Last night with the way he just casually talked about Dumbledore leading him to his death, or the way that he casually talked about meeting and allying with the Dark Lord, the man that killed his parents and countless others…

Although it technically said nothing about his magic, it said quite a lot of things about his character.

It was not arrogance, Severus had realised, finally, at the bottom of the bottle. Not arrogance in the way that James Potter was arrogant, at least, so unlike what Severus had been accusing the boy of from the moment he stepped into his class-- no, from before then, when he had been lamenting the summer before Potter’s first year. No, it was more in the style of the confidence that Severus himself possesses. The confidence of someone who had made themselves, piece by agonising piece, into what they were today.

Which, of course, brings him to the last thing Potter had told him before departing, eyes wild and magic thick enough to whip up a slight breeze, ruffling his messy hair and the edges of his robe.

‘You get one piece of information, and if I’m right, it should explain quite a bit.’ The boy stares up at him with wide, manic eyes, glittering green like the bright light of the Killing Curse, teeth bared in a savage mockery of a smile. Severus’ chest grows tight at the overbearing press of his magic, his emotions bleeding tangibly out into the world. His magic smells like ozone and petrichor and the sweet rot of late fall-- power and danger. ‘I grew up with my Aunt Petunia, her husband and my Uncle Vernon, and their son and my cousin Dudley. Good night, Professor Snape. And then he turns on his heel to stalk out of the room, the door opening on it’s own, as if the building itself recognises his might.’

Petunia Evans was not a good woman when he knew her, and he’s sure that she’s not a good woman now-- at least not to a wizard. And Severus doesn’t dare entertain thoughts of the sorts of whom she might have married that could hope to match her beastliness.

‘He didn’t see fit to tell me that I wasn’t anything other than a freak before my eleventh birthday, after all.’

Freak. He knows the word-- he remembers being called it straight from her lips at the age of seven.

Undoubtedly, the word hadn’t vacated her vocabulary in the years after.

He lowers his face into his hands.

“Lily,” he murmurs. “I’ve failed your son.”

Chapter 9: All the World's a Stage

Chapter Text

“--it’s fine, really!” Harry insists.

Circe, Hermione seems to be circling back around to prodding him to ask for yet another resort every twenty minutes. This is their… fourth go-round?

Circe, he repeats. Hell, what I wouldn’t give to be free of her in this moment.

“It’s not that bad,” he assures her. “Besides, the Slytherin dorm has smaller rooms. I’m rooming with Zabini. He’s neutral at least, isn’t he?”

“Still,” she repeats stubbornly.

Harry sighs and leans against Neville. He’d loudly declared that he would continue to sit with the Gryffindors for as long as he was able-- at breakfast and lunch, students weren’t made to sit strictly with their own houses-- and McGonagall just gave him a sad smile and nod.

Half of the Gryffindors were giving him serious, fiery glares, though-- including Ron.

Which is the perfect opportunity to drop the prat, he thinks, delighted.

“If anyone tries anything, ‘Mione,” he says, leaning in like he’s trying to keep a great secret quiet, “I’ll go straight to Dumbledore, okay? I just… don’t want to let them win.”

She bites her lip, looking worried, but nods.

Hopefully she’ll drop it this time.

Harry’s able to get a third of the way through his sandwich without distraction, which of course is when Warrington strides over to the Gryffindor table with what looks like all the six and seventh year members of the Quidditch team with him. Pucey stands at his shoulder, expression bored.

“Potter,” Warrington says imperiously.

“What?” He grinds out, just a hair away from glaring up at him.

“Quidditch tryouts are a week from now, nine in the morning. Be there,” he commands.

Harry lets himself rock backwards in his seat, eyes widening and jaw dropping agape.

“Uh--”

“Be. There,” Warrington repeats, scowling, before he stalks off.

Harry holds his breath until Warrington is out of earshot and then lets it out in one large groaning gust, dropping his forehead to the table with a dull thunk.

“Bugger. I forgot about Quidditch,” he moans, trying his best to hit the ‘more pitiful than the runt kneazle kitten in the rain’ tone. “What am I going to do?”

Angelina leans around Lee Jordan just a few seats down the table, the twins across from them.

“I say do it, Harry,” she says, grinning ferociously at him. “I’m already going to have to find a Seeker to replace you, so I want a good fight, yeah?”

“You should!” Hermione adds, smiling sadly at him again. Merlin, no! Not again! “You love Quidditch!”

Harry just groans again. “Malfoy’s going to be even more of a prat than he already is, isn’t he?”

“Well, everyone knows you’re better than he is,” George says.

Fred shrugs. “Give us a good challenge, eh, Harry?”

One down, four to go.

Harry declines Hermione’s offer to accompany her to the library after lunch. She looks mournful for the time she won’t get to spend making him a revision calendar, but once he mentions writing a letter to Snuffles, she lets him go easily enough.

He does climb the stairs in that general direction, but he heads to the appearing room first.

He should really figure out it’s actual name.

When he asks for a place to write his letters, he gets the same room as last time except with a large desk this time, nearly identical to Tom’s save for the fact that it’s made of a slightly lighter wood and is shaped just a little differently.

Again, weird, but he takes his seat easily enough and pulls out his shrunken writing kit.

Remus, he writes, because they’ll both be reading this letter and it’s a tad strange to be writing a letter to a dog just in case his mail does actually get intercepted… and they break his spellwork.

Hogwarts is really, really strange. Did you know that the school’s magic can just decide to resort a student willy nilly?

My mum would be winning so many galleons right now. At least it matches my eyes? Sorry, can’t help but be sarcastic. I have to share a dorm with Malfoy now. Eugh.

On the upside, I don’t think my roommate is going to murder me like one of them would. His name’s Blaise Zabini and he’s Italian. He’s friends with Theodore Nott, who’s surprisingly like a more placid, male, Slytherin Hermione. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a book.

Neither really hang out with them and neither of their parents were… there, that day. I think I’m going to try to befriend them. They might like it better on our side of things.

Give Snuffles a good scratch for me, okay? See you at Christmas, hopefully.

Love,

Harry

He casts the ink drying spell with a lazy wave of his hand and folds it up before spelling it within an inch of its life-- all Light spells available from the Hogwarts library, obviously, save one undetectable parselmagic spell that mildly curses an unintended recipient if they open it. It’s quite genius, actually-- it causes slightly more frequent nightmares and lowers one’s inhibitions just enough to act on their more erratic state. Definitely one of Salazar Slytherin’s greatest creations as a spellcrafter.

They’d be getting their just desserts where Harry’s concerned.

He writes the next one-- more of a note, really-- to Fred and George, telling them to be next to the landscape portrait of the Black Lake on the second floor tomorrow just after curfew starts. He’s not going to have them meet him at the appearing room when he could just use the most handy passageway he’d found in his time at Hogwarts. Behind the portrait is one of the passages out of the Chamber that Harry found in his fourth year. It was getting really old to have to go in and out of Myrtle’s bathroom just to get in and out, and when he asked, the castle provided.

He folds it up and calls out, “Jibby!”

The little elf pops into the room, a smile on his face. “What may Jibby be doing for Master Heir?”

“Do you know who Fred and George Weasley are?”

Jibby nods. “Jibby be knowing the twin pranksters, sir.”

“Would you take this note to them when they’re alone, please?” Harry asks. “More of my secrets.”

“Jibby can be doing that for Master Heir!”

He decides to give the second note he wrote to Luna to deliver to Neville, just to break up the delivery methods. Dumbledore still is the Headmaster of Hogwarts, after all. Even though Harry is a Founder’s Heir, Dumbledore technically has a strong sway with the castle’s elves, stronger than Harry’s.

Finally, he writes a letter to Tom.

Voldemort takes a letter from Tippy, a small smile gracing his lips.

And then he frowns. Is he genuinely looking forward to his correspondence with Po-- Harry?

Also, that, there! He insists on using the first names of his followers instead of their family names for several reasons, not the least of which is that it affords him more power over them, but he hadn’t automatically started using Harry Potter’s first name of his own accord. No, it was only after the boy himself had invited him-- invited! Invited him! -- to use it after calling Voldemort by his own accursed muggle first name.

Perhaps it is just because Harry has a refreshingly amusing take on things, having seemingly no fear of him to hinder his sharp tongue. Perhaps it is because Harry is his horcrux. Yes, those are two perfectly rational reasons.

Tom, he reads.

I’ve already made several strides in the snake pit. Did you have any plans to get Contessa Zabini onside? If so, count it completed. Blaise Zabini has agreed to take my Mark.

Voldemort shakes his head. One day. It had only been one day . Voldemort himself had been trying for a total of five years-- mostly before his decoupling from his physical form, but even after he had returned he started trying again. The Contessa, despite her seat of power being in Italy, is a very, very worthwhile ally to have on one’s side.

Also, apologies, but Theodore Nott wants to take my Mark as well. I may have intimated that you wouldn’t care if he did, but if you do, simply tell me. I do not intend to steal those you are already thinking of as yours.

How… considerate. But it is of no import to him. Theodorus’ son may do whatever he wishes in that regard, as Harry is already part of the cause.

We still have to figure out a way to make Dumbledore believe that Snape is yours before you take his Mark and give him to me, otherwise I would be Marking him tomorrow with the rest of them. A glamour, perhaps, and when you wish to call him simply alert me through our connection?

That could work. But he would have to edit his wards to allow those bearing Harry’s Mark through to continue to allow Severus entrance to his manor.

But again, it is of little import. Harry’s Marked are those he already trusts, and, as such, deserve to have the same haven as his own Elite Marked.

I’ve also worked out an accord with the current Slytherin King, Adrian Pucey. He cast an Act of Silence this morning on all the Slytherins, so everyone is now safe from Dumbledore. It also means that if you get incorrect information through your followers with children in Slytherin, they wish to do me harm. I would suggest changing their minds before they lose their magic or worse.

That reminds him-- Lucius. But, he can deal with that later.

Only Zabini and Nott know so far that I’m also Heir Slytherin; the rest of them only know about the Potter Lordship and the Black Heirship. None know of anything else. Nott and Zabini are also under a lip locker until tomorrow, at which point I can Mark them.

Speaking of the Chamber --

Where exactly does the Chamber come in? Voldemort thinks, amused.

Speaking of the Chamber, do you think Salazar would be angry if I brought my people into his library? His portrait--

Voldemort sits there and rereads the sentence once, twice, before closing his eyes.

Salazar Slytherin has a portrait in his Chamber? And he had never found it? He did not even possess one in his home away from Hogwarts! And, library , not office. Was there even more to the Chamber that he had never found?

He doesn’t know whether to be angry or to be amazed. Mostly, his chest feels like a gaping pit.

He reads the rest of the letter mechanically.

His portrait never stays in one place very often. Hell, only his basilisk is ever in the one in the Slytherin common room.

Any advice? You’re welcome to send a reply by letter, or simply talk straight into my head if we both have the time.

Cheers,

Harry

Voldemort places the letter on the table, calmly gets to his feet, and strides out of the room towards the duelling training room.

Harry watches Hedwig fly off with his letter to Sirius and Remus and winces.

Something feels… off. Like he’s suddenly numb, but only in one area, like his foot fell asleep. He’s not sure if it’s physical, mental, or magical, but it’s not difficult to figure out it’s bloody annoying .

It’s disorientating enough that the hex from behind hits him solidly in the shoulder as he turns the corner.

He pitches forward, but manages to catch himself. His wand is in his hand in the next instant, his occlumency shields coming down around at max capacity to try and filter out the annoying blankness in some part of his being.

His eyes rove around only to catch a group of Gryffindors-- Cormac McLaggen and his friends, and Ron of all people.

It was just a-- honestly, fairly weak-- stinging hex, but still.

Ah, bugger, I automatically walked near Gryffindor, didn’t I?

“Ron?” Harry lets his wandtip lower, ladening confusion into his voice. “What’re you doing?”

“You’re a Snake!” Ron cries out.

Harry lets his brow twist in dismay, seeing and sensing people starting to gather.

Yes, good. A public blow up is exactly what I need to divorce myself from him.

“Ron, I--”

McLaggen butts into the conversation, a sneer heavy on his lip and in his voice. “All that talk about You-Know-Who returning… I bet you joined him, huh? Why else would you get Sorted into Slytherin?”

“You think I would join Voldemort?” Harry injects shock and horror into his tone, ignoring the winces and hisses around him at the name. “He killed my mum and dad! And nearly me, like, four times! Like hell I would join the Dark Wanker!” Harry shouts, contorting his face into a mask of anger.

He hears gasps and snickers at the name, and Harry mentally shoves a small apology to Tom.

It causes the numb feeling to multiply and it makes him visibly startle, just in time for him to appropriately react to Ron, thankfully.

“--still a Snake, now!”

“Ron!” Harry replies in an almost plaintive whine. “Do you think I want to be rooming with a bunch of junior Death Eaters? I thought they were going to bloody off me the second I set foot in there!”

“You’re clearly Dark,” McLaggen dismisses, which is just plain wrong because Harry is excellent at hiding his magic type from those sensitive to it, thank you very much! “You obviously have nothing to worry about.”

“Get out of here, you slimy snake!” Ron shouts.

“Mr. Weasley!” McGonagall’s rough brogue is shining through her tone hard as she barks at the ginger. “Mr. McLaggen! Both of you, twenty points off and a week’s detention with Professor Snape!”

Both boys pale at this, the rest of their coterie edging away from them before they too catch the enraged professor’s ire.

“How dare you say something like that to Mr. Potter?” She continues on her tirade, marching up to the two-- figuratively-- petrified boys. “Insinuating that he’s Dark and joined You-Know-Who just because Hogwarts decided to resort him into Slytherin! Have you no House loyalty?”

Well, yes, but no.

“He’s not a Gryffindor, Professor!” Ron protests to his Head of House’s face with an entirely misplaced sense of Gryffindor bravery.

McGonagall narrows her eyes in a way reminiscent of her animagus form, pressing her lips together hard enough that they almost disappear entirely. “Two weeks detention, Mr. Weasley, and I will be writing to your mother. Do not make me regret my decision to make you prefect more than I already do.”

Ron goes sheet white as McGonagall finally turns to Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” she says.

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry says, ducking his head, quick to cut her off before she can go into some long, emotional spiel. “But… I should probably leave now. I understand it might be hard for some people, but I just thought… After last year, I mean...” he trails off, like he’s lost for words.

Her face softens, and he knows that she’s thinking of Voldemort’s return via him being kidnapped and carved into. However, by the way that Ron grimaces lightly, he knows that Ron’s thinking of the time that he dropped Harry.

“Like I said before, Mr. Potter, my office is open to you whenever you need it,” she says firmly. He gives her a small smile and she takes that as her cue to turn to the still-gathered students in the hall and yell for them to disperse.

He, in turn, takes it as his cue to leave and slips away and ducks into a short passage to take him straight to the Ravenclaw dorm entrance.

Harry is wholly unsurprised to see Luna leaning against the wall directly to the side of the passageway.

“Hello, Harry,” she greets him, holding her hand out.

“Hello, Luna,” he replies, handing her the note for Neville. “If you don’t know where to go tomorrow, just ask the twins, alright?”

She smiles at him, eyes dreamy. “Of course, my Lord.”

Harry drops his head with a sigh. He should have expected that, shouldn’t he?

“You know you don’t have to call me that, Luna.”

Her gaze sharpens and she gives him a cheeky little grin. “You should really get accustomed to hearing it now so it’s not a shock later, my Lord.”

Harry sighs again, defeated. “As you say, my Moon.”

Luna laughs like a tinkling bell. “I like that nickname. It’s a lot better than what the nargle-infested call me.”

“If anyone gives you trouble, come to me, alright?” Harry tells her, rather thinking that he knows what she’s talking about.

Her magic ripples around her and she sighs, eyes drooping closed slightly. Harry holds his breath. The last time her magic looked like that was on the train, talking about the goat’s eyes.

“Be careful tonight, my Lord,” she murmurs. “Take care to affix your pelt, so that it does not slip.”

And with that, she blinks, her magic uncurling from around her, before giving him a small smile.

“Thanks, Luna. I’ll remember that.”

“Of course.” She gives him a little wave as she walks off, humming a soft tune to herself.

Harry shakes his head as he watches her go. To think that so many simply call her crazy or mentally stunted or weak-- it really only takes one good, probing look to see what’s beneath her mask.

Ironic, considering that so many at Hogwarts wear them.

When Harry arrives back to his dorm room, Zabini is nowhere to be found. He takes a single step into the room only to have Tippy pop into existence in front of him.

“A letter for Master Harry!” She chirps, holding out not only the standard, green wax sealed envelope but also what looks like a fat folio of parchment.

He takes it with a quiet thanks, before pausing. “Tippy? Why do you call me Master? Isn’t T-- uh. Lord Slytherin your Master?”

He’s not sure what exactly Tom has his elves calling him, but he errs on the side of caution just in case. He wouldn’t want one of the poor creatures on the wrong end of his wand just because they accidentally called him ‘Master Tom’ or something.

“Yes! But Little Master is being Tippy’s Master too, because Little Master is Master’s Heir,” she explains with unusual seriousness. “Tippy’s family and ancestors has always been serving the Slytherin Family.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. “I should have realised. Well, thank you for indulging me, Tippy.”

She gives him a bright little smile before bowing, her large ears flapping, and popping away.

He moves swiftly to his bed, kicking off his shoes as he tosses the folio near his pillows. That can be read later.

He closes the curtains around him with a flick of his wrist before cracking open the seal.

Harry, he reads.

Congratulations are in order. Contessa Zabini and her clade are notoriously difficult to sway. You also masterfully handled the current King. Be careful what you say to him, though, as Lord Barnabas Pucey, his father, is not one of mine. As for Theodore, it is his decision. He has not made overtures to promise himself to me in any way and is thus not betraying me in the slightest.

That’s good, at least.

As for Severus, it is as you say. The idea of a glamour is a good one. I shall research the best and most undetectable posthaste.

As for Salazar Slytherin and related unruly portraitry, I cannot give you an answer. He never deigned to show himself to me during my time at Hogwarts.

Regards,

Tom

Huh.

Really?

Why would Salazar not greet one of his heirs?

And then the answer hits him in the face like a sack of bricks and he leans back into his pillows and groans, long and loud.

I’m a bloody idiot. Merlin, I’m stupid.

Salazar’s portrait also sits in the Slytherin common room, so he would have plenty of time to listen in to Tom’s behaviour before he got into the Chamber even if he never showed himself.

Dark magic the likes of which would get one thrown into Azkaban today was fair game for wixen of Salazar’s time, but even then, the man had limits.

His maternal uncle had devolved into a Black magic-induced frenzy and had killed quite a few members of Salazar’s little family, managing to get his husband and eldest two children, leaving him only with his youngest son to continue the Slytherin name.

Harry’s not entirely sure how the original ‘no impure magic at Hogwarts’ thing had become the ‘no impure blood at Hogwarts’ thing that many liked to spout today, but he’s pretty sure that slaughter had brought about Salazar’s original beliefs.

So. Tom.

Obviously, with what he now knows about Horcruxes, it would undoubtedly count as Black magic. But there’s no way that he would be casually chatting about them in the Slytherin common room, no matter how much sway he held over the inhabitants.

And then, of course, Tom let the basilisk out to cavort all over the school, culminating in the murder of one of the students-- directly contrary to Aurora’s purpose.

It must have been something truly bad to make him decide to outright ignore his Heir.

Aaaand now he feels bad for bringing it up.

Bugger.

Office only, then. He’d not completely finished dismantling Aurora, so the cavernous chamber part of the Chamber was right out.

...I should make basilisk tacos again. They were quite good the last time.

Thanks to several overpowered preservation charms meant specifically for game meat, as well as a cabinet with heavy preservation charms in Salazar’s suites, the corpse hadn’t started stinking up the whole place and her skin and venom were still viable.

Maybe this year he would have the time to finally get his arse over to Gringotts.

He grimaces.

Well. Not with the Ministry toadie here.

Correction, then: maybe this year he would finally be able to at least store the various parts of the basilisk corpse where he was sure the Lions’ sticky fingers or boundless curiosity and no common sense couldn’t reach.

He still has his Heir room, too, that he’s fairly certain only he can get into. It’s an asset if he’s ever seen one.

He doesn’t go down to dinner, hoping against hope that his very public altercation with his ‘ex-friend’ will be enough for Hermione and the rest to accept his reasons without saying.

Instead, he has dinner brought up as he reads through Tom’s folio with a pot of red ink and a quill.

Maybe I should be a professor when I’m older, he muses, underlining another point he would like more clarification on.

It’s mostly fleshed out, but there are certain points where it’s… weak? As in, he gets the goal, he gets the reasoning, and he gets the solution, but there’s either a gap or some sort of mental leap that only Tom’s able to make in between the goal and the solution that Harry definitely needs to know.

Definitely a professor. At least for a while, he nods silently to himself, reaching for his sandwich with his free hand. A Lord of the Wizengamot can have a day job.

He scribbles a short note on the page as he chews.

It’s only by the grace of some god that’s way too invested in his day-to-day happenings that he’s not dipping his quill to write more when the door slams open. The loud bang makes him startle and it’s only a small droplet of red that splashes against his green duvet.

He sets his quill down, already glaring towards the door as he flicks his wand in a quick sourgify before the ink has a chance to stain.

Zabini at least has the tact to look sorry.

“Apologies, but Professor Snape is asking for you.”

Harry sends his inkpot and quill zooming to his desk with a casual wave of his hand before stuffing the folio into his heavily warded trunk.

“Thank you,” he tells Zabini as they walk out together.

Malfoy scowls at him from his place in front of the fireplace in their fifth year common area, and Harry ignores him, only barely managing not to roll his eyes.

So childish…

Once they’re out of earshot, Zabini continues to talk. “He didn’t seem angry or anything, but…” He grimaces, trailing off.

For a moment, Harry is confused. And then he realises.

Right. Zabini doesn’t know of their current state in regards to each other. All he knows is that his future Lord is about to meet with a teacher that seems to loathe his entire general being.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry murmurs to him as they step out into the general common room. “We’ve come to an… understanding.”

Zabini just shakes his head and mutters a soft, disbelieving curse under his breath as he stops short beside an armchair, letting Harry make his way forward alone.

Snape is waiting for him just beside the entrance to the common room, face impassive and hands folded primly behind his back. The other students in the room sneak furtive glances as Harry strides up to him.

“You were asking for me, sir?” Harry asks, tone clear and even with no animosity to be seen.

“Yes,” he replies, tone suitably clipped. “Come with me.”

Harry has no concrete ideas about what this is pertaining to, but he can damn sure guess.

The moment they’re out of the common room, Snape starts talking.

“The Headmaster has requested your presence in his office,” he says.

Harry groans. “Of course he has,” he mutters. Bloody meddling bastard. “Has to make sure his little pawn has the correct marching orders. Are any of the other Heads of Houses coming?” Harry asks suddenly, pieces falling into place as he thinks.

“I’m not quite sure,” Snape replies. “You believe that he will force you to resort once more?”

“He’ll try,” Harry says. “It won’t work.”

“Oh?” Severus asks. Any information that he can weasel out of the boy will be better for him in the end. He has to get to know the real Harry Potter as fast as he can, both for his own sake and for… well, his new Lord’s, as much as it galls him to think it.

Harry hums in assent, moving his hand to muss through his hair. “The Hat wanted me in Slytherin from the beginning. Plus…” He looks to the side briefly, pauses, and starts walking straight at one of the walls, bringing up a lazy hand to arrogantly beckon Severus along with him.

He follows, grudgingly.

And then blinks in silent amazement as the wall rolls back at a simple touch of his hand to reveal a passageway.

“It’s shorter and also not lined with portraits that will report our every word back to Dumbledore,” Harry informs him, glancing over his shoulder at Severus as he enters.

Magelight springs up in the sconces as Severus follows, the door softly shutting behind him.

After they resume walking, Severus prompts, “Plus…?”

Harry stays silent for a few beats before answering cryptically. “Hogwarts is more likely to help me than him.”

Merlin’s beard, dragging information out of this boy is almost as bad as dragging it out of the Dark Lord or the Headmaster.

“How so?”

He catches a faint huff of laughter from Harry. “I figured you wouldn’t be satisfied with that. And you might as well know.”

He stops in the middle of the passageway, just before a spiral staircase, and turns to face Severus.

“Remember what I kept trying to deny my second year? And not the part where I was letting the basilisk out to roam.” There’s a faint hint of a smile on his lips.

If he’s saying what Severus thinks he’s saying…

“Everyone seemed to forget that I’m still a parseltongue,” Harry continues, shaking his head. “And there’s pretty much no way I have any Indian blood in me, so…”

“You’re truly Slytherin’s heir?” Severus asks, mildly agog, but not bewildered enough to not work out the complications of that. “Heirs must go to their own familial house as per the Hogwarts Charter,” he says, the final pieces of the puzzle slotting themselves into place. “But your rings…”

“That’s right,” Harry replies, turning around once more. “And they’re goblin-made,” he calls over his shoulder as he begins to climb, “You don’t think they would have some sort of way to hide them if one so wished?”

Well, Severus thinks, following after him, even if he was not Heir Slytherin, there is enough Slytherin in him to fill the House thrice over. The Hat wanted him in Slytherin from the first place, indeed…

The rest of the walk is spent in silence.

Harry pulls out his wand to untransfigure his clothes as they approach the portrait-free exit near the headmaster’s office. It would raise too many questions as to why he knew how to do it if he walked in with better clothes than he should have owned, and, as Luna said, he should take care that his pelt does not slip-- that his perfect little Lion disguise was still up.

Interestingly, there’s not a peep from Snape behind him at his perfect-- albeit, worded and wanded-- textile transfiguration, but he supposes the man is starting to actually learn there’s more to him than meets the eye.

Once he opens the exit to the secret passageway, Snape once more takes point, striding in front of him, robe billowing as he walks. He only walks for a few seconds, however, before he draws up short.

“Meet me in my office after your meeting,” Snape says quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape glances back at him and gives him a shallow nod before starting to walk once more.

Harry runs his hand through his hair once more to well and truly muss it to hell and back as they turn the corner of the heavily portrait-ed hall and approach the gargoyle that guards the entrance to the headmaster’s office.

“Fungums,” Snape sneers at the stone guardian, appropriately conveying his extremely apparent dislike of the nature of the password.

Got a meeting with Dumbledore, if you care to tune in, Harry gently pushes toward Tom, still very aware of his blunder earlier in the day. He might get laughed at by the Sorting Hat.

Well, it might improve Tom’s mood to watch Dumbledore getting ridiculed by sentient headwear. Maybe.

As Harry rides the spinning staircase up, he hears Tom in his head.

‘And why is that?’

Oh, thank Merlin, he thinks to himself behind the Occluded part of his mind. Tom’s not holding his blunder against him, then.

See for yourself.

Harry follows Snape into the room, expression composed into a suitably beleaguered yet defiant expression, taking care to glare especially at Snape’s back.

Scratch that. The other Heads aren’t here.

‘There is yet still time.’

“Ah, Harry, thank you for coming.” Dumbledore smiles genially down at him, stood behind his desk as he is.

“Of course, Professor.” He makes his voice sound the right amount of wearied, yet defiant, expression open and guileless. There might be stress, but he hasn’t let it get to him. “What did you need, Sir?”

He strokes his beard. “I took it upon myself to inspect the Sorting Hat for any malicious enchantments after what happened the other night. I performed a purge on the Hat to rid it of any untoward spells, so it should be safe for you to sit another Sorting. The other Heads are on their way.”

‘You guessed it,’ Tom says in a resigned sort of tone.

Harry shoots a glance at Snape who’s standing at Dumbledore’s side looking appropriately prickly and like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“I don’t want to let them win, Sir,” Harry says, puffing out his chest and lifting his chin. “I can handle it.”

“But wouldn’t you rather be with your friends, my boy?” Dumbledore asks, sickly sweet concerned. “Gryffindor is your House. You belong there.”

Harry looks down at the ground and scuffs his beat up trainer. “I do miss them,” he says.

“So it is decided, then,” Dumbledore smiles. “Wonderful!”

‘He cannot be this dense, can he?’ Tom wonders aloud. ‘According to the Hogwarts Charter, students may only be Sorted twice. You’ve been Sorted twice. Ergo, this is not going to work.’

He doesn’t care, I think, Harry thinks back. He’s frantically scrambling for any solution, even ones that don’t make sense. This was outside his plans, no doubt.

“While we wait, Harry,” Dumbledore says, looking at his right shoulder instead of anything remotely near his eyes, “Did the Hat say anything to you?”

Strange. Why does he feel the need to avoid eye contact now?

“Yes, Sir. He said that I needed more cunning to defeat a snake,” Harry says, eyes flicking obviously over to Snape again.

The man sneers at him, but Harry can just barely pick up on the faintest hint of amusem*nt in his magic, the way it flicks and jumps at the edges like a bright candle flame.

“I see,” Dumbledore says, before falling silent.

Wonderfully informative as always, Harry sighs to Tom.

Amusem*nt jumps through the bond. ‘Yes, he can be quite aggravating, can’t he?’

You say it like it’s supposed to be news to me.

Tom snorts and Harry has to suppress any outward reaction. He just made the Dark Lord himself snort with laughter. He just made the Dark Lord himself snort with laughter, Merlin.

Nice, he thinks to himself, not projecting.

A knock rings from the door, before it opens.

“You wanted to see us, Albus?” McGonagall asks, walking into the room followed by the two other Heads of houses.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore says, nodding. “Harry is going to be sitting another Sorting.”

Flitwick’s head co*cks to the side in confusion, eyes darting over to Harry for a split second before returning to Dumbledore. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Albus, but according to the Hogwarts charter, a student may only be Sorted twice?”

He manages to make it sound like a tentative question for all that it’s a simple statement of fact.

‘Thank you,’ Tom grumps. ‘That is exactly what I said.’

“That is what it says, yes. However, I believe that rule only applies when a student has requested to be resorted. As such, Harry has not yet met that quota.” Dumbledore smiles beatifically, all grandfatherly charm.

‘That is such…’ Tom trails off, tone irritated.

He didn’t seem like the type of person to curse. It was probably much too uncouth for him. Harry holds back a smile.

Dumbledore claps his hands lightly. “Now that all four Heads are here, we may begin.”

The Sorting Hat is going to laugh at him.

‘Oh, most definitely. He is just asking for it at this point.’

When the Hat is placed on the table, the flaps for his eyes open and narrow, the seam of his mouth twisting into what Harry would call a frown.

“It’s not yet time for another Sorting,” he mutters, somehow conveying squinting with just two leather slits for eyes. “What do you want?”

“A student is to be resorted,” Dumbledore says. “Harry, come here.”

“Harry?” The Hat questions. “Harry Potter? Resorted?”

And then he laughs uproariously.

Snape presses his lips together, probably in an attempt to stave off a smile. Sprout looks simply baffled. Flitwick just winces, probably thinking how he was correct. Harry can’t see McGonagall’s face because she’s standing with her back to him, but her magic recoils in surprise, flaring out like a cat’s fur.

Eventually, it peters out, the worn leather of the Hat eventually stilling.

“Wait, you were serious?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says simply, yet Harry can hear the underlying terseness belying his cool front.

‘He looks like a fool,’ Tom says, delighted.

“Mr. Potter has already been Sorted twice,” the Hat explains, his tone of voice patient like he’s explaining a difficult concept to a young child. “Once into Gryffindor in his first year, and once now, into Slytherin. He may not be Sorted a third time.”

Dumbledore’s expression flashes briefly with annoyance-- his eyes narrow and his lips purse-- but it quickly smooths out to bashful regret.

“My apologies for waking you, then,” he says, and it sounds like he’s struggling with keeping his tone earnest and even.

Harry fights back another grin, arranging his expression into something slightly crestfallen.

“It’s alright, Professor,” Harry tells him, sounding just enough like a kicked puppy underneath his proud bravery that Sprout’s expression softens. “I can handle it.”

“Of course, my boy. And,” Dumbledore adds, turning to face the assembled Heads, “I apologise for calling the rest of you for nothing. I will see you all tomorrow at our staff meeting!”

They filter out, taking the clear dismissal, until only he, Dumbledore, and Snape remain.

“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore says. “I’ll send Harry off later. I would like to have a short chat with him first.”

“Of course, Headmaster.” He turns to Harry, just barely not sneering. “See to it that you return before curfew. There will be no rule breaking in your new House," he says, emphasising the last part like it's supposed to be a dig.

Harry scowls at him. “Sure.”

Snape’s lip curls, but his magic vibrates in a way that tells him he’s not angry; he’s worried.

‘Be careful,’ Tom says as Snape stalks out of the room without a backwards glance.

I know.

Chapter 10: Machinations from On High

Chapter Text

Severus isn’t surprised in the slightest to hear the Headmaster’s thinly veiled order to vacate the room so that he and Harry could have a private ‘chat,’ but it still grates on him.

Of course, Severus knows logically that Harry will be fine. He has not only his heir rings but also other unnamed protection spells on top of his superb acting skills as well as a strong connection to Hogwarts and all its protective magic.

A severe overkill, really, he would say… for just about anyone else.

However, he also knows that Dumbledore, despite his age, is a powerful wizard and that crossing him almost never goes well for the wix that made that particular blunder.

‘If Dumbledore figures out I’ve put even a toe out of line he’ll either try to spell and potion me more or outright move up the timeline for my death,’ Harry had said yesterday, under a geas upheld by Lady Magic Herself. Certainly, it was in the realm of possibility.

He would just have to trust in Harry-- and in Hogwarts-- to keep him safe.

Severus scowls at such a sappy thought, sending a small gaggle of Ravenclaws scattering from his path.

“Curfew is in fifteen minutes,” he cracks out sternly. The Ravenclaws take one look at him and bolt off towards their common room.

He purses his lips as he strides into his office, pausing only slightly as he catches sight of an abnormality. There, on his desk, is a heavy cream colored envelope. As he moves closer, he can see the blue seal, stamped with the crest of the House of Malfoy.

Joy, he thinks, dryly, moving to sit.

He opens the letter with a swift and precise spell, severing the heavy parchment and extracting the letter within.

He takes a second to skim it before sighing heavily.

Well, it seems the Act that Pucey cast is indeed working.

The most galling thing about the letter besides the amount of slander towards Harry was the fact that it heavily implied that Lucius was giving him orders. Watch Potter this, report back to me that.

Pretentious git.

Severus rolls his eyes and sends the parchment straight into the fire with a swift flick of his wand, where it catches alight almost immediately.

If only all my problems would go away so easily.

He only has the time to form the thought and glance towards his pile of grading before there’s a soft knock at his door.

Severus closes his eyes briefly, scowling. There’s only ten minutes until curfew, which is just technically enough time for a student to come bother him.

“Enter,” he calls, tone irritated.

The door opens to admit a smiling, short, blonde Ravenclaw-- Luna Lovegood.

Merlin’s balls.

While she wasn’t an incompetent in the same vein as, say, Neville Longbottom, she was her own brand of irritating. Her potions almost never came out as they were supposed to, but they also-- perplexingly-- never had any of the usual deleterious effects of the usual rogue potion on her person, classmates, equipment, or surroundings.

Sometimes she would flat out refuse, though not in so many words, to brew a potion, instead fiddling with the ingredients all period long. Some trinket or another made with bits of ingredients would be on his desk after all the students had vacated his classroom after classes like those, with an accompanying cryptic note. While he could smell Lovegood’s magic in them-- wet earth like after a rainstorm and smoky mugwort-- on top of the scents of the items’ natural magic, he could never figure out exactly what they were for. He keeps them in the top drawer of his desk just in case.

“Yes, Miss Lovegood?”

“Hello, Professor,” she smiles at him, eyes sharp, and shuts the door behind her. It locks with a loud click and without any visible efforts from her, magical or mundane.

He eyes the door warily before looking back to her. “Was there something you needed, Miss Lovegood?”

“Oh, no. Not me,” she says. “But there is something that-- no,” she pauses and tilts her head. “There is something that our future Lord will need.”

Severus inhales sharply.

Of course she’s one of Potter’s, is all he can think for a moment before forcibly dragging his thoughts back into order.

“And what would that be?” He asks her slowly. His earlier fear reignites itself in his chest, and he mentally runs over his backstock of potions once more, just in case.

“Hmm…” she hums. Severus can smell the swell of her magic suddenly, and her eyes unfocus, as if looking to a far off point in the distance.

“Let’s see… supplemental nutritional potions, stomach soother, Skele-gro, level seven pain potions, essence of dittany, murtlap, healing potions, bruise salve, blood clotter, Amelhurst-Jakobs--”

Severus feels his blood run cold at the proper name of the system flush potion tucked in there neatly with the growing list of reparative and restorative potions and derivatives, but forces himself to continue listening.

“Nerve stimulant, nerve regrowth, the Veritaserum counter, Muscle-gro, and blood replenishers.”

She blinks hard, and the smell of her magic lessens.

“Oh,” she mutters, sounding faintly discomfited and relieved all at once, somehow. “It might not be for tonight. It’s probably not for tonight,” she tells him, sounding more confident, and Severus feels the knot in his chest unwind.

Potter will be fine, you daft bat, he lectures himself, drawing up his Occlumency shields.

“And if I may ask how exactly you know this, Miss Lovegood?” Severus asks archly, fully not expecting an answer-- and is rather surprised when she does offer one.

Plainly.

“I am a Seer, Professor,” she says, her smile like a twinkling star at his own visible surprise. “All I know is that they will be needed. I don’t know when, or how much. But it will help Harry to have them on hand.”

She perks slightly, as if remembering something. “Oh! And please give this to him when he arrives, Professor.” She crosses the short distance between the door and his desk to drop a-- heavily magic-laden-- folded note on his desk. “Thank you. Have a good night, sir-- oh. And beware of toads,” she says cryptically before slipping out of his office, the door unlocked soundlessly.

Severus resists the urge to drop his head into his hands, smothering it under his shields, slumping slightly in his chair.

He then bolts upright.

Oh, Morgana, does that mean Weasley, Granger, and Longbottom are his too?

Harry seethes.

The nerve of that bastard! He rages to Tom.

Fortunately enough, Tom is equally as enraged, if not more so.

‘I will rip out his spine through his nostrils,’ Tom says, tone even, light, and pleasant, but Harry can feel his rage quaking through their bond all the way down into his bones. ‘After, of course, stringing him up by his ridiculous beard.’

I thought I understood how far he was willing to go, Harry thinks back to him, trying to pull his seething hatred into a tiny little box to bury in some unobtrusive place in his mind as he approaches the entrance to the dungeons.

But of course-- if compulsion charms were on the table, why not a whole godsdamned web of them, even if it wasn’t Light in the slightest? Especially when followed up with a neat little obliviate for his troubles.

‘At the very least you-- no,’ Tom corrects himself. ‘We will never make the mistake of underestimating Albus Dumbledore ever again.’

Hypocritical bastard, Harry scowls.

Compulsion webs were much more serious than the traditional compulsion charm. Don’t get him wrong-- even just the charm was a serious thing. But webs?

Unless someone took notice and had the skill and power to free the victim from it, there would be little to no chance of breaking out of it.

And it was more insidious than the Imperious Curse-- at least with that, the one afflicted was little more than a prisoner held against their will. They knew what was happening to them, even if they couldn’t fight it off right away. And one could actually attempt to fight off the Imperious Curse, in stark contrast to a compulsion. Compulsion spellwork changed the fundamental nature of a person, all without them knowing it.

Thanks to Harry’s spellwork and his Lord and Heirship rings, none of it took. At least the ‘orders’ Dumbledore ‘gave’ him were all actions and temperaments that he could reliably demonstrate outside of the Slytherin common room; it was right in line with what he was already planning on doing.

Mostly.

Harry raises a hand to knock at Snape’s door.

‘I will take my leave now,’ Tom says.

Good night, Harry thinks back to him in a spur of the moment decision.

There’s a pause and a hint of surprise. ‘Good night.’

Harry knocks on Snape’s door.

“Enter,” he calls, voice sounding tired. He stows a sheet of parchment away into an inner robe pocket as Harry does as he’s bid.

“Well?”

Harry just silently walks forward and drops into the same chair as yesterday, right across from Snape.

“If it weren’t for my precautions, I would have a compulsion web on me and no memory of the event.”

Snape presses his eyes closed for a second, then two, then three. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again, his face an expressionless mask.

“Delightful,” he drawls. The miniscule twitch under his left eye gives him away, though. “I have a note for you.”

Harry takes the proffered parchment with a raised eyebrow, scanning it over critically. He notices a rainbow-film sheen to the spells clinging to it and suppresses a grin.

“Let me guess, Luna made a cryptic delivery to you?” Harry asks, dispelling the beautifully nasty wards and the cloaking spell with a quick tap of his wand.

She’s been holding out on me.

“Yes,” Snape replies succinctly as Harry reads the note.

He smiles before lighting the parchment on fire and banishing the ashes.

“Well, that’s set to go,” he remarks lightly. If only Luna could tell him exactly how it was going to go-- he didn’t quite fancy the thought of having to obliviate one of his only true friends. “Oh, and how do you feel about the Weasley twins?”

Snape’s expression visibly sours and Harry grins.

He has to make the man suffer at least a little bit for Tom, after all.

Thirty minutes later Harry finds himself upholding his promise and regaling all the little first years with the story of him outflying a dragon last year.

“...after that, I used the Summoning Charm to bring my broom to me. And then…”

Funnily enough, there are plenty of others listening in as well-- most had seemingly become interested during the start of his tale, when he re-explained his first plan going awry.

The children ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ with stars in their eyes as he spins the story and he can’t help the grin that tugs at the corners of his lips.

He’s not the least bit surprised when they beg for another story after he finishes. He is mildly surprised, though, when Anaïs asks if he’d like to talk to Noir again.

“I’d be delighted,” Harry says, a soft smile on his face. “Noir is a very interesting conversationalist.”

There’s a few giggles from the kids as Anaïs races off to her dorm room.

Eventually she returns and Harry coaxes Noir out to come coil into the warmth of his neck and down his arm.

And that’s how Draco Malfoy sees him when he deigns to enter the main common room-- one leg crossed over another, seated comfortably on the plush wingback chair in front of the roaring fire, stroking the deadly-bright poisonous snake looped around his neck, regaling a group of first years sitting at his feet-- as well as a fair group of other students who would never admit to listening in.

He doesn’t pause in his story for even a beat as he catches Malfoy’s eye and sends him a polite smile.

His expression threatens to turn less polite and more towards savage and satisfied as Malfoy becomes visibly discomfited, steering his small gaggle of hangers-on to the farthest corner he can get away from Harry.

He marks it as a day well spent as he turns in for the night.

Harry takes stock once he wakes up. He’s alone in his shared dorm room, curtains drawn tight around his bed. He stares up at the dark wood of the four poster bed and thinks.

On his to-do list: go down to eat breakfast with the Lions and mollify Hermione about missing dinner last night, undoubtedly; then he has to go to the appearing room-- name still yet unknown-- with Neville and Luna; then to go lunch, again working on Hermione and seemingly upholding his orders from the compulsion web; then looking over Tom’s folio, because he really needs to get that finished posthaste; and then, finally, Marking the twins, Zabini and Nott, and Luna-- Neville pending-- in the Chamber.

Of course, he’s severely underselling just how complicated parts of this are. Of course, he just has to simply go to the appearing room with Nev and just simply convince him to join Harry’s side-- the side of the most violent Dark Lord since Grindelwald, and his parents’ torturers side.

Torturer, perhaps? Singular?

He sends off a quick note to Tom before he climbs out of bed to begin dressing, inquiring of him about the state of his ‘investigation’ into what exactly happened at the Longbottom residence that night.

He’d rather not go senselessly murdering a very capable part of their fighting force if he can help it, after all, and he has severe doubts about Barty at the very least out of the four of them. He can’t exactly speak to Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange’s characters, since he doesn’t exactly know them well enough, but he can guess from the scant information he does actually have.

If he can get away with just offing Bellatrix… Well, that would be the best outcome.

Besides, he’s got his own stake in this all. If the nutter(s… to be decided, of course) hadn’t tortured Neville’s parents into catatonia, he might not had to have grown up in Muggle Hell. Alice Longbottom is his godmother, after all, and he legally would have gone into her and her husband's care.

We’re godbrothers. An excellent point to bring up with Neville.

And then he immediately grimaces at the thought because he’s not trying to manipulate one of his closest friends, it’s just the option that his brain automatically spit out like some demented ticker tape of evil ideas. Well, not evil, per se, just extremely self-serving.

Like he keeps saying, there’s a reason the Hat wanted him in Slytherin from the first time they got dropped down on Harry’s head.

So, breakfast.

He takes about one step toward the door, fully dressed and ready to go down to eat, before his hand hits his forehead with an audible smack.

The bloody nutrition potions.

Bollocks.

He was so caught up in all the issues he was having with the people around him and assorted machinations and plans that he completely neglected one of the fundamental building blocks of his plans this year like a bloody idiot.

sh*te. Maybe I can tack it onto the end of the talk with Nev, even if he doesn’t accept. What’s that muggle psychology thing about asking for something big that you know you’ll be denied so that when you ask for the next, smaller thing they’ll be pressured by their own conscience into giving it to you…?

Well, he can only hope. Neville might not make it out of there remembering any of the conversation, after all.

Chapter 11: Upping the Ante

Chapter Text

Harry settles himself next to the painting of the tutu-wearing trolls, repressing the urge to twiddle his fingers or tug the fringe of his hair, or any other visible fidget.

No tells.

Instead, he brushes his fingers over the folded up parchment in his pocket, drawing up his occlumency shields in an attempt to soothe himself, pressing his nervousness back into the very depths of his mind.

Not, of course, that anyone is around to notice any of said tells or nervous tics, but trying to break the habit of visibly expressing his emotions that he adopted as a Lion is proving more difficult to kick than he anticipated. Unfortunately.

Besides, it’s not that no one is there currently-- it’s a future situation that he’s rather more worried about. All it takes is one slip before disaster.

But thankfully, Neville and Luna round the corner soon enough, drawing him out of his rather morbid musings. Harry steps away from the wall with a small smile, hand coming up to wave.

“What is this, Harry?” Neville asks as he draws closer. “Another secret passageway?”

Over the years, he’d gotten used to Harry’s penchant for bringing the Map everywhere and using the hidden passageways detailed in it-- especially last year, when he had more than a valid reason to dodge the entire student body and then some, what with their out of country visitors for the death tournament.

“Sort of?” He says, offering him a crooked smile. “It’s a bit handier than that, though, I’d reckon.”

Luna tugs Neville to a stop and gives Harry a thumbs up, leaving him free to call the room and not have to worry about clashing intent.

“Just watch,” Harry says, forestalling Nev’s obvious questions.

He walks back and forth in front of the wall three times, asking for a smaller copy of the Gryffindor common room. He’d thought it over before coming, of course-- what would be the best place to broach this topic in? It had the benefit of putting Neville at ease and giving him the impression that Harry was still mostly the Lion he’d originally met.

(It was obviously funny to Harry as well-- what would Dumbledore think of his precious little pawn swaying another over to the Dark whilst in a copy of his own beloved House’s common room? Oh, the horror!)

(Ha.)

The door of the appearing room melts into existence and Harry makes a quick about-face on his heel, grinning at Neville.

“I’m not exactly sure what it’s called-- I only found it by chance the day before yesterday,” he says, gesturing the duo forwards. “It’s not on the map at all. Have a look.”

Harry sweeps the door open as they approach and Neville’s mouth drops open.

“Is that the common room? Harry, I thought you said this wasn’t a passageway…?”

He shakes his head. “Come in, look.”

Neville and Luna both step in and Harry shuts the door behind them. He’s not sure what the wall looks like from outside now that they’re in there, but he places wandless and wordless Imperturbable and locking charms on the door anyway.

The philosophy of better safe than sorry has saved his twiggy arse quite a few times already and he’s not about to stop now.

“It’s smaller,” Neville says, peering around. “And there’s obviously no one here. Is this a… copy?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, walking past him in a beeline for a cushy, overstuffed, garishly red armchair. “This room can give you anything you ask for, I think? I haven’t, y’know, tested it or anything. I just asked for somewhere for us to talk.”

Neville nods, taking a seat next to him on an adjacent armchair. Luna claims the couch across from the both of them, leaning up against the arm and tucking her socked feet underneath her, shoes abandoned on the ground.

“So?” Neville asks, a hint of nervousness seeping into his tone.

Harry hesitates, but only for a breath. “There are some… really serious things going on, Nev. I want--” he pauses. “I want you by my side for it.” He looks Neville straight in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life, Harry,” Neville replies, something hardening in his eyes. “It… has to do with Dumbledore, doesn’t it.”

It’s a statement and not a question, but Harry isn’t really all that surprised. Neville is sharp where it really matters.

“Yeah,” he readily admits. “I figured that you’d realise, after what happened with the letters ‘n stuff this summer,” he adds.

It’s quiet for another couple breaths, nervous and tense air extending, before Harry speaks.

“Nev, can I-- can I make an Oath to you? So that you know I’m telling the truth?”

“Wha-- Harry!” Neville shakes his head furiously. “I just told you that I trust you with my life! You don’t think I’d trust what you’re about to say?”

“Some of it’s bad, Nev,” Harry says quietly. “Some of it’s going to make you furious or scared, and… I just need to make sure you really, really listen.”

On the one hand, it’ll generate more trust.

On the other, he won’t be able to lie at all.

If this was any other situation, he would never even think about offering an Oath, not for a second. He saves those for life or death situations.

His oath to Snape was a prime example, being seconds away from stunned, trussed up, and no doubt brought before the Headmaster as an imposter. But he really, really wants to convince Neville. He wants his friend out of the Light and away from Dumbledore.

Neville catches his lower lip between his teeth and worries it nervously. “If… if you think it’s a good idea. I still trust you either way.”

Harry nods and takes his wand out. “I, Harry James Potter, so do swear on Lady Magic to tell the truth to Neville Longbottom for as long as this conversation may take, so mote it be.”

He lowers his wand and tucks it away once more, thinking.

Well, here’s to trying to make it three for three.

“Dumbledore wants me dead.”

Neville’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Dumbledore--”

“I heard you!” Neville says, eyes wide, leaning back in his chair. “I heard you! I just-- how? Why? ”

“Do you want the long version or the short one?”

“The long version,” Luna says from her couch, looking up from her… finger knitting? Except he can see magic radiating off of the yarn, so it can’t be just that.

Harry looks to Neville and he nods, leaning forward again.

“So…”

Where to start?

“Do you know about the prophecy?” Harry starts off with that, because technically, it could have been Neville in his place and it’s ultimately the reason his parents are permanent residents of St. Mungos.

Well. He internally cringes. Not that he should know that information.

But he shakes his head. “No.”

“Right.” Harry shouldn’t be surprised, though, should he? Even he himself barely knew anything about the prophecy and he’s the one spoken of in it. “So, one Sybil Trelawney delivered a prophecy. She spoke of a Dark Lord and a child being born with power that the Dark Lord did not have, and that the child would defeat him.

“The key point of this prophecy is that the child would be born as the seventh month dies, to parents that had thrice defied him.”

“And you’re… the child?” Neville asks slowly, a slightly pained look passing over his face.

Harry nods. “It could have been you, technically, but the fact that Voldemort--” there’s a flinch from Neville but not much else-- “Chose to try and kill me sort of made me into the prophecy child.”

“Wait, I could have been the prophecy child?” Neville asks, baffled.

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. “You were born a single day before me and your parents were active in the war back then. We both fit the criteria. We were the only ones that did.”

Neville takes a second to digest that.

“But, then why does Dumbledore want you dead over the prophecy?”

Harry smiles wryly.

“Well, the whole prophecy is this,” he says, leaning back in his chair slightly. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”

He watches as Neville mouths the prophecy back to himself and sees when it clicks.

“You have to die for Him to die?” Neville asks, voice at a whisper and face pale. “Harry, that’s… I… when did he tell you about it?”

Right, and here’s where the truly hard part begins.

“If you want the truth, he never did,” Harry shrugs, looking away. “I figured it out without him.” Not an outright lie, just an omission. “And it’s not like he’s ever exhibited any measure of actual care for me, I’ve realised. It’s not too hard to think that he might do something like that. You know… a little bit about the Dursleys.”

Neville nods, the hard thing in his eyes growing.

“Dumbledore was supposed to be my magical guardian, Nev. He never did anything a magical guardian is supposed to do for a child. And he did have someone watching me my whole life, but that makes it worse. Did she see and not tell him, or did she see, tell him, and he didn’t care ?”

Neville is quiet, only steadily looking on and waiting for Harry to continue.

“He wants me dead-- but only eventually. He wants me beaten and malleable, so I listen to everything he tells me to do before I walk off to my death like a good little lamb.”

He feels like he’s up on a soapbox, with the nonstop talking, but Neville just stays quiet and listens to him.

“I… figured out some of it before first year. I have to tell you, the Hat’s decision to place me into Slytherin wasn’t unfounded, and not surprising. It wanted me in Slytherin from the first time I went through the Sorting.”

Neville nods. “I can kinda see it, Harry. No offence, of course. On the train, you were loads different with us than you were with Ron and Hermione, and even now, you’re a bit different than you were.”

“None taken,” Harry replies. “I… act, a lot of the time. I had to behave a certain way when I was younger because of the Dursleys and because of… what I had to do, and I knew that Dumbledore wouldn’t want me to be like that, if I was reading the situation right. And I was right.”

“You were forced to grow up too fast,” Luna chimes in gently. “Plenty of adults act differently in certain situations. A professor wouldn’t laugh and joke with their students like they would with their friends their own age, would they?”

Neville nods slowly, seeming to get it.

“And then during the first year-- I don’t know this for certain, but I’m pretty sure Dumbledore set the whole thing up. If he wanted to stop Voldemort--” another flinch, but lighter-- “from getting the Philosopher’s Stone, he could have set things up very, very differently. For Merlin’s sake, three eleven year olds got through it!”

“A test,” Luna says, and Harry’s now sure that was the plan all along.

“And then second year,” he continues, the urge to tug on his fringe growing in his agitation.

He’d thought about everything before, but he’d never said it out loud. It’s strangely liberating, in a way.

“There’s no way that Dumbledore didn’t know where the basilisk was, and there’s no way he didn’t know it was a basilisk. The Headmaster’s connection with Hogwarts’ wards would tell him what it was and where it was once it started menacing the students.

“Third year-- did you know that he could have just… given Sirius a trial?”

Neville, who already knows the truth about Sirius, just sits there with wide eyes.

“He’s the Chief Warlock and more importantly, the Binder for the Fidelius. He knew Sirius wasn’t the Secret Keeper, he knew he couldn’t have shared the secret with Voldemort, and he still let them toss him into Azkaban for years.

“And fourth year?” Harry laughs, and it sounds broken. This whole conversation is rapidly spiralling out of his control even though he’s mostly the only one talking, but he can’t stop, literally and figuratively. He needs to get Neville on his side, and it feels like relieving pressure from a wound.

“I didn’t know what a magical guardian was at that point, but Dumbledore gave his explicit permission for me to take part in the tournament. He could have said no, could have made it so I didn’t have to participate in one of the most deadly tournaments wixkind has to offer and instead gave his explicit permission, lying the whole time about me having no choice.”

He falls silent, then, staring at his hands, waiting for Neville to speak.

“What are you going to do then, Harry?” Neville asks him. “That’s really bad. All that stuff… and with you in Slytherin now… He’s furious, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s furious all right,” Harry huffs a dry laugh that completely lacks any humour.

“But it didn’t hold,” Luna says, “And that’s the important thing.”

Neville looks between Harry and Luna, mouth opening to undoubtedly ask what exactly they mean, when Harry cuts him off, barreling full speed ahead.

The last push, then we will see.

“‘ Neither can live while the other survives’ ,” Harry quotes, smiling wryly, moving the conversation along track. Whether they’ll be alright or crash and burn is yet to be seen by him. “I don’t necessarily think that it means both of us have to die. What I think it means instead, though, is that if one of us is suffering, both of us will be suffering.”

Harry takes a breath.

“I know the reason why , too, I would have to die for him to die. He f*cked up, Nev, when he was younger, and drove himself mad in a bid for immortality. He was so afraid of death, he started to become it.”

“Harry…” Neville starts slowly, his tone wary.

“When he came to Godric’s Hollow on Samhain to kill the three of us, he buggered it up again. His method of gaining immortality called for splitting his soul into separate bits and housing them in another object. That’s why he didn’t die. But, something else happened.”

“Harry, how do you know this?” The hard thing in Neville’s eyes is still there. His voice is soft and quiet and his tone is even, if not a bit apprehensive.

“There’s a bit of his soul in me, Nev, and he told it to me myself.”

Neville jumps to his feet. “He told you himself?!” He shouts. “Harry, you-!” He stops suddenly, as if he’s been hit in the face by a revelation.

“You joined him, didn’t you?” It’s a statement and not a question and he’s absolutely correct.

“Yes.”

Neville’s hands find the collar of his shirt and he’s grabbed, pulled up by his collar, and shaken.

“Are you mad ?” Neville shouts directly into his face. Harry goes limp, just a little bit, his shields coming up on instinct, as Neville continues to shout. “He’s killed so many people! Wix, muggles, and creatures! He killed your parents! His followers tortured my parents to insanity!”

“I think Harry is self sabotaging,” Luna chimes in. “Only telling you the bad parts first and none of the good ones.”

Harry’s dropped as Neville whirls to round on Luna.

“And how do you know that?” He demands, shoulders up to his ears and red in the face, jaw tight and hands curled into fists.

“Because I’ve Seen it, Heir Neville Frank Longbottom,” Luna replies, voice clearer and sterner and more serious than he’s ever heard from her. “And I think you should let Harry continue.”

Harry, whose heart is still beating ridiculously fast for some reason, has to hold back a shaky smile at the way Neville is gaping at their small friend, most of his tenseness lost to shock.

“For one,” Harry says, very nearly croaking, “He’s not nearly as murderous anymore. He doesn’t want to kill me, and I was able to convince him that safety from muggles would come through hiding more so than, you know, mass murder and enslavement. It helps quite a bit that he’s not insane anymore.”

“Harry, what the Lestranges did to my parents is worse than murder,” Neville counters coldly and smoothly, anger once again building in his face.

“I know. What I also know is that he’s desperate to be on my good side and thus has given me nearly free reign over quite a few things. If you wanted to, you could kill her and he’d do nothing to you.”

“Her? Just Bellatrix? What about--”

Harry pulls out the parchment from his pocket, cutting Neville off. He narrows his eyes at the parchment, not reaching out to take it at all.

“Look. Veritaserum-soaked and truth-spelled parchment, with a Goblin Nation seal of authenticity. Read it.”

Harry had, this morning, when Tom had sent it, so he knows what it contains.

It was the confession of one Bartemius Crouch Jr detailing exactly what had happened that night-- how Bellatrix had ranted and raved and then just… snapped and decided to go hunt down the other prophecy family, for all that they had explicit orders from the Dark Lord himself not to.

How Rudolphus had tried to stop his wife, and, failing that, had enlisted his brother Rabastan and himself, Barty, their friend, to at least try and lessen the damage. Crouch himself had been the lookout, and ‘Rab’ and ‘Rod’ had gone in after ‘Bella’.

How he remembered the shouts and screams and how the two men had at least protected the infant Neville.

“This…” Neville starts, voice and hands both shaking. “This… I can’t…”

“If you’d like, you’d still be able to curse them. But Bellatrix’s life is yours,” Harry says.

“In exchange for what?” Neville asks, eyes hard and sharp. “To join You-Know-Who?”

“No,” Harry says. “To join me.”

This, at least, brings Neville up short.

“I might be allied with him, but that’s just it. Allies. He doesn’t command what I do and he wouldn’t-- couldn’t-- command you either. I mean, you’d have to show at least a modicum of respect because he’s prissy and uptight even at his best, but you wouldn’t have to kiss his robe hem or call him your Lord or anything like his followers do. I know I don’t.”

The snort seems to be startled out of Neville, whose eyes are wide with shock.

“What?” Harry asks, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m allowed to call him prissy because he is. I called him the Dark Wanker in front of a group of Gryffindors yesterday anyway, and I’d wager that’s a lot worse than calling him prissy.”

Neville bursts out laughing, seemingly despite himself.

“Dark--” he gasps with laughter. “Dark Wanker!”

Harry grins, extremely pleased with himself that he’d managed to diffuse the situation at least somewhat. Neville’s magic had been bearing down heavily on him, almost suffocatingly so. Now, the atmosphere was lighter, his magic almost back to the slow, tendril-like undulations it usually was.

It reminded him of a plant, predictably.

Once Neville had calmed down from his laughing fit and settled himself back into his chair, Harry spoke.

“I just… want you to be safe,” Harry says softly. “If you’re on Dumbledore’s side, you’re in danger from T- his. If you’re not on anyone’s, either side could target you, but most likely Dumbledore’s. If you want to stay neutral, I’d respect your choice and help protect you anyway.

“But if you were on my side, you’d be protected from his people thanks to the Vow we made, and I’d be able to protect you from Dumbledore’s people without dividing my attention.”

“What would you want me to… do?”

“Nothing,” Harry answers promptly. “Nothing that you don’t want to. If you don’t want to fight in the war at all, I won’t begrudge you the choice. I understand what it’s like when someone makes that decision for you.”

Neville flinches minutely and Harry frowns. Was that too manipulative?

“Are we the first you’ve asked?” Neville asks, looking faintly nervous again.

Harry shakes his head. “No. Well… Yes, technically. You’re the first one I actually properly asked like this-- the rest made their decision with just me talking about… everything.”

Well, there were Zabini and Nott, but he didn’t technically properly ask. He reaches for a small bauble behind Neville with his magic and lifts it just to make sure that he was above board. It moves, mercifully.

It would be extraordinarily stupid to lose his magic over such an inconsequential slip of the tongue.

“Who?”

Smart, he thinks with no small measure of pride in his friend. Getting all the information first.

“Fred and George were first,” he starts. “I had to use a few of their inventions to cause enough chaos to get the prophecy orb from the Department of Mysteries. He didn’t know the whole thing and I didn’t know anything at all. When they cornered me to ask why I needed it, I told them the truth.

“It happened the same way with Sirius and Remus-- I told them the truth when they asked, and they decided to come with me. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott wanted something other than Dumbledore or T- Voldemort, and they figured I could help them.” Technically. “And…”

He hesitates. Should he tell him about Snape? The dungeon bat bastard scared the sh*te out of Neville, after all, and he could technically keep them apart from each other, without Neville ever having to know.

But, that seems like a disservice to him to lie by omission.

“Snape,” he says a second later, finally deciding. Honesty is the best policy in situations such as this, after all.

It worked for Tom with him, at least.

“He and my mum were friends when they were younger, and he felt guilty enough after her death to take a Vow to protect me. It came out when he dragged me to his office to talk after the resort and I really needed-- need more allies.”

“How do you know any of them won’t betray you?” Neville asks, concerned.

For him? He’s concerned for Harry ?

Neville is… something else.

“Well…” Harry hesitates, internally cringing. Bugger. “Before you say anything, Fred and George brought it up first!”

Neville raises a brow, the very picture of unamused. Oh hell, it rivals Snape’s!

“An Oath. A lord-vassal oath, in particular,” Harry says, wincing slightly. He knows how it sounds, like he’s a miniature Dark Lord.

Well, he technically is on his way there at this point.

“It’s a very pretty design, Harry. You shouldn’t be so worried,” Luna says gently.

He offers the ghost of a smile to Luna before continuing.

“It’s so I can contact people in a hurry, and so that the Vow I made with Tom--” Harry purses his lips slightly. “Voldemort. Don’t call him that to his face. I think he only tolerates me saying it because I quite literally house part of his soul.”

“N-noted,” Neville stutters, wide-eyed. “If I take… your Mark, it’ll, what, transfer some of the Vow you made to me?”

Harry nods. “That’s the gist of it. The Vow states that neither of us can harm the other without us dying.”

Neville is quiet for a few beats. “Then how… with Bellatrix…?”

“That’s… an excellent question. I’d assume he would cast her out first-- which, honestly, would be a punishment in and of itself if she’s as batty as I think she is.”

Neville snorts, slumping further into his seat.

“Hey, Luna?”

Luna looks up from her finger knitting. “Yes, Nev?”

“You gave him your answer on the train. How are you so calm about it?”

Luna lowers her hands to her lap. “The day before we left for Hogwarts, I had a dream,” she says softly.

Harry looks up at this. It sounds important.

“I’ve had dreams like this before. I never felt like I could talk about them, and had to watch it all happen-- they would come true, anyway, and when I tried to change things when I was younger, it wouldn’t work.

“But in this one… it was so far off in the future, farther than I’ve ever dreamed before. And I’m not usually in them when I dream, but I Saw myself standing next to Harry and… I really want that dream to come true,” she admits quietly, drawing her legs closer to her chest, finger knitting abandoned. “It’s a good future, better than anything I’ve ever dreamed before.”

Neville’s eyes dart between Luna and Harry, and then he sighs.

“Alright. I’ll join you, Harry.”

He can feel the magic of the Oath disconnecting itself from him. The conversation has been deemed over by Lady Magic, then.

“Thank you,” Harry replies, sagging down into his chair a little. “Is there anything else you would like to know, Nev?”

“Yeah, actually. What about Ron and Hermione?” Harry turns his head as Neville plants an elbow on the arm of the chair, settling further into the overstuffed monstrosity. “I can’t imagine it would be easy to tell them any of this-- especially Ron, after yesterday.”

Harry shifts with a sigh, straightening up once more. “Luna confirmed it for me on the train. ‘Goat’s eyes,’ remember?”

At Neville’s nod, he continues to speak.

“I’m sure at least Ron becoming my friend was on purpose-- I first met the Weasleys whilst they were screaming about muggles on the nonmagical side of King’s Cross, and he definitely lied about there being no more full compartments. Hermione was likely brought in after the troll incident.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, trying to stave off a headache. He really should have eaten more at breakfast.

Oh. Right.

“I was going to try to ask her later because she’s the more level-headed and open of the two, but she was rude to Luna.”

Neville snorts. “Yeah, I don’t understand why she was so adamant about thestrals being a myth, even when you said you could see them. Stupid, really.”

Quiet stretches between them after that. It’s comfortable, though, and Harry is thoroughly relieved that he hasn’t irrevocably damned their friendship. He’s just started thinking about a way to bring up his ask when Neville speaks, breaking the silence.

“Hey, Harry?” Neville asks quietly, hesitation colouring his words.

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. “How… how did you forgive You-Know-Who for killing your parents? You’re obviously not at his throat anymore, and…” He peters off.

Ah.

“Well…” Harry says softly. “You can’t miss what you never had, I guess. I never knew my parents. My Aunt originally told me that they were drunks who killed themselves in a car accident-- a muggle machine that you ride around in to get places,” he hastens to explain at Neville’s confused expression. “It’s made out of a lot of metal and glass, and you sit in the front and direct it around. People die in accidents all the time, especially when they’ve been drinking. I had no reason not to believe it, especially because I didn’t know magic was real.”

Neville nods slowly. “That’s… horrible.”

“And then,” Harry continues, “Once I knew the truth-- that they were wix and they were killed in the war-- it… didn’t change much. Sure, I would have liked to know them. I would have liked to have grown up being cared for and loved like a normal child, but… they were part of the war. They chose to stay and fight instead of fleeing the country.”

His lips twist into a frown. “Who the hell decides to have a child in the middle of a war, anyway? Especially ones who are in the main vigilante opposition force?”

He shakes his head. “The way I can forgive him is because I know that they made their choice. Besides, I can’t fault Tom for trying to kill me, knowing what he knew, even if it wasn’t the whole thing. It was a tactically sound decision and he would have probably won the war right then and there if he had succeeded.”

Harry’s not going to say ‘I would have done it too,’ but he would have if he had been in Tom’s position.

Or at least stolen the child.

He takes a half second to try and imagine a world in which the insane snake-face version of Voldemort had taken him that night and-- nope. He can’t see Voldemort raising a child, not at all.

They fall into silence once more and Harry decides to just throw caution to the wind. What is he going to say, no ?

“Hey, Nev?” Harry echoes Neville, starting up conversation once more.

“What’s up?”

“Can you… you remember what I told you about the Dursleys, right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, voice hard. “I do.”

“If I gave you a list of ingredients and money to buy them, would you owl order them for me? I need to brew something.”

“Of course, though I can’t really help you with the brewing part,” he says, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.

As Harry sets out to scribbling down the ingredients he needs, Neville makes a small questioning sound.

“Wait, if Snape is on your side now, can’t you just ask him to brew what you need?”

Harry hesitates for a moment before he continues writing. “No. Well, I could, technically, yes, but… I don’t want him to know.”

Neville eyes him warily. “What exactly are you making, Harry?”

Silently, he passes the ingredient list over to Neville. He might not be the best potioneer around, but he knows his herbology-- probably better than even some Masters.

Neville’s lips move soundlessly as he reads before going pale.

“Harry, is this for nutrition potions? And…” he squints at the paper once more. “I can’t tell, but all these plants have restorative properties. Powerful restorative properties.”

He looks up at Harry with clear concern in his eyes.

“What did they do to you, Harry?”

He grimaces, eyes sliding off to the side. “A lot of things. It should be over now, though. I don’t think--” I can survive another summer there.

He doesn’t want to say it, but, by the look on both their faces, they get it.

“Well!” He says, clapping lightly, a smile on his face in an attempt to dispel the heavy air. “Can you both meet me at the portrait of the Black Lake on the second floor after curfew tonight?”

Harry lands face first on his bed, holding back a loud groan.

The conversation with Neville had drained him and then he had to go eat lunch with Hermione and the rest of the Gryffindors whilst playing the perfect little lion as per his supposed compulsion web.

He eyes his trunk. He should be looking over the folio, having only gotten through about a fourth of it, but his pillows also look awfully tempting, especially with the late, magically exhausting night ahead of him.

So he naps until just before curfew.

Priorities.

His dreams are… strange.

At first, all he sees is a muffled darkness and all he hears is a swishing sound, like fabric over stone, and a slight, rhythmic thumping.

There’s a warmth in his chest like he’s swallowed a mouthful of tea, but located higher up.

Eventually, his vision lightens, but he can’t quite see any defined shapes. All he can see are blobs of colour. There’s something vaguely pale topped with something dark, but lighter than its surroundings.

The feeling spreads through him as the light does, eventually enveloping him entirely.

“Are you ready to come back now?” He hears it, but only vaguely processes it. “My little mistake.”

The warmth grows in intensity, building up until it almost burns.

And it continues to grow.

Eventually, he can’t repress his scream any longer.

When the sound leaves him, it sounds like something else is screaming right along with him.

All at once, the feeling abates, ebbing back down from blinding pain to the soothing warmth once more, but even that feels terrible against his ragged nerves.

Except, that’s not quite right either. His perspective shifts, splits, changes . That is but isn’t him , after all, even though he doesn’t know how he knows that.

He floats in the darkness as something cool tucks him into itself, flickers of warmth lighting up across his form like starbursts.

And then, it all ebbs away.

Chapter 12: We take our places in the dark and turn our hearts to the stars

Chapter Text

When he wakes, Zabini and Nott are waiting for him by the door to their rooms.

Zabini flashes him a smile, wide and easy, but Harry can see the traces of nervousness around him-- not only in the tightness of his eyes and shoulders, but the way his magic jolts and shudders like a livewire.

And the rest of them, sans Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson are waiting for him in the fifth year common room with a privacy spell bubble up around them.

Greengrass, Davis, and Bulstrode look up expectantly as they come out of the men’s side.

Slowly, Harry turns to face the two boys, eyebrow raised. Well, he's perhaps found the reason for Zabini's nervousness.

“More is better, right?” Zabini flashes him a dazzling smile that obviously works wonders for him with any partners he may take. Unfortunately for him, Harry isn’t amused.

“What do they think they’re here for? You two couldn’t actually talk about anything,” Harry sighs, shaking his head.

The privacy spell expands until the three of them are housed under it as well.

“Theo phrased it as a ‘third choice,’ although he couldn’t tell us exactly what that entailed,” Greengrass says, sitting primly on one of the loveseats next to Davis. Bulstrode sits next to the two of them in an armchair, a part of a cluster of seats around a low table.

“Well, not exactly,” Harry says, holding back another sigh as he takes the armchair across from them. “More like… the amended choice, between the two of them.”

“But which side?” She presses.

“Would I be here if it was the side you would assume?” Harry asks, a slight grin gracing his face.

“You’re on the Dark Lord’s side now,” Davis whispers, eyes wide.

He inclines his head. “That I am.”

“You’re different,” Bulstrode says, tilting her head. “Markedly different from what we’ve seen of you.”

She’s sharper than she lets on. Interesting.

“I have to be,” Harry replies easily. Anything will come easy at this point after the talk with Neville earlier today. Plus, he is remarkably less invested in currying goodwill with random-- while powerful and well-connected-- Slytherins. He can afford to be a little looser and disclose less. “Dumbledore doesn’t exactly want me smart and capable; he wants me dead.”

“And the Dark Lord doesn’t?” Greengrass asks, sharp and to the point and completely ignoring the notion that the self-proclaimed leader of the light wanted the Boy Who Lived dead.

“Well, I can certainly understand the confusion. He did previously, quite obviously, but not anymore.” He crosses his legs at the knee, leaning back in the chair. The others seem to hang on his every word and Harry pushes down the satisfaction it brings him.

Not the time for megalomania, Harry. Focus.

“The impetus for the Dark Lord's attack on the Potter residence that Samhain was a prophecy; in it, it detailed the birth of a child with the power to destroy the Dark Lord,” Harry lectures. “A tactically sound decision, in my eyes. He wanted to win the war, so taking out a potential threat was something both necessary and logical. However, the prophecy said nothing about the child having to do so, which became especially important when he failed and said child grew up. You see the loophole, don’t you?”

Greengrass leans back, nodding slowly.

“Alright,” she finally says after a few beats of silence. “What would taking your side entail?”

“Well, for one, taking my Mark,” Harry says, keeping a close eye on the three for any reactions.

The three girls only look a little surprised by that, but their magic tells a different story. Greengrass’ magic freezes around her, Davis’ magic starts to whip about like a gale, and Bulstrode’s magic goes rigid.

“The type of Oath I chose allows protections from a Vow to be transferred from the Lord to the vassals, albeit with less potency. This allows you protection from the main Dark faction of his followers,” he says. “It also helps to lock down my secrets. If any untoward information got to the wrong people, it would spell not only my death but others I hold in close confidence.”

Greengrass bows her head a little in acceptance. “...Alright.”

Harry looks toward the other two. “And you?”

“I will, too,” Bulstrode says.

They all look towards Davis. She’s surprisingly good at hiding her real emotions for someone not born and bred in the sort of pureblood environment that all but demands it.

“I… have a question, first,” she says, back straightening. “Why? Or, I should ask, how? You’re a halfblood, just like me.”

“And you’re asking how I hold a high enough position to bargain as such as I do with the Dark Lord?” Harry asks, co*cking his head slightly.

She nods. “The pureblood dogma--” she says, shooting a half-apologetic look to Greengrass-- “that He believes in seems antithetical to that, even if you are prophesied to hold the power to destroy him.”

“Oh, sure, some of his followers surely do believe it,” Harry says, lifting a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “But I’d wager a fair amount that he doesn’t truly believe in it.”

“How do you know that?” Nott asks, eyes bright and curious just like the rest of them. He does seem like an information hound.

A smile spreads over his face, slow and curling. “Well,” he drawls. “For one thing, he’s a halfblood just like we are.”

Sharp gasps ring out from the assorted purebloods under the privacy spell but none of them are free of varying levels of surprise and shock.

“You don’t have to worry about it, Davis,” he says with a more genuine smile. “You follow the trend very well.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, her mask still cracked from the shock.

“Well, think about the most powerful wix you know. Dumbledore, him, me,” he says, his smile morphing into a slightly co*cky grin. “We’re all halfbloods. And you?”

Harry taps the arc of his cheekbone, right under the dip of his glasses. “The raw amount of magic you have at your disposal is up there with the best. I can’t say anything to your technical execution thereof because I haven’t quite been watching you close enough to know, but you could grow to be one of the most powerful witches of this age with the right dedication.”

It’s quiet for a beat before Nott breathes an incredulous, “Mage sight?”

“Among other senses,” Harry shrugs. “Did you know that Dumbledore’s magic even tastes like his beloved lemon drops? It’s bloody disgusting.”

Zabini snigg*rs first and that breaks the composure of the rest of the group, the rest expressing their amusem*nt in other ways.

A job well done, diffusing the tension.

“Well, no time like the present,” he declares, climbing to his feet. “Besides that, there’s others waiting on me. Let’s go.”

They fall in line behind him quite easily, for all that they undoubtedly want to know where the hell they’re going.

He turns on his heel as they approach the door to the fifth year common room, raises a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, and casts quick notice-me-not and a modified disillusionment charm over them. They all can see each other, but no one else can.

Harry entreats Hogwarts as they walk out, asking for a way to Nev, Luna, and the twins undetected.

She tugs him through the family magic over to the small library in the corner of the main common room and he leads the group past a small statue to a blank wall.

He studies it for a second only to see a small carving of a snake.

“Open,” he hisses, and hears soft gasps behind him as the wall peels back to reveal a tunnel. Magelight flickers to life in the sconces set high on the walls as the entrance rolls closed again, illuminating the pitch black way forward.

“Hmm, I wonder if this connects,” Harry muses aloud. Would it be better to stash his coterie of Slytherins before picking up the Lion-majority group? He does need to ask Sal if he can use his office for the ritual, so they'd just be in the chamber.

Best not to be too forwardly assuming with the magical portrait of one’s ancestor, no matter how dead they may be-- especially when residing in a magical fortress of their own design.

Yeah, best not.

But the castle tugs on him once more, directing him towards another blank wall, which, when hissed at, opens up to show a narrow stairway upwards.

He climbs silently, mildly impressed with how well they’re holding their tongues. He knows that if he was in their shoes he'd be burning with questions and loathe to follow someone so unknown just on their word.

The stairway opens into another tunnel. His suspicion is confirmed when a slight tug on his left hand pulls him to the left, up the familiar switch-backing path.

This must be the one behind the painting on the second floor.

He cancels the charms on the group.

“Wait here for a second,” he says as they approach the wall, keeping pace with him. “I just have to pick a few people up.”

He strides up to the wall and hisses out the command to open, and he’s greeted with two sets of matching, wide eyes.

Seconds later, a slit opens up in the air to reveal Neville and Luna peering out at him.

The cloak came in handy, then.

“Wicked, Har,” George grins.

“This isn’t on the map,” Fred says, stepping forward, inquisitive eyes roaming the tunnel behind him.

“It wouldn’t be,” Harry says, motioning the four of them in. Neville hands the cloak back over to him as they enter and the wall slides back shut behind them. They start to walk. “Salazar Slytherin put these in himself. There's no way the Marauders were going to get in.”

“Oho!” Fred cries, eyes alighting on something behind him. “Freddie, pay up.”

“Georgie, I never took that bet,” George replies, shaking his head. “No chance he wasn’t going to gain a gaggle of his very own snakeys.”

Luna floats right forward towards the group of Slytherins with a big smile on her face but Neville hangs back behind the twins, nervously looking towards Harry.

Zabini arches a brow at him and Harry just smiles.

“It’s not much longer, now,” he says.

“Potter, what is this place that you’re taking us?” Nott asks after a little more walking-- always the first to go looking for information.

“Well,” Harry drawls, just on this side of sarcastic as he draws the word out. “What secure place would I be taking you that can only be accessed through secret passageways that you could only use parseltongue to enter?”

There’s a sharp inhale from behind him.

“It can’t be,” Nott murmurs.

“Don’t worry, Nott,” Harry says, stopping short at the sealed entryway. “Open. She doesn’t bite anymore.”

He sweeps out into the Chamber, the others-- now-- hesitantly following behind him.

A yelp goes up from behind him as they round the corner of one of the massive pillars.

“Manache! Holy mother of Merlin, Potter!”

“Like I said, she’s not going to bite anyone. She’s dead,” Harry replies, a hint of a laugh snaking into his voice as he strides along the massive corpse of the basilisk. It’s mostly disassembled, just the harder connective tissue and bones remaining, as well as tainted skin.

Right, tacos. I wonder if anyone else can eat them, or if they would be poisoned. Maybe I should send some to Tom. He’s a parseltongue too, he should be fine.

He turns to look at the gaggle of his friends and followers when he finally draws close to the base of the statue.

“Wait here for a few minutes. I have to ask if we can use the office.”

“Ask who?” He hears someone mutter the incredulous question as he slips through the hidden door.

Inside, he’s greeted with the familiar sight of Salazar Slytherin’s study. It’s similar to how the ancestral Slytherin mansion-- and the dorms, really-- are decorated: dark wood, grey stone, and silver and green.

Not that he’s complaining. It's very soothing.

“Salazar? ” Harry calls out as he approaches the empty painting behind the desk. “Are you there? ”

As he waits, a frisson of fear sparks across his gut. What if Salazar doesn’t answer? What if he deems him in the same category now as Tom just for associating with him? Harry wouldn't put it past him to know somehow, especially considering Tom's set up in what was likely his mansion that most likely had a portrait of him.

Salazar Slytherin had been a boon the likes of which Harry had never expected. He’d whiled away so much time in his little study, the man himself looking in on his studies and even teaching him things. To lose him…

But, his fears are allayed quite quickly.

“Harry!” Salazar greets him warmly, striding back into the frame. His voice is higher than one might expect, at about a tenor range if Harry were to guess with his limited experience, with a slightly reedy quality and a flavour of an accent that would be hard for modern speakers to place. “‘Tis been a long while since you’ve come to visit me. Come, tell me of your exploits.”

He settles into the chaise-- also dark wood with emerald green upholstery-- arranging his short robe to drape around his breech-clad legs. But there’s a grin on his face that tells him something.

“I’m sure you know some of them already. It is your portrait in your House’s common room, yes? I thought I spotted Aurora.”

Salazar’s grin widens.

“Indeed. Masterfully done, Heir mine.”

Harry groans, hanging his head. “Yes,” he says, sighing. “You were right.”

Salazar’s expression conveys nothing but smugness. “I did tell you, lad.” He shakes a finger at Harry. “Don’t doubt a man about his own Heir.”

He raises his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Alright.” He very much wants to ask about Tom, but refrains. “May I use your study for a brief time? There’s a ritual I must do.”

“Oho? And what would that be?” Salazar tilts his head. “Protective? You always seem to dive headfirst into trouble.jnm Or some other?”

“A vassalage ritual,” Harry says. “There is a group of my peers who wish to swear themselves to me before the upcoming war.”

Salazar sits back, grin growing on his face again. “Further proof you were never meant for Ric’s House,” he nods, satisfied. “You may, although the ritual room may be a better choice for such an endeavour.”

Harry resists the urge to smack himself. Yeah, I’d say.

“Where might that be?” He grins tiredly up at Sal, who shakes his head fondly at him.

“Through the library and up the stairs, the last door directly across from the landing,” Salazar explains succinctly.

Thank Morgana for small miracles, Harry thinks wryly. An adult just giving me information without me having to work for it.

“Thank you, Sal,” Harry says with a smile and a slight bow before retrieving the rest of them.

The Slytherins’ natural composure disallows them from outright gaping at the space like the twins and Nev are doing, but Harry can see that they’re not as unaffected as they pretend to be.

“These are they, Heir mine?” Salazar calls out, a sly smile on his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing. They all but whip around, eyes widening with shock when they see the portrait.

“Potter,” Nott whispers. “Is that…?”

“Well met, fair wix!” Salazar calls cheerfully. “I am Salazar Slytherin, Lord of the Slytherin estate.”

Everyone else aside from Luna, the twins, Nott, and Zabini are looking at him, though, likely because of Sal calling him his heir.

“Well met, Lord Slytherin,” the Slytherin students say near-unanimously, the twins and Nev repeating it just moments after and slightly less smoothly.

“You may call me Salazar,” he says with a shallow dip of his head. “There is little need to stand on circ*mstance considering my present configuration.”

“So, Harry…” Nev starts, a small grin picking up the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Harry groans lightly. “After denying it from my second year, it turns out it’s actually true.”

“Just like I had said,” Salazar finishes smugly. “Now, off you go. You will need your sleep after completing something so magically taxing, so do not tarry.”

He lifts his hand in a wave as he leads the group over to the door to the library.

“Now, Nott, remember how I said I had several ancestral libraries at my disposal?” Harry asks with a sharp grin, swinging open the door to the library.

Nott outright gapes at the library, mask forgotten in his shock and awe. It’s obviously a wizardspace construction; it stretches for far longer than one would assume for the dimensions of an underground space. Bookcases line the walls from floor to ceiling with freestanding double sided ones in between, all packed with books.

“Potter… you have to let me come back, please,” he says, voice a tad hoarse. “This… this is amazing. Salazar Slytherin’s personal library… I can’t even begin to imagine what his collection contains, untouched for hundreds of years…”

“Sure,” Harry acquiesces, more amused than anything. “I spent a lot of last year down here. I miss talking with Sal. It’ll be quite a bit easier to sneak away now that I’m already in the dungeons.”

“Sal?” He hears Greengrass murmur.

“Come on, the ritual room is on the second floor.”

Harry leads them through the shelves, watching Nott gaze around with wide, reverential eyes at the spines of the heavy tomes out of the corner of his eye.

Eventually, he reaches the ritual room.

Even without opening the door and entering, Harry can feel the magic radiating from the space. Heavy protective wards permeate the walls-- they’re most of the reason that Harry hadn’t explored the room before, preferring to stick to the first level and the first room on the second floor, the Heir room.

He pushes the heavy door open and has to hold back a gasp as the magic slips over his skin. The Slytherin ring hums with joy, and the Emrys ring seems to flicker with much the same feeling as well.

“Harry?” Neville asks quietly, at his elbow in a blink when he falters.

“It’s nothing. The spellwork and the latent magic in the room… it’s a lot,” Harry says, shaking his head as if to try and shake off the press of the magic. Thankfully, the sight component doesn’t get too much in the way, only showing up as a greenish-silver film over everything.

The green looks… familiar. He steps forward into the room, peering at it. What about the shade is familiar? It’s not the same shade as the Slytherin trappings…

A bright, pure white spark shoots up his left hand, originating from his middle finger, when he touches the wall.

It’s the same shade as the ring in the Emrys Lordship ring, he realises belatedly.

Merlin’s magic is in this room.

Circe. Of course. Merlin attended Hogwarts, in a sense, as a student of Sal. It’s no wonder that his magic is in Sal’s ritual room.

He shakes his hand out as he turns around to face the rest of them.

“Let’s begin, shall we?

He fights the urge to wipe away the sweat beading his brow as the last person steps up in front of him.

“Neville Frank Longbottom, Heir to the Longbottom Family,” Harry says, repeating the same formal ritual greeting for the upteenth time. “I welcome you. Step forward into the circle and state your intent.”

Last chance to back out, he thinks idly.

But, it doesn’t happen. Neville’s shoulders are squared and his chin is held high as he crosses into the sanctified space. They had all gone over the oath before starting, and he had watched the rest of them do it first.

He doesn’t stumble over his words in the slightest.

“I seek to pledge myself to you, Harry James Potter, Lord Potter, Lord Perevell, Lord Emrys, Heir Slytherin, Heir Black.”

The massive amount of titles are a tad embarrassing for the way they disrupt what’s usually a short bit of the ritual. Most people had one or maybe two Lordships by the time they were being sworn to, especially for the time that this ritual was made, rather than the three and two Heirships Harry has. It was ultimately important for the ritual, though, as the Family magic was also invoked this way.

“Then kneel, Neville Frank Longbottom, and swear by Lady Magic, your House, and your own honour an unbreakable Oath that you will follow your Lord wherever he may lead you, heed his orders without faltering, and protect your Lord and your fellow vassals.”

“I, Neville Frank Longbottom, Heir Longbottom, swear by Lady Magic, House Longbottom, and my honour, that I will follow you wherever you may lead, heed your orders without faltering, and protect my Lord and my fellow vassals,” he repeats.

Magic flickers around the two of them, responding to their call. The magelight flickers in their sconces.

“Let magic, blood, and honour bind you to me,” he continues. “I call upon Lady Magic to hear your plea and bestow upon you my mark.”

He lifts his wand and touches the tip to Neville’s bared left breast.

“In return, as your Lord, I swear by Lady Magic, my Houses, and my honour that I will lead you without faltering, order you fairly, and protect you as a Lord should his vassals.”

Harry’s pretty sure that Tom either left this part out or altered it in some way, at least after he went batty. Of course, Harry altered it as well to be more equal.

“If you accept my pledge, I accept your vow in return,” Neville says, bowing his head. The magic swells around them, thickening once more into an almost unbearable press.

“May you be judged by Lady Magic if you break from these oaths,” they chorus.

Neville winces ever so slightly as the bond takes hold, the proof tattooing itself into his flesh. Harry holds back his own as the vassal bond settles into his magic, boosting it imperceptibly and giving him a faint awareness of his friend.

“Then rise, Neville Frank Longbottom. You are now my vassal, and I your Lord.”

He bows to Harry before passing Harry and stepping out of the circle. An important distinction: not stepping backwards, indicating an undoing, or turning his back on Harry to walk the way he came, almost literally showing that he’s turning his back and returning to what he once ways; rather, continuing through and standing at Harry’s back, showing a metamorphosis and his support.

Magic was finicky with small meanings like that, especially ritual magic.

It’s all he can do to close it and funnel the extra magic energy back into the castle before he sinks to one knee with a sigh.

“Harry, are you alright?” Neville is at his side in an instant. It’s that kind of behaviour that one might see and think him better as a Hufflepuff, but Harry knows the distinction. Care does not preclude bravery.

“I'm fine, I'm just a little tired,” he says, standing once more. Fred and George are close behind him.

“Here, you look a bit peaky,” George says, holding out a cauldron cake.

Harry narrows his eyes at them. “This better not be a prank sweet.”

“Oh, no,” Fred assures him. “We save those for other people.”

“Other Gryffindors--”

“--peskier little brothers--” Fred cuts in with a grin.

“And other poor unsuspecting sods,” George finishes. “But really, eat it.”

“Sugar should perk you up enough to get back to bed,” Fred says.

Harry stuffs it in his mouth without a second thought, just barely having the sense to not try and eat it whole à la Ron.

“We need to have a meeting some time, all of us,” Harry mutters as they walk back down the staircase. Theodore is once again ogling the books. “Some of you know more than others. We need to be more cohesive if we’re going to get anything done. Mind, none of you even know that yet. There’s too much to be done and not enough time to do all of it.”

He must be tired if he’s babbling like that, Merlin.

“So, a method of communication first and foremost?” Blaise suggests.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Fred, George, you want to do it? You two are probably the most technically skilled in that area.”

The others aren’t even given a second to protest before the twins reply-- and start rapid fire bouncing ideas off each other.

“Not a problem,” they chorus.

“Runes and arithmancy, you think, Forge?” George asks. "I can't imagine that anything else would serve as a good basis."

“They would be the best, though it would be fun to try and puzzle out a potion to do the same. D’you want it out of sight, though, Har?”

“If it’s unobtrusive or inconspicuous, I don’t care,” he replies. They’re almost to Sal’s study.

“If it’s outside of the body, it’ll need an alert system,” George says.

“Protean charm?” They say together, breaking out in massive, matching grins as they meet eyes.

The Slytherins watch the two with surprise. It’s not extremely obvious, but Harry can tell. Evidently, though, Fred and George can too.

“We’re not idiots,” Fred grins. It’s a little sharper than his normal carefree, happy-go-lucky one.

“We just prefer our own study over actual schoolwork,” George continues, a little softer but more slyly.

Hmm… I wonder…

Daphne shrugs a little. “If you ever want input on runes, ask Millicent. She wants to be a Runes Mistress.”

Harry pushes open the door to Sal’s study as the three start to devolve into a more technical discussion of different runic languages and their application towards communication.

“All went well then, Heir mine?” Sal calls.

Harry offers him a tired smile. “Yes.”

“I figured so from the influx of power to the school’s wards. A fine job on that, I must say,” Salazar congratulates him. Harry’s not exactly sure what he did and resolves to find out when he’s less drained. It sounds important, sure, but so does getting to his damn bed.

“I’ll try to visit often,” Harry says, coming to a stop in front of the desk. “Theodore wants to peruse the library as well.”

He hears a faint ‘call me Theo!’ from behind him.

“You are welcome, as always, as are your vassals,” Salazar says with a warm smile. “Now, off to bed with you. You look as if you are liable to fall over with the brush of a feather.”

“Good night, Sal,” Harry says, moving to snag a jar of basilisk venom before he forgets.

“Good night, Harry.”

Harry stops in the middle of the Chamber and groans, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I forgot to cast the glamours.”

It’s a near thing, but he doesn’t flop face first into his bed as he wishes he could.

Instead, he carefully sets the jar of venom in his trunk, grabs his pyjamas, and clambers in, shutting the curtains with a sharp flick of his wand.

Then he flops face first into his pillows.

Ugh. It wasn’t nearly as draining with just Sirius and Remus. And on no sleep!

Tomorrow, though, the real test begins. It was a stroke of luck that this year they had a weekend before classes really started, giving him the time he needed to deal with… well, everything.

But tomorrow, he’d have to really act his arse off-- and so would the rest of them, really.

He scowls. Not to mention the little toadie herself. Hopefully he won’t have her until later in the week, after he’s decided on how exactly to deal with her. Because he hadn’t been lying to Malfoy when he said that nothing in the newspapers had come straight from his mouth-- it had all been Dumbledore talking for him, besmirching his reputation.

And of course, with the Ministry denying Voldemort’s return, he’d undoubtedly be the Ministry toadie’s prime target. Oh, and Dumbledore as well, of course, but he’s a lot more reachable than the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Being resorted to Slytherin would have changed her opinion of him somewhat, of course, but he’d rather not have to deal with her if necessary. He’s going to be rather busy this year, and not just because it was OWLs year.

He grimaces into his pillows.

Yet another thing to deal with.

Bugger.

Chapter 13: Beware of all the eyes in the shadows

Chapter Text

“At least I don’t have Defence until Friday,” Harry sighs happily. It’s not feigned at all; he's extraordinarily happy with the extra time because he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do with the toadie.

Hermione frowns, eyes flicking back to her schedule. “We have it Tuesday, right after lunch. Gryffindors, I mean," she clarifies with a sympathetic glance that Harry has to resist rolling his eyes at. "We’re not sharing any DADA classes this year either.”

McGonagall had taken one look at him when he sat down and had told him to retrieve his schedule before eating at the Gryffindor table. Harry, keeping up appearances, had scampered right back over to the Lions’ table to eat once retrieving it.

Harry shrugs, shovelling eggs onto his toast before stuffing it in his mouth. He does swallow before talking, though.

“It is OWLs year,” he says simply, like it explains everything. He’s very happy about that-- not OWLs, having separate classes. It would make it easier if he decided to behave a certain way in class that the rest of the school shouldn’t see. He needs more information first before he decides. “The Defence professors always have to leave. Maybe the Headmaster is thinking that we’ll focus more if it’s just one class at a time?”

He then scowls, like he’s just now remembering that he has to take classes with the Slytherins.

Hermione predictably doesn’t notice the emotional display, but Neville leans over to bump shoulders with him which does catch her attention.

“We have potions, transfiguration, and Care with each other still, though,” Neville offers softly with a small smile.

“But it’s today,” Harry grouses. “Not like I don’t see Snape enough already.”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Hermione chides.

“Professor Dungeon Bat,” Harry mutters, and Neville chokes on his porridge.

Hermione fixes him with a stern look but then sighs as Neville coughs in the background. “We both have classes right after breakfast,” she says. “It’s almost time to go.”

The Slytherins have Charms first thing Monday morning with the Ravenclaws, which should be a treat. He’s probably going to have to sit alone.

Although… Perhaps a spot of recruiting can start? Not trusted members-- more like Tom’s general members than anyone in his Inner Circle or Elite.

Maybe.

He doesn't exactly want more people, but more connections are better, right?

The standouts in his year in Ravenclaw are the trio of boys, Boot, Corner, and Goldstien, as well as the other Patil and the Brocklehurst girl. Aside from them are Entwistle, Cornfoot, Li, Turpin, and MacDougal.

Corner is a middling name despite a general lack of title due to one of the current Heads of the family being in the Ministry, if he can remember correctly, but the Patils are a big name in India and the MacDougall Clan has a fairly large power base here in Scotland, the majority of it being from being an Elder Clan, despite being considered little better than muggleborns in England due to the common name.

So, maybe.

He doesn’t necessarily need more people, either. While more political capital would be nice, that’s really all they bring to the table and it’s not like he has a dearth of that.

Besides, a large group has a higher chance of detection.

So, no.

...unless-- no. No need to tempt fate.

He gives Hermione and Neville a wave as they stand, stuffing the last of his breakfast in his mouth before also rising to his feet.

Fred and George wave to him, and he waves back.

Eyes follow him from several different points in the Great Hall as he leaves, predictably.

He’s very aware of the rest of the school’s penchant for picking on stray singular Slytherins in the halls, but he’s in the-- unfortunate-- unique position of trying to publicly avoid the rest of his house.

Worst of both worlds, really. Poor batty, lying Harry Potter, now a Snake, all by his lonesome in the halls. A perfect opportunity for them, and a world of hell for me.

The only House he can trust not to push him down a flight of stairs was Slytherin at this point and he had to stay away from them and them, him whilst in public.

He’s not exactly expecting to be accosted on the way to class, but it never hurts to plan. He has his map and cloak with him and an inordinate amount of secret passageways at his fingertips.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to duck into any of them or use either at all. People seem to be content to watch him pass and whisper to one another from afar-- at least for now. He reaches Flitwick’s classroom unmolested and stands a few arms lengths away from the Ravenclaws already milling around.

A few do a double take when they glance up from whatever it is that they’re reading, but leave him well enough alone.

The chatting group of MacDougall, Li, Patil, and Turpin stare at him with greater frequency and intensity than any of the others, and he gives them a weak smile when he ‘catches’ them watching.

The rest of the Slytherins arrive a few minutes later, sweeping together as a large group.

They unequivocally ignore him, standing on the other side of the door and chatting quietly amongst themselves.

Perfect.

MacDougall gives him a sympathetic look as she leans over to whisper something to Patil, who nods.

The four of them just start to wander over in his direction when the door to the classroom opens, and Filtwick calls from within for them to enter.

Harry follows the Ravenclaws in, being the first Slytherin to enter the room.

“Good morning!” Flitwick calls as people start sitting down. There are a few scattered replies.

Harry takes a seat in the middle of the class, the group of the four girls all sitting in front of him and to the right.

The Slytherins stream in and sit on the opposite side. The only ones that sit relatively near to him are Blaise and Theo, with the former being closer but still two seats away and behind him.

“Good morning, class!” Flitwick repeats enthusiastically. “Please take out this year’s book, the Standard Book of Charms Grade Five, by Miranda Goshawk. If for some reason you were not able to obtain it, please tell me now.”

When none speak up, he claps his hands briefly.

“Before we get started, there is just one thing I would like to talk about first.”

Predictably, he talks about their upcoming OWLs.

("--if you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so, as…” )

However, he’s not behaving as he usually does the rest of the class.

Flitwick’s eyes are on him. He’s been watching Harry for nearly the entire class, but it’s subtle and with an intensity he hasn’t really ever seen from the small professor.

He can’t get a read on him through his magic. He’s never been able to-- Flitwick keeps his magic locked almost completely down, wasting nothing and showing nothing. Even when casting, his magic is tightly controlled, feeding neatly into his wand with barely any leaking out into the atmosphere.

He’s not a duelling champion for nothing, I guess.

There’s also the rumours of him having goblin blood. Flitwick has never confirmed or denied it, but if that’s the case, it would explain a few things about his magical prowess.

And, of course, his small stature, but that’s vastly less important.

It might also explain why he’s staring at Harry. Goblin family units are tight knit, and if he was related to Goldtooth, then he might know about everything. Harry’s an unprecedented asset to Gringotts, after all, putting that many languishing vaults back into circulation. Most of the vaults, save Potter, were small. It would be a chance for Gringotts to grow both his and their gold.

Or it could be something completely different. He’s hardly interacted with the man, and while he’s done his research, it’s not a substitute for observation. Harry simply does not know enough about him to properly guess his motives.

He’s not exactly surprised when Flitwick calls for him to stay after class.

“Yes, sir?” Harry asks, shuffling a bit where he stands.

Flitwick eyes him over before smiling. He never shows his teeth, Harry notes idly. Another check for goblin blood.

“I was wondering how you were settling into your new House, Mr. Potter. I heard about the altercation in the hall outside of your old House from Minerva, and with everything in the Headmaster’s office…” he trails off, watching Harry intently.

“It’s alright,” Harry answers evasively, tugging on the cuff of his robe slightly. “Thank you for asking.”

“If you ever need anything, Mr. Potter, my office is open to you,” Flitwick replies, nodding decisively, before his smile softens into something more regretful. “I knew your mother when she was a student here. She wasn’t one of my Ravens, obviously, but she was absolutely amazing at Charms-- a natural. The last time I talked to her, she was planning on pursuing a Charms mastery. And then, of course…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“Oh,” Harry says, not thinking of much at all anymore. “I… didn’t know that. No one really ever tells me about her. My Aunt never talks about her, and…”

“Come by any time, Mr. Potter. I’d be happy to share stories about her, and my teapot is always at the ready.”

Sure, he can’t miss what he never had, but he can sure feel envy seeing others have what he doesn't, and Harry used to be a young, scared Freak in the cupboard.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll… yes.”

Harry goes to the library after a short detour to the toilet to splash water on his face and wrestle his occlumency shields into submission. He has two free periods on Monday mornings and he intends to use them and use them well.

Hermione should still be in Ancient Runes at this point, so he should be able to mostly avoid that kind of scrutiny.

He dashes off his Charms homework-- three feet total, revising five different charms from the previous year-- in thirty minutes. It should be a few degrees better than last year, a high E instead of barely an A.

I can’t be around my friends all the time now, he thinks dryly, So obviously I’m getting better grades. Add in a brush with death last year and suddenly you have a more studious Harry Potter.

Pince eyes him with slight suspicion when he gets up to browse the shelves.

Introductory Runes-- already read it. No, no-- ah, that one might be a bit interesting, but the Golden Boy wouldn’t read it. Damn. No, no, no-- oh. Now this is something.

Harry stops his finger on the spine of a seventh year Transfiguration book.

Human Transfiguration by Rowan Ganders.

He taps the spine as he thinks.

Animagery would be something the Marauder child Golden Boy would want to study. It’s also something that Harry as himself actually does want to study. It’s within the realm of his new persona; Dumbledore never said anything explicitly against studying more or being more focused on classwork in his-- failed-- compulsion web. If he got caught by a professor or one of Dumbledore’s pawns, it wouldn’t be too hard to explain away.

Perfect.

He gently slips it off the shelf and returns to his seat.

I should owl Sirius and ask him how in the bloody hell they managed to complete it all while at Hogwarts. There has to be a trick to it-- they’d be found out within a day if they did it the traditional way. McGonagall would take one look at them and smell the mandrake and they’d be caught.

But they weren’t.

Or he could ask Salazar. The man was, after all, one of the most accomplished wizards of his time. While he’s not completely certain that he actually attained an animagus form, he wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

Today, because of its difficulty and lack of utility-- having to register with the ministry and whatnot would put a serious cramp in going undetected successfully-- not many aside from academics like Transfiguration Masters attempted it. McGonagall, for instance, had decided to become an animagus to further her study of transfiguration.

Although, that did make him wonder if Dumbledore had an animagus form. He’s a Transfiguration Master as well, so it would make sense.

Sneaky bastard.

Sirius, his father, and the rat were outliers in that regard, gaining their forms as they did in their fifth year. In Salazar’s time, however, things were different. Restrictions were more free and circ*mstances and requirements different. It would have been especially attractive to a man such as him.

Just think of all the unnoticed reconnaissance that can be done…

Harry makes another note on his parchment. Having an animagus form, especially if no one knew, would be a boon much in the same way.

He has to bite back a smirk when the thought of his animagus form being a snake pops into his head. What fun he could get up to; what horror Dumbledore would feel.

I bet Nagini’s fun to be around when she doesn’t want to eat you.

She’s Tom’s familiar, after all, and while he would wager a large amount of her fun came from threatening his minions with death, she probably had some of the best gossip from lazing around at the manor.

But there wasn't really a way to figure out what one's form would be before starting the process, and there wasn't a way to change it once it was known. He could technically get stuck with something completely useless like a slug, but he preferred to believe that his luck was too good for that to happen.

...which in and of itself was a dangerous proclamation, since fate seemed to have an uncanny knack for buggering Harry over.

He resists the urge to groan aloud and instead turns back to the book.

...one's precise animal form cannot, as is known, be divined by the wix prior to starting the process of automagical human transfiguration, formally known as an animagus form and animagery respectfully. However, the certain domains that one's animagus form falls in may be inferred from the caster's life. (Schenzarte, 1285).

Harry pauses and rereads that part once more.

'Domains'?

Of course, the book doesn't expand on that, so he marks down the cited author on his ever-growing 'further reading' list.

Lovely.

He slides into a seat beside Neville, ignoring the fiery looks from Ron.

He’s daft if he thinks I’m going to partner up with a Slytherin, Harry thinks. What, and destroy my image like that? No thank you.

Snape sweeps into the classroom from his office, heavy potioneer’s robes billowing around him.

“Silence,” Snape snaps. Instantly, all sound cuts out in the classroom. “I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Do try to concentrate this year.”

He turns on his heel to the board and waves his wand at it, chalk animating and darting up to write out a recipe in his spiky hand on the board.

“Today we will be brewing the Draught of Peace,” Snape says. “It is a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. However, craft with too heavy a hand and your brew will cause a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep. This is your last warning to concentrate on what you are doing. You shall find it on page seventeen of your textbooks. Begin.”

Chatter starts to pick up in the room again almost instantly, but at a low mutter instead of the unrestrained volume from earlier.

“Can you go get the ingredients? I trust you to pick out the best herbs and such.” Harry asks Neville. “We just need a few things. The rest are in our kits.”

He smiles wanly, looking a tad green around the gills. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Harry lightly grasps the elbow of Neville’s shirt as Hermione zooms past to collect her ingredients. Neville leans down to listen.

“Worry less about Snape, okay? Even if we didn’t have… that going on,” Harry murmurs, voice dipping to a breath above silent, “He’s most likely going to ignore me, and thus you, since you’re partnered with me. He hates taking points from his own House, after all.”

That seems to give Neville a little pep to his step, a small flush of colour returning to his cheeks.

“I’ll go get the rest,” Neville nods, this time more decisively.

Actually, he should probably think up ways to torment Snape a little bit more, and not just for Tom, he thinks as he watches Neville weave around their classmates. He’s Nev’s boggart for Merlin’s sake, and an arse to Harry for years to boot.

Of course, Harry had been curating that ire like a fine wine, but still.

Harry busies himself with the magical mise en place that he could never get away with when perpetually partnered with Ron, vanishing the off ingredients from his kit with a mental note to buy new ones. He completes the rest using Neville’s open kit; most of the plant material comes from his, actually, since Harry knows it’s going to be top of the line.

Our little Master Herbologist in the making, Harry thinks fondly as he squints at Snape’s recipe on the board.

Circe, he needs new glasses. Or, hell, if there was a potion or spell that corrected eyesight he’d be all over it.

Yet more research. Perhaps I can ask Theo?

He has vassals for a reason, for Circe's sake. He might as well delegate.

Neville eyes the little bowls as he returns with a tray of ingredients.

“I’m not going to ask,” Neville says quietly but with humour.

“You should!” Harry encourages as he starts to sort the new ingredients. “It’s used in muggle cooking a fair bit, but I think it might make things easier for you.”

Neville sits down beside him and puts his kit away as Harry starts to prep everything.

“If you can put everything you know you need out and have it, then there’s less of a chance you’ll forget something or add something extra. Now, can you help me slice these roots?”

They’re the last ones to actually get started on their potion, but Harry thinks that Snape is quietly impressed with them as he spots their setup during his routine prowl around the room. As it is, he turns his nose up and twists on his heel to stalk away from them-- stalking straight to Ron and Hermione’s disastrous station.

“Not a single word,” Neville breathes, incredulous. “He didn’t say a single thing.”

Harry tunes out the shouting as he lightly sprinkles in the last of the powdered unicorn horn of this stage. “I did tell you so.”

He stirs clockwise three times, and the colour of the potion starts to fade from a darker blue to a lighter blue.

“Simmer at a medium heat for nine minutes, stirring clockwise after the first three minutes, anticlockwise after another three, and then clockwise once more at the nine minute mark,” Neville reads out of the textbook. “After that, add the thinly sliced valerian root, then lower the heat and stir thrice clockwise, and then twice anticlockwise. And then there’s even more!”

He lets out a breath in a great gust-- thankfully pointed away from the cauldron-- and shakes his head.

“This is too complicated,” Neville mutters.

Harry keeps an eye on his timing spell. “It is on the OWLs exam.”

He groans. “Don’t remind me. My Gran’s going to kill me if I don't get an O on my potions exam.”

Harry’s mouth twists into a thin line. “She can’t dictate what you do, Nev,” he says. “I doubt you want to be an auror.”

Neville laughs softly, bitterly. “Not so much. But that’s what my Gran wants me to do. It’s like… I’m just a replacement for my Dad. I have his old trunk, his old books, his old clothes… hell, even his old wand.”

Harry sits up straight.

“You have your Dad’s wand?” Harry asks, one part baffled and one part elated.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“That’s why!” He hisses, grinning with vindication, before dropping his voice to a whisper. “I thought your wand didn’t like your magic, but I couldn’t tell why!”

“You… what?” Neville asks, looking baffled.

“Your wand! It’s-- Ollivander says it, when you go into his shop-- ‘the wand chooses the wizard,’” Harry says, just barely maintaining the presence of mind to pick up the sitting rod and continue their potion at the soft chime of the timer. “You’re not a borderline squib or bad at magic or whatever else tosh people tell you-- it’s your wand. Your magic and your wand aren’t linking up correctly.”

“So… if I got a new wand, I would be better at casting?” Neville asks, a tiny sliver of hope in his voice.

“I’m not going to say for sure, but I’m fairly certain,” Harry says, setting the stirring rod down again and looking at Neville. “Just… it never looks natural when you cast. Just-- listen. A wand is a focus, right? It should work with your magic and not against it, at the very least.”

Neville nods slowly, expression turning baleful. “I don’t-- Gran would never let me,” he says sadly. “She told me it was a great honour to carry my Dad’s wand.”

“So get one anyway,” Harry says. “We can sneak out to Ollivander’s at the next Hogsmeade visit. Or I could get McGonagall to take us, maybe.”

Or ‘accidentally’ break it, if Granny Longbottom a right bitch about it.

The timer buzzes slightly again and Harry stirs it before continuing with the directions.

It really is a bloody hard potion, he thinks absentmindedly.

“Do you really think that would work?” Neville asks. "I don't think I've ever heard of Professor McGonagall doing something like that for anyone..."

Harry nods, leaning in to talk at a whisper. “She feels bad for me, I think, and besides, she would do a lot for her Lions when given the chance.”

He looks discomfited at that but nods anyway, going back to reading the textbook.

Harry places their potion phial down on Snape’s desk, neatly labelled with their names, and Snape’s eyebrow twitches up just a hair.

“A decent potion from the two of you, for once,” Snape drawls. He uncorks it and wafts the scent of it towards his face. “On second thought, stay after, Potter.”

The Slytherins snicker-- mostly Malfoy and his cronies-- and Harry juts his chin out a little, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, Sir,” he says stiffly, turning back to their station.

“Sorry, Harry…” Neville mutters, head hanging.

Harry starts to clean up their station. “Don’t be,” he murmurs, expression melting back to something a little more on the neutral side of frustration. “There wasn’t anything wrong with the potion, other than the fact that it’s probably a little weak. He just wanted an excuse to see me after class I'd reckon.”

Neville gapes at him for a beat before his mouth snaps shut.

“Alright, then,” he says weakly. “As you say.”

“You can go ahead, if you want,” Harry offers. “I’m almost done and I need to stay back anyway. See you at dinner?”

Neville nods and slings his bag over his shoulder. Hermione shoots him a sympathetic glance as she walks away.

“You wanted to see me?” Harry asks as he walks to Snape’s desk, station clean once more.

“Yes,” Snape says curtly. “Take this after dinner,” he says, and sets down a phial of familiar looking potion.

Harry closes his eyes briefly, just a beat longer than a blink.

He’s aware, of course, that Snape has eyes. That he sees a lot more than people think and that his mind is one of the greatest out there, capable of taking the information he gained and figuring things out in a heartbeat. He was--is-- a double spy for two of the most dangerous people in Britain, if not the world, for Merlin’s sake, and he does his job damn bloody well.

Why did he not think Snape would figure out that he needed nutrition potions?

“There will be a phial on your bedside every morning and night for you to take before and after eating, respectively, delivered by house elves,” he continues, either not seeing Harry’s freeze or tactfully choosing not to comment on it. “While I cannot force you to take them, per se, I would figure that you can see the benefit of taking them.”

“Yes,” Harry answers automatically. “Thank you.” He reaches forward and plucks the phial from the table, nestling it in his enchanted pocket. “Saves me some brew time.”

Snape twitches, likely with some sort of demeaning comment about his potions ability on his tongue, but bites it back.

He’s learning. Slowly, but he’s learning.

He strides out of the room and walks aimlessly. He doesn’t want to go down to the Great Hall just yet; dinner won’t be served for another twenty minutes. And he can’t just hide in his dorms for dinner the rest of the year; it would look especially bad to be gone on the first day of classes.

Harry decides to go to see Hedwig instead.

About halfway to the owlery, though, a pair of people fall into step with him.

“Menaces,” Harry greets jovially. “Don’t tell me you’re already done with it.”

“Not quite yet--”

“--but, we’re making good progress.”

Harry nods. “That’s good. Do you know when it might be done?”

George hums. “We’re still in the research and mockup phase right now.”

“It’s less finicky than potions or related things, so it’ll take less time.”

“Maybe tomorrow sometime we do prototypes?”

They look at each other over Harry’s head and nod.

“About tomorrow for prototypes. If it’s good, then another half day for a final product, and more time to create multiple.”

“If it’s sh*t, we go back to the drawing board.”

“So, about three to five days?” Harry asks, trying to pare down the rapidfire information being tossed between the twins into something more manageable and actionable.

“Two to six?” Fred tries.

“Six at the absolute maximum, the ‘we’ve bollocked everything up’ amount of time,” George clarifies with a grin.

“That’s good,” Harry nods. “I really very much want everything--” he pauses as they round a corner into a hall with portraits.

“So, sending a letter out with Hedwig?”

“Just wanted to visit her,” Harry replies with a tired grin. “See how she was holding up.”

“No mopers allowed!” Fred chides, a wide grin growing on his face as he locks eyes with his twin. “You know what happens to mopers, don’t you, Forge?”

“Oh, I know, Gred,” George replies with an answering grin. “You don’t want to become a product tester, do you, Harry?”

“I’m not moping!” Harry protests. They’re about half way down the hall. “Snape’s just his usual bastard self, except worse because now I’m in his House.”

“Ah, so Snape wants to become our product tester,” Fred replies, nodding sagely.

Ah, easily available torment, here you are. I should have thought of this before.

“Just… don’t do anything to his classroom?” Harry says tentatively as they pass out of the portrait laden hallway. “I don’t want anything to explode during class, y’know, more than it already does?”

They laugh in unison, sending a trio of Gryffindor sixth years scattering in what looks to be a conditioned fear response.

“But, anyway,” Harry says, lowering his voice once more once they’re in the clear. “We need to have a way to communicate as soon as possible. This year is for planning and getting stronger.”

They nod solemnly.

“We gotcha, Harry.”

“Don’t worry.”

Chapter 14: The Domino Effect

Chapter Text

Dinner is… interesting, to say the least.

On one side is Blaise, and the other is a fourth year that’s also neutral. Across from him is Theo, Tracey, and Daphne.

No one talks to him.

If he can’t say anything else, he can say that they’re really helping him sell it without him even having to say anything.

Is this what it’s like to have a House that actually has your back for once? Harry thinks wryly. The Hat did say that I’d find my truest friends in Slytherin.

He sits on the furthest bench in the hall with his back to the wall, so he gets a great view of people still bloody staring at him .

That’s the most tiring part of the evening. He can feel their eyes on him, and can even catch a few stray thoughts from those with no or weak occlumency shields when he idly flexes his legilimency.

‘...she would give me some amortentia, wouldn’t she?’

Harry sits up just a little straighter, following the stray thought back to the person it was seeping out from. It’s difficult to follow the little thread and requires all of his concentration.

Not Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff-- no, it was coming from the Gryffindor table.

Harry lets his gaze wander innocently over the table, trying to pinpoint it.

‘I need to become Lady Potter. He loves me anyway. This will just help.’

Ew. At least it gave him a hint: the speaker was a woman.

He goes up from the bottom of the table-- it’s none of the first or second years, thank the gods. That would have been disgusting. Just as he’s starting on the third years, an elbow smacks into the back of his head, breaking his concentration.

Harry whips around with a scowl on his lips and retribution in his eyes to find Draco Malfoy.

“Apologies, I just couldn’t get around that big head of yours,” Malfoy sneers. Several Slytherins titter, hiding grins behind their hands. His magic clings to him in much the same way it did the last time they had a confrontation-- he’s apprehensive.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry grumbles, glaring daggers at him.

That little bastard. Now I have to start the search over again.

But, others are leaving too. Dinner’s over.

Ah, sh*te.

“We have a slight issue,” Harry announces to his assorted vassals, his privacy spell coming down seconds later to seal them in.

While they’re not in the main common room, Malfoy and his clique still have access to their individual common room.

They look up at him expectantly.

“No one eat anything that’s marked for me,” he warns. “At some point this year, I may get dosed with Amortentia.”

“What?” Daphne is the first to recover from their shared confusion. “How do you know that?”

“Someone was projecting during dinner tonight when I went fishing,” Harry says grimly. “It’s a Gryffindor above second year. I couldn’t pinpoint who exactly because bloody Malfoy knocked my head around and broke the thread.”

Theo stares blankly at his book while the rest exchange glances.

“...shouldn’t be bloody surprised at anything by this point,” Theo grumbles at the pages of his book.

“You’re at the level where you can catch thoughts that far away?” Millie asks him, sounding impressed.

Harry cracks a grin that’s just on this edge of co*cky. “You did see who I had access to all last year, yeah?”

Looks of understanding crest across their faces.

“Taught legilimency by Salazar Slytherin himself,” Blaise says, shaking his head. “You certainly are something, Harry.”

He’d rather thought that being magically bound to one another by an ancient fealty bond would be a good enough reason for them to call him by his first name, and they’d responded in kind.

“Why, thank you,” he grins. “Moving on.”

“Oh, this is a meeting?” Tracey mutters.

“The twins say that in a minimum of two days and a maximum of six they’ll be done with our communication method. I’m not entirely sure what it is yet, but I have no doubt it will be discrete.” Harry relaxes back into his armchair, drawing his feet up under him after toeing off his trainers.

It’s too bloody cold, even with the damn fire.

A blanket pops into existence above him with a burst of elf magic, fluttering down to cover him.

“Huh,” he blinks. “Thank you,” he calls, and hears a surprised-- but pleased-- squeak.

The rest of them stare at him as he calmly tucks it in around his legs.

He shrugs. “Hogwarts likes me?” He offers. “And the elves are in tune with Her?”

Theo’s hands come up to cup his face as he hunches over.

“Moving on, once again,” he says, barging straight on, “Snape’s in the know. Actually, he’s one of mine now.”

“I shouldn’t ask how that happened, but I would very much like to know,” Blaise says with a charming smile.

Harry sighs. “He was Tom’s--” he pauses.

Bloody hell, I’ve done it again.

“Never say that in front of him,” he warns, watching stunned comprehension slowly draw over their faces as they start to connect the dots. “He only tolerates me calling him that as it is, and I have special privileges .”

“How many more bombardas are you going to drop on us tonight?” Blaise questions dryly, the only indication to his emotional state being a slight widening of far-off looking eyes.

Harry just smiles at him and Blaise shakes his head in what’s probably disbelief or exasperation.

“So, Snape was his, but through a certain old bastard’s machinations, came to take a Vow to protect me because of his friendship with my mother, coming to the Light’s side.” His grin widens. “Not that he needed to stay there any longer now that I’m now formally on the ‘opposite side’.”

Formally, he sees Tracey mouth with a raised brow to the ever cool and collected Daphne, who shrugs.

“But, he saw that as a betrayal. So, he gave Snape to me instead of doing anything else to him. Which I’m grateful for, because where would you find another Potions Master of that quality?” Harry snorts.

“You might not want to hear it, but Draco’s getting there,” Theo offers. “He’s been under Snape’s tutelage since a young age, after all.”

Unsaid: Draco Malfoy would be a good ally to have.

Which… fair enough. Harry might be petty sometimes, but he’s not that petty to completely ignore a potential asset like that.

Harry shrugs. “He’s the one being the childish twat, not me. If he could put aside his complexes and pride for once, I’d be happy to have him. I doubt it’s going to happen any time soon, though, and I doubt he’d choose me over him .”

“You don’t hate Draco?” Daphne questions. “You and he have had a rivalry of sorts going on since the start of school, I thought.”

“Hardly,” Harry replies dryly. “He’s more of an annoying pest than anything serious like that. And he was more Weasley’s target than anything else. Besides,” he continues with a crooked little smile, “You should know better than to use any ‘knowledge’ of me you have from before this year.”

“Right,” she smiles back, shaking her head. “Shouldn’t forget that one.”

Speaking of forgetting…

“Does anyone have any information on Umbridge?” Harry asks the group. “I need to figure out how to deal with her as soon as possible.”

“Deal with her?” Blaise asks, quoting him.

“She-- hm.” Right, they wouldn’t know. “So, to give you some backstory, two dementors went after me this summer.”

“How in the bloody hell does that-- ” Theo cuts himself off and groans lightly, barely audible.

“We determined that either the minister or his direct support staff sent them after me. Umbridge, who both was at my trial-- for protecting myself from them, by the way, in front of my muggle cousin-- and one of Fudge’s direct support staff is very likely, at least in my mind, to have been the one who sent them after me. She certainly has the bollocks to do it.”

Harry pauses.

“That being said, however, she might be a good ally to have this year.”

“I feel like that would be directly contradictory to your continuing good health,” Tracey points out.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” Harry says flippantly, shrugging. “The Ministry has it out for me because of Dumbledore putting words into my mouth in the paper. They want to deny that he’s back; Dumbledore has made it very clear otherwise, and I’m the only one on quote unquote ‘his side’ that’s seen him. Ergo, Umbridge is going to have it out for me.

“However,” he continues, hardly missing a beat when mild concern starts to rise in their expressions, “I’ve resorted into Slytherin. It might open up a line of dialogue that I couldn't have had being a Gryffinfor. Even if I don’t get anything out of it other than not being her target this year, that’s enough for me.”

“I know you mentioned it over and over again, but why is this year so imperative for you? You never quite explained it.” Blaise asks. “I’d understand if it was seventh, since we’d be right about to go out into the world at large and start careers and such, but it’s only our fifth year.”

“It’s a fair point, when you look at it like that-- from a normal standpoint,” Harry responds. “But think of it from Dumbledore’s perspective for a moment. His ultimate enemy is finally back, just as he’s been preaching for fifteen years-- but he’s staying to the shadows. What now?”

“He’ll have no idea what the Dark Lord is doing. The longer he hides, the more support Dumbledore will lose,” Blaise nods along, obviously thinking it over. “We’re already seeing it now. The Ministry is against him. He’s been removed as Chief Warlock and his other internal politics routes are being stifled, with the external politics becoming more tenuous as the days pass. Besides, they don't care as much abouthim as anyone here would. His staunchest believers still stand with him, but if he never delivers, they’ll start jumping ship and calling him a fearmongerer too. Dumbledore’s going to feel nervous, isn’t he?”

Blaise, Harry had learned, was an absolute menace when it came to politics, just like Daphne.

Harry smiles grimly, tucking in the blanket around his legs a little more firmly. “That he is. He’s going to feel nervous, so he’s going to feel pressured. When he starts feeling pressured, he’s going to want to do something. And, when he does something, it’s going to involve me, since I’m supposed to be his greatest weapon.”

“You need to finish before you come under hard scrutiny,” Daphne says, rocking back in her chair slightly as it hits her.

“He’s especially ignoring me this year,” Harry confirms. “He didn’t look at me a single time today. But, that could be the compulsion web as well. Which he failed at, don’t worry.”

Theo buries his face in his hands once more.

“Ah, that reminds me. I need to cast it on you all, as well.” At their questioning looks, he hastens to explain. “There’s a parsel spell that I found whilst researching in Sal’s library that will give immunity to minor to medium compulsions and other mind magics, similar to the function of a Lord or Heir ring. I cast it on myself a while ago, and when you add in my stupidly large amount of rings…”

“You get a failed compulsion web,” Blaise finishes, shaking his head, the crinkle of his nose indicating his disgust at the word.

“So parseltongue has a script as well?” Millie asks, head tilting to the side in interest. “Are there parsel runes?”

Harry smiles. Her one-track mind for runes is kind of endearing and completely out of left field for people that don’t know her.

“Parselscript, yes,” he confirms. “I’m not entirely sure if it’s runic, per se, but I can ask Sal the next time I go down there. But, back on topic: Umbridge.”

“I know her voting record, broadly,” Daphne offers. “It’s very conservative, despite her being from a mostly neutral family. She takes hard-line stances against creatures, muggles, and mu- ggleborns,” she says, diverting what would likely be a slur in the middle of saying it and managing to do it nearly imperceptibly.

Nearly.

But he lets it lie.

“Anything else? Any personal information? Or any embarrassments or such?”

Unsaid: any blackmail.

“I’m fairly certain she’s a halfblood, and she was a Slytherin back when she attended Hogwarts, but that’s all I know about her like that off the top of my head,” Blaise hums. “I’ll dig for more when I get the chance. You’ll have the information within the week.”

“Any chance you could get it to me before we have Defence?” Harry asks. “I want to address her as soon as I possibly can. Everything needs to be in place and under control for… any of this to go well,” he says, shaking his head as he pauses slightly, looking for a word and not finding it.

Because, really, it is everything. If any one little thing slips, he’s dead, as are the twins, Sirius and Remus, Neville and Luna, and Snape. The Slytherins are less likely to fall as hard since they’ve got connections outside of Dumbledore’s sphere of influence, but it would make their lives hell as well.

Dumbledore was not one to trifle with lightly, and the severity of this infraction against him? The fallout would be unimaginable.

Or, well. Not unimaginable. Harry can imagine it just fine.

“Three days?” Blaise grins. “I can do that.”

“Perfect.”

Nothing much of note happens on their second day of classes, aside from Divination with Trelawney.

To say that he was a bit more wary around her now would be… not an understatement, exactly, because he still thinks that she’s a crackpot, but she’s proven she has something to her. And Luna has proven that Divination as a whole should be taken more seriously, after all.

So he sits across the room from Ron and stares at his textbook as she rambles on about the importance of astrology for wix even without the mystical Sight , handwaving and all.

His eyes skip across the words on the page and snags on something.

Who the hell am I supposed to ask about the time of my birth? Hagrid?

Dumbledore?

Harry holds back a snort at the thought.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s incomparably trivial to literally anything and everything else that’s going on and should not be bothering him quite as much as it is.

But it is, for some ungodly reason.

It’s not… because of his parents. He thinks, at least. He’d already-- vocally-- made it quite clear that their deaths didn’t really affect him.

Perhaps it was the lack of… normalcy?

Harry did want to be normal once. He’d hoped he was wrong, heading into the wizarding world, and that maybe he didn’t have to act at all and could be just Harry and that he was overreacting as was his penchant.

He flips a few pages in his textbook, eyes skimming over the words and not really reading anything, feeling the cool breeze from the open tower window ruffle his hair.

But he wasn’t overreacting for once.

A man who sleeps with a machete is a fool every night but one is a saying that the old man on the corner used to tell him.

His vigilance did pay off.

Harry has to hold back a full laugh when that twinges a sound memory of Barty-Moody barking ‘Constant vigilance!’ at them.

It would look particularly strange if Harry’d laughed in Trelawney’s face whilst she was talking about one’s birth cards.

He pulls his parchment to him as she instructs the class-- reading straight out of the book, it sounds like-- in how to find them.

31-7-1980, he writes. He hears people grumbling about arithmancy as he does the basic addition required to find the first number.

It’s literally one and two digit addition, he thinks incredulously. Are some of them actually having difficulty? Do they not know basic maths?

29, he writes beside it, and then 11.

Underneath he writes 11 and 2 before going back to the textbook.

He runs his finger down the charts, noting the cards on his parchment. It is going toward his grade, after all.

Justice. The High Priestess.

He flips forward a few pages to read the combination meaning.

Justice and The High Priestess have in common that everything is accounted for. Justice examines everything for flaws in order to find its flawless essence. The High Priestess knows the secret of everything as it is in order to encompass everything.

Justice demands of everything its true nature and essence, with nothing concealed, withheld or distorted. It tirelessly weighs and measures, satisfied with nothing less than the clear, the absolute, and the irreducible in everything.

Justice is adamant and uncompromising with its sword and scales, loud and clear in its redness, fearless and certain on its throne, guarding the entrance to the temple of the secrets of perfection.

The High Priestess finds what is the same in everything, the secret unifying core hidden in the endless variation of detail. She patiently discovers in all differences what is true, original and undisturbed in everything.

The High Priestess is accepting and inclusive with her scroll and cross, calm and quiet in her blueness, fearless and certain on her throne, guarding the entrance to the temple of final knowledge.

Unintegrated and imperfectly realised, Justice can be given to rage and haste; it can become arrogant and hypercritical, aggrieved and vengeful, or uncertain and vacillating.

The High Priestess can be a conceited know-it-all, moody and taciturn, secret and unapproachable; she can be despairing and lost, or given to excess and careless of consequences.

Together, they dream of the perfect, the ultimate, and pursue it in more than one kind of undertaking. They continuously seek the truth, and in its service they are drawn to esoteric studies and unusual paths.

In summary, you with these cards two are a seeker of truth. You are talented at weighing up a situation and seeing it for what it truly is. You are not bound by rules all of the time – instead, you have an innate ability to see through the veil and determine the truth of the matter at hand. You are an intuitive decision-maker, guided by your inner instincts when dealing with challenging situations. You can easily ‘read’ a situation without having all of the information at hand.

You are very intuitive in almost every situation. Justice gives you the logical clarity you need to make quick decisions and remain objective. The High Priestess keeps you highly connected with your inner voice.

Harry blinks.

Interesting enough, even if it sounds like the horoscopes he found in the trash from the paper.

He feels Trelawney come up behind him a moment before he sees her, leaning over his shoulder to peer at his parchment.

“Ah, Justice,” she says. “Fitting.”

Patil and Brown titter at him.

This is getting really, really old, really, really fast.

Merlin, it had only been four days.

Wednesday was comparatively easier, seeing as it was his lightest day of the week in terms of classes.

He holed up in his dorm for most of his free periods, poring over the Advanced Transfiguration book and drawing up a list of further reading he would need before he can really get started, beyond the one he’d already marked down. Now that he’s caught the idea of becoming an animagus, he really wants to do it.

The rest of his time hidden away was devoted to going through the folio Tom sent. He should be done with it in another two, maybe three days if he keeps at the pace he’s going currently.

Nights in the Slytherin dorms are turning into what might be the most fun he’s ever had at Hogwarts, if he’s being honest.

Harry smiles to himself just thinking of it.

Storytime with Harry Potter had become a thing for the first years now, with a few second years even joining in. Visibly, at least. He knows a good number of the people in the common room listen to him when he tells his stories.

It wasn’t all about him, either, which is probably why so many would listen. Some of the stories told would be riffs on muggle media-- Star Wars was surprisingly a favourite-- and other tales he learned through books in the Chamber or from Sal himself.

Those were always the ones that drew the biggest crowds.

Thursday night after dinner, he heads to what he’s been calling his seat-- because why not? -- in front of the fire underneath the painting of Aurora.

Anaïs, Beaumont, Finley, and Benji are already sitting on the little floor cushions that Harry had conjured about twenty minutes into the second time they had gathered around him for stories, because why would he make them sit on the bare floor if he didn’t have to?

“Good evening,” he greets them as he slides into his seat, the smile still on his face. The fire crackles merrily behind him as they chorus back to him. “Now, what kind of story would you like for tonight?”

“What happened in your third year?” Beaumont pipes up, looking excited. The rest of the first year gaggle sees him sitting there and hastens over to claim their own cushions, looking similarly intent.

Harry sighs theatrically. “Unfortunately, that one’s not fun to listen to at all. Not much really happened.”

Of course, listening to how he scrabbled around in the mud, got tied up in a supposedly haunted building, ran from a werewolf, and drove off near a hundred dementors all with time shenanigans would probably be at least a little interesting, but it’s not something that they with their little ears should hear-- nor any other bigger ears, for that matter. He’s sure he broke a slew of laws that night, and if there’s nothing else that he knows about Slytherin, it's that one shouldn’t actively admit to any crimes. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh! The space magic one!”

Star Wars it is, then.

After he winds down the story some time later, he grins at them.

“Maybe you all can tell me some stories later,” he offers. He really needs some sort of a break to keep coming up with them, after all. He’s pretty sure about a quarter of what he just said never happened at all, but, well… They wouldn’t know the difference anyway. “I didn’t grow up in the wizarding world, so I don’t know any of the stories you all do.”

They gasp.

“So you don’t know The Tales of Beedle the Bard ? Or--”

They all take turns firing off different names of what Harry’s assuming are kids books and such for wix children. Anaïs said about three in French, and Finley said one he thinks is in Gaelic.

“None of them,” Harry confirms with a shake of his head. “Not a single one. Maybe someone else can be the storyteller tomorrow night?”

At the blinding grins on each child’s face, Harry knows that he’s done something right.

Chapter 15: A toad and a snake walk into a bar...

Chapter Text

“I got it!” Blaise crows, waving a tight scroll of parchment in the air as he swaggers into the room. “And a day early, too!”

Malfoy shoots them a glare and huffs his way back into the boys’ corridor, Crabbe and Goyle following close behind him.

Harry rolls his eyes and flicks a tight locking charm at the door as he raises up a privacy spell, just to be petty.

“Isn’t class tomorrow?” Tracey wonders aloud, a touch of sarcasm in her otherwise lighthearted and bubbly voice. “As in, less than twenty four hours?”

“Oh, shove off,” he grins, not taking the ribbing to heart in the slightest. “Here it is. And when I tell you she has some interesting secrets…” he trails off, chuckling darkly, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Harry takes it with a soft word of thanks, all the while thinking that if he hadn’t seen the similarities between Blaise and his mother the Contessa before, then he most certainly did now.

He’s absolutely bloody terrifying when he wants to be.

A chuckle very similar to Blaise’s works its way out of him a few minutes later as he reads through the parchment.

“Oh, this… this is absolutely devastating ,” he says gleefully. “Circe, what kind of connections does she have to get this to just… go away? Especially in such a position as she holds?” He shakes his head, grin sharpening. “I answered my own question. Undoubtedly, Fudge has helped her hide some of this. Which means he’s involved.”

He can’t hold back his cackle as the thought pings around in his mind, sparking other ideas. “Oh, this is perfect. If Umbridge goes down in the future, she’ll end up pulling Fudge with her! It would make deposing him so much easier. I should send Tom this.”

He pulls out his wand and copies the pages with a tap and a whisper before scrolling them up once more.

Would you like some information on Umbridge that would help take down Fudge as well? Straight from the Contessa’s heir, he sends to Tom along their link.

Tippy pops in seconds later.

“That’s a yes, then, I assume,” Harry grins. “For him, please,” he says, handing over the parchment to her.

She dips into a shallow bow before popping away.

“Was that… his house elf?”

Harry grins. “Yup.”

‘Thank you very much,’ Tom tells him, glee evident through their link. ‘This is truly a treasure trove of information. Many commendations to Heir Zabini; convey to him my thanks.’

“Oh, and he says thank you, Blaise,” Harry adds thoughtlessly, only realising his mistake after the noise level crashes from the comfortable murmur that it was to a deafening silence.

“What?” He asks lightly, internally cursing himself. The only ones that knew he was a horcrux and thus had a link with Tom were Sirius, Remus, and the twins and he would rather have liked to keep it that way.

But… maybe I still can.

“You… how?” Theo asks. He can almost hear his brain whirring with the new information-- figuratively, of course. Theo has excellent control over his occlumency shields.

“That’s for me to know and you all to maybe find out later,” Harry says simply. “It’s not only my secret to tell.”

None of them look too happy about it, but they acquiesce, turning back to whatever topic they were on before rather than pester him about it.

I keep forgetting these are Slytherins, Harry thinks to himself, parchment in front of his face hiding a small smile, And not the nosy Gryffs that I spent four years with.

The Slytherins’ Defence Against the Dark Arts class is right after breakfast-- the breakfast that Hermione had spent regaling him with just how much she hated Umbridge. She had even dropped the title of professor for the woman, which just showed how much she disliked her.

He would be asking what made her drop the title for Umbridge in one day when she even still used the title for Snape, but he knew already. She would just not stop talking about how she was seriously impeding the learning environment of classes! And in our fifth year too! How does she expect any of us to pass our OWLs? The nerve of that woman! and on and on and on, until even Neville himself, the patient soul that he was, was starting to look uncomfortable.

Harry had slumped off with a wave to her and Neville before slipping off into a passageway to get him to the Defence classroom posthaste.

The door to the classroom is shut and none of his housemates are around, seeing as there’s still about twenty minutes until the start of class.

He takes one last glance around the stone halls, and, seeing it empty, takes a breath.

He raises his fist and knocks on the door-- tap-tap-tap .

“Come in!” Calls the saccharine-sweet voice of Umbridge.

Harry allows himself one theatrical gag before schooling his face into something neutral, yet with tinges of tentative hope.

Game on.

The Defence classroom is still surprisingly similar to last year. He’d been expecting more pink, but perhaps the woman couldn’t be arsed to decorate. She stands beside her desk and turns to face him as he closes the door behind him.

Umbridge has a large smile on her face that vanishes the second she sees and processes that it’s Harry Potter standing there.

“Mr. Potter,” she greets, prim voice icy.

Some Slytherin she is, he mentally snorts.

“H-hello, Professor,” he says quietly, putting in the barest stumble over his words. “I wanted to introduce myself, and, erm… ask you a question?”

She puts on a smile, now, but it’s nothing like the softer one from earlier, from when she was undoubtedly waiting for a ‘proper’ Slytherin excited for her class to walk in. No, this one reminds him of a shark’s grin.

Come on.

“And what would that be?” She asks slowly, head tilting to the side. Her voice is all girlish charm and vapidness. It must work for her sometimes if she still uses it.

“You’re… you’re from the Ministry, right?” He asks her, allowing that tentative hope on his face to grow slightly. “And you know the Minister, right?”

He fiddles with the edge of his tie, naturally drawing her eyes to the movement-- and to the green and silver colour of it.

“Yes, I am. I am the Minister’s Senior Undersecretary,” she says, unable to help herself puffing up in pride.

Harry, thankfully, is able to keep himself from snickering.

“That means you can help me!” He injects just enough childish excitement into his voice to-- hopefully-- both get her to be intrigued and to relax her guard somewhat at the same time.

“With what, exactly, Mr. Potter?” Umbride asks him, leaning forward ever so slightly in anticipation.

He lets his posture fall back into himself, as if he’s unsure in the face of her pressing him. “It’s just--” His face creases into a concerned frown. “I figured the Ministry would want to know… about what really happened that night,” he says, swallowing. “I-- I don’t even really remember what happened, and-- and the Headmaster…”

He allows himself to trail off, drawing into himself even more. He knots his fingers into his tie and lowers his eyes just enough to look nervous while still being able to see her face.

She looks triumphant, like she’s just been proven right about something.

Interesting.

“What about the Headmaster, Harry?” She asks him, circling the room to stand closer to him, bringing up a hand to rest comfortingly on his shoulder.

The use of his first name and the physical comfort…

Gotcha.

He knows, logically, that the reason why the Ministry has sent someone this year is not only to fill the needed position. Hell, he’d wager that they had a hand in why no one was available to teach this year. Not a lot of money, mind, but some. The fact that they’d sent someone so high up and close to the minister instead of an Auror, who’d be both more suited and more capable in the role of Defence instructor, is on purpose.

Dumbledore’s view is directly contrary to the Ministry’s. The Ministry-- and, by proxy, the Minister-- have already demonstrated their unrepentant suppression of any contrary information or ideas over the years.

Ergo, they’re here at Hogwarts because of Dumbledore and his big mouth.

If they’re here because of Dumbledore… Well, he can use that.

Playing people, teasing out what they wanted and then giving it to them in a way that would benefit him. That was the game.

And Umbridge? Well. She left herself far too open for Harry not to use what she wanted against her.

“The Headmaster… he took me back to his office after-- after everything,” Harry says, a slight tremble in his voice. He might be fifteen, but he’s still small enough to easily visually fit the ‘scared child’ trope. “I was still injured. I was tired, and scared. I got hit on the head,” he says-- not a lie, not technically-- “And I was… disoriented. And he asked me so many questions, over and over again, and then told me that it was You-Know-Who who had done… it,” he says. Tears well up in his eyes. “That it was You-Know-Who who killed Ced.”

Her face visibly softens and the hand on his shoulder pats him a few times before it moves into what’s supposed to be a soothing rub.

Ew.

“But I don’t-- I don’t know any of it!” Harry says, leaning into her hand just slightly, like all he wants to do is collapse into the comfort being offered but isn’t letting himself. He blinks hard, and the tears fall from his eyes and track down over his cheeks.

Get her to think that I depend on her. That I need her.

“I don’t know what the Headmaster is doing,” he says in a quiet sort of confession, bringing a hand up to wipe away the scant tears still in his eyes. Crying on command is bloody difficult. “B-but he lied, Professor. I never said any of those things that he said I did in the paper. And You-Know-Who can’t be back. It’s not possible!”

“There, there,” she says comfortingly, still rubbing circles into his shoulder blade. “It’s quite alright. I’ll see what I can do to help. We’ll have the Headmaster out quick as you please.”

Bollocks.

He turns toward her, eyes wide with fear. “But isn’t that dangerous? Don’t people love him? He is strong, isn’t he? He’s the only wizard that You-Know-Who feared, and the defeater of Grindelwald.”

Her mouth twists like she’s bitten into something sour, but she sighs in a rather resigned way.

“I won’t lie to you, Harry,” she says, the unsaid subtext being that she wouldn’t while Dumbledore will and does, “It’s going to take a while to get enough evidence on him. But, you’d be a great help with that.”

He looks toward the ground. “And… I wouldn’t get in trouble?” He asks, voice small. “He’s my magical guardian, he said,” Harry says. “Doesn’t he have power over me?”

Her eyes light up at that.

“You don’t have to worry about a single thing,” she says, the comforting tone ruined slightly by the undercurrent of triumph lighting up every bit of her expression.

How the hell was she a Slytherin? Harry thinks, disgusted.

Well. Perhaps she thought he was too stupid to see it anyway. He might wear green and silver, but he’d never given her any indication that he was a real Slytherin.

But, of course, that should be something she takes into account, in which case he must reiterate: how.

She’s a blight on my damn house, Harry grumps.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers after that beat in the conversation. “I just-- he’s really powerful, and I’m- I’m scared of him,” he says quietly, like he’s admitting to some great secret.

“Don’t worry,” she repeats soothingly. “You’ll be a protected witness. None of your information will be out.”

Harry sags forward. “Thank you,” he repeats, voice a little ragged.

“Now, why don’t you go and sit down and calm down until class starts, hm?” She asks softly, steering him over to a seat, which he sinks down into the moment he comes into contact with it.

A little while after she steps into her adjoining office-- he caught a glimpse of it as she opened the door, and there’s the pink he was expecting, Morgana’s tit*-- the rest of the Slytherin students start to stream into the room.

When his people look at him questioningly, all he sends back is a truly vicious, triumphant smile. Blaise gives him a similar one in return, and it’s infectious, it seems, because the others’ lips all turn up at the sight.

By the time Umbridge steps back into class, the usual arrangement of his housemates around him had happened-- at least a desk between him and everyone else in all directions, but with Theo and Blaise, Daphne and Tracey, and Milicent all sitting in a ring around him, separating him from Malfoy and company.

“Good morning, class!” Umbridge says cheerfully, very evidently in a good mood.

“Good morning, Professor,” they chorus back to her, and her beam widens.

“Alright, then. Let us get started!”

“I can’t believe that bitch,” Theo snarls.

Well. That’s certainly a change in demeanour.

Blaise must see some sort of visible confusion in Harry's expression because he laughs out loud, right in Harry’s face.

“Never get between our Theo and his academics,” Blaise says, still chuckling. “I remember one time when Goyle took one of his books… ah,” he sighs wistfully, reclining back on the couch next to Harry, throwing his arm over the back. The fire crackles nearby. “Now everyone is wise enough not to do it.”

Harry raises a brow, placing his parchment down on the low table in front of them.

“He is from a family of warriors, you know?” Blaise asks rhetorically. “He’s a proper viper with his wand, but I wouldn’t want to be his enemy even if he only had his knife-- to say nothing, of course, of that axe of his.”

Right. Viking clan lineage, like Remus said.

“How aren’t the two of you angry?” Theo asks, frustrated. “We’re going to fail our Defence OWLs!”

“Well, maybe Harry wouldn’t,” Tracey says glumly. “But the rest of us certainly are.”

Harry co*cks his head. “None of you are going to fail your OWLs.”

“We are, though,” Tracey groans, even as Theo rounds on him with fire in his eyes. “The toad’s not teaching us anything.”

Harry puts up a cautioning finger, forestalling the avalanche of righteous fury undoubtedly about to spill from Theo’s mouth and onto him.

“Now, I can forgive the girls for not knowing, but you two-- did I not tell you I would teach you this year anyway ?”

Blaise blinks in surprise, and it brings Theo up short.

“Teach them-- us-- what?” Millie asks.

“Anything and everything I can,” Harry says succinctly and unsubstantially all at once. “Since not all of you were here for this particular part of the speech, let me tell you: there is a war coming and you need to be prepared.”

The boys are more calm about it, having heard it once before, but the girls have more severe reactions-- comparably, of course, since they are Slytherins.

“What do you mean?” There’s a tight muscle high in Daphne’s jaw belying her even tone. Tracey sits stock still beside her, and Millie stares at him with wide, but resigned eyes.

“Hopefully it will be as bloodless as possible, but there is going to be a changeover in power some time in the next few years. Even if we succeed in a bloodless coup at the Ministry,” as Tom’s notes in his folio indicated he wanted, through replacing the Ministry with sympathisers from the ground up, among other things, “Dumbledore won’t go down quietly, and neither will his Order. Ergo, war.”

Harry smiles grimly. “And I would very much like you all to survive it.”

“Ergo,” Daphne echoes, “You teaching us everything and anything you can.”

“Exactly. We can start with the exam material for our OWLs and go from there,” Harry says, plans already forming in his mind. “And there are some things after that I may not be able to teach you within school grounds, just based on the wards and such, and there’s obviously things that I only know in theory and not practise.”

They all nod.

“When will we start?” Theo asks. “Actually, that reminds me. I’ve been meaning to ask, and thinking about schedules made me think of it. Are you going to do anything for Mabon?”

“That’s… a good question,” Harry says, blinking. He hadn’t even thought of it, but it was kind of important. “I’ve read about the holidays, but I’ve never actually gotten to celebrate any of them, considering… you know. I would very much like to, though,” he adds on quickly.

He’d be expected to lead any rites as their Lord, so he really needed to read up and prepare.

“I’ll figure out a place and prepare,” Harry says a beat later. “For both things.”

But, for now, he has to go meet the twins.

He follows their trail on the map, hidden under the Cloak.

They go to what looks to be an unused classroom on the fourth floor, close enough to the teachers’ wing that Harry quietly thinks they’re mental.

And then, when he actually comes up on the room, he has to change his mind. Their ward scheme is fairly airtight as far as Harry can see-- they even have a cloaking component written in to disguise the magical output the wards themselves make, rendering them practically invisible to those sensitive to magic unless someone was specifically looking for them.

“Impressive set up, gents,” Harry says as he swings the Cloak off once he’s inside the room.

He’s been keyed in, somehow. Maybe it’s the Oath giving him what’s basically override permission? The alternative is not something he’d particularly like to think about.

“Welcome to our--”

“--humble abode.”

They give him matching, ridiculous, sweeping bows in front of way too many tables full of stuff.

He can see protection shields made specifically for a potions lab set up over on some of the far tables, catching the multicoloured smoke that rises out of several different cauldrons. Closer to him is a table covered with butcher paper, a larger roll of the stuff underneath the table, covered with what looks like arithmantic matrices and radii, jars of ink and piles of quills set to the side. There are more tables all filled with stuff in various states of doneness, but each look intimidating at a casual glance.

“Just how many things do you have going on at once?” Harry asks them, mildly awed. This is beyond multitasking; it should take a whole team of people-- per table. There have to be at least six tables in the room.

George shrugs, while Fred goes to fetch whatever it is that they’ve made.

“A bit here, a bit there,” he answers evasively. “We’re mostly finishing our few projects up right now in preparation for whatever you want us to do. Because you’ve been thinking of some stuff, right?” George shoots him a knowing grin.

“It shouldn’t hamper your ability to work on stuff for your store, though,” Harry protests.

George blinks at him, once, twice, before he turns to his twin.

“Forge,” George calls, eyes wide. “When did we tell Harrikins about the store?”

“Erm… never?” Fred says, brow raised. “Why question it, though?”

George sputters as Fred walks over with a closed box.

“If it’s any consolation, you haven’t left any notes out or anything like that,” Harry says. “I noticed the two of you were looking over the Prophet in the ads section and I heard you talking about getting owl order forms from a bunch of different businesses to compare.”

“Smart!” Fred praises with a grin, setting the box down on the table next to them. “Now, our finished product.”

He opens the lid to reveal several necklaces with metal plates attached to them. They almost look like dog tags, Harry thinks idly as he picks one up.

The metal plates are a little bit bigger than a dog tag but they’re similarly rectangular with curved corners. There’s also no visible markings on them at all, aside from Harry’s crest etched on one side. The chain isn’t a ball chain either, but rather one unbroken and uniform strand of metal. Looking more closely, though, Harry can see small weaves of the metal in it, looking almost like a snake’s scales.

Appropriate, Harry mentally snorts. He wonders if they did it on purpose.

“Walk me through it?” Harry asks.

“To start off with, we have iron for the chain and silver for the plate,” George starts easily, having shaken off his earlier surprise. “For both their magical and alchemical properties.”

“Iron is a good grounder, very balanced,” Fred says. “And silver is great for communication. It’s a cousin to mercury, y’know, alchemically. They’re a few steps separated-- iron and mercury are brother metals, actually, but that makes them less likely to have similar properties.”

“And mercury is associated with the god of the same name, whose domain is communication,” Harry nods along, picking out something he knows, trying to make it seem like the majority of his statement hadn’t just gone right over his head. “Very solid work. The two of you definitely know more about the alchemical properties of different things than I do, though.”

“The iron also gives us a good basis for the defensive part of this structure,” Fred continues, flashing a smile at the praise. “We don’t want anyone butting in, do we?”

“That we do not.” George picks it up. “The actual runic array for the communication function is concealed on the other side of the lower plate,” he says, picking up a necklace of his own, tapping the smooth side. “The whole thing is actually made out of two plates of silver sandwiched together, leaving the clear side to do…” he presses his wand to the other side, the one holding Harry’s crest, and his brow furrows in concentration.

The necklace in Harry’s hand heats up slightly and he tilts the plate around to see the smooth surface.

Or, well, the formerly smooth surface.

There’s a word on it now.

[this.], he reads, punctuation and all.

Harry grins at the twins. “This is amazing. You just touched your wand to the other side?” He asks.

“Yup,” George says.

“All you have to do is push a little bit of your magic into the runic array, centred around your Mark for convenience, think of your message, and, if you want a specific person, think of them before,” Fred says.

“And that feature was an absolute pain to come up with,” George grouses.

“It’s based on magic signatures,” Fred explains. “So people are going to have to wear them for a little bit before anyone can send individual messages.”

Harry tilts his head, studying the word seemingly before etched into the metal that was now disappearing.

“Are you able to send it to multiple people, but only specific ones?” Harry asks. “For instance, if I wanted to send only you two a message, would that work?”

The twins glance at each other.

“Hypothetically,” Fred says.

“We’re not completely sure, though.”

“It should, but we didn’t have people to practice with other than the two of us.”

“Alright,” Harry nods. “We can test it later.”

He slips the one he’s holding around his neck.

“A perfect time to explain its other features!” Fred says.

He steps forward and reaches for the plate. Or, at least, tries to. It sticks to Harry’s chest despite Fred’s best efforts to get it off. The same applies to the chain, when he tries that.

“Once someone puts it on, only that person will be able to take it off,” George says, slinging the one he’s holding around his neck.

“It sticks to the skin when someone else touches it so you can’t get choked with it,” Fred says, jokingly grabbing at his twin’s necklace, only for his fingers to scrabble at it just like it did with Harry’s.

A knock sounds from the door and all three of them freeze.

“Pervidere unus,” Harry cracks out quietly, wand already in hand and scribing the somatic component in time with the incantation.

On the other side of the door stands Luna.

Harry abruptly sags, adrenaline crashing through his system.

“Merlin,” Fred and George mutter in unison.

“That girl,” George says, shaking his head. His tone is fond, though.

Harry strides forward to open up the door for her and she smiles at him.

“My necklace, please?” She asks.

“How…?” Fred goggles at her, and Harry just shrugs.

“Don’t question Luna,” is all he says as he pulls another out of the box to hand to her. “She knows all.”

She giggles at that, slipping the necklace over her head. “Why, thank you Harry.”

“Anytime,” he grins back.

And then Luna leaves without anything other than a soft call of ‘goodnight’ to each of them that only Harry has the presence of mind to reply in time to.

“...I mean, I was thinking about how we were going to get her the necklace, but…” George trails off, still staring at the closed door.

“Luna will do what Luna will do,” Harry says simply. “Can you get Neville his? I’ll take the rest.”

George shakes himself to action while Fred replies, “Yeah, of course.”

“It’s on our way anyway.”

“He’s only a couple levels down from us in the dorms.”

Fred pulls out a necklace, closes the box, and hands it to Harry, who takes it and tucks it under his arm, grabbing the Cloak with his free hand.

“Well, good night.”

“Night, Harry.”

Chapter 16: There may not be meaning, so find one and seize it

Chapter Text

“I can’t do it,” Harry says.

“What?” Warrington stares at him. “Say it again, I dare you.”

“I can’t do it,” Harry repeats, tone harder, eyes narrowing slightly.

Pucey lays a cautioning hand on Warrington’s arm, likely reading Harry’s ire better than the Quidditch captain.

“May we inquire why?” Pucey asks diplomatically.

“In short, Dumbledore,” Harry says. “He didn’t want to leave a lot up to chance this year, shall we say, only… he didn’t know I have my rings.”

Pucey nods slowly, eyes widening slightly in what’s probably realisation, but Warrington is still scowling. “I see. Well, Malfoy will undoubtedly be pleased.”

Harry snorts, turning away. “That he will.”

He walks away without another word from either party, although he can hear quiet words being exchanged between Pucey and Warrington-- and the quiet inhale of shock from the latter.

Well, he knew Pucey was smart.

He walks back into the hallway leading to the rooms and into the fifth year common room.

“Hey, Theo,” Harry calls.

He turns toward Harry. “Yes?”

Harry has to wait until he’s right up next to Theo, but once he does, he asks quietly, “Want to go down to the Chamber?”

The effect of his words are instantaneous: Theo freezes, before bursting into a flurry of movement, throwing all of his books, parchment, and everything else back into his bag.

“Absolutely!”

“Millie?” Harry asks.

But she shakes her head. “Thanks for the offer, but not today.” She smirks. “You’ll have enough trouble keeping Theo reigned in, I think.”

Harry snorts.

“I’ve got my own projects,” he says. “Theo can go as wild as he wishes. I doubt it would be to the point of damaging the books, after all.”

Theo whips around to stare at him with wide eyes. “Excuse me?” He asks, affronted, as he climbs to his feet. “I would never harm a book, especially not from a Founder’s collection!”

“See?” Harry asks, grinning slightly. “We’ll be fine.”

Harry rests his forehead on the table in front of him, suppressing the urge to groan aloud or smack it against the wood repeatedly.

Salazar has no such compunctions about stifling anything and laughs at him unrepentantly. When Harry shifts to glare at him, he only laughs harder.

“Take heart, heir mine,” he says once he’s composed himself, still dabbing at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief. The sort-of consoling tone is completely ruined by the undercurrent of laughter still cutting through his voice. “You are… emancipated, you said, yes? You may do as you wish over your summers, and will thus have the time you need.”

“That’s debatable,” Harry mutters.

Sal’s forehead creases in time with his frown at that, but he lets it lie as Harry continues to read through one of the many books about animagery strewn over the large, dark wooden desk in his study.

Through the open door to the library, Harry can only faintly hear Theo. He’s mumbling about something, but he sounds excited.

Good for him.

If only his own study was going as he expected.

“...I’m going to have to owl Remus and Sirius, aren’t I?”

Harry pushes his glasses up to rub at his eyes. It’s not even lunch yet and he’s already knackered.

The crack of an elf appearing next to him almost sends him off his chair.

“Mail for Master Harry,” Kreacher croaks out, looking faintly cross. “From the no-good Mutt Master.”

Suddenly, his expression makes a lot more sense to Harry.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry says with a soft smile. “Can you wait a little bit while I write a response?”

Kreacher straightens up before bowing. “Of course, Master Harry.”

“Lucky timing,” he mutters as he takes the proffered envelope from the elf’s gnarled fingers.

He pops open the nearly nonexistent seal on the envelope and raises an eyebrow when two things come out: one sheet of parchment and what looks like a large shard of a mirror. He can see magic shimmering over the latter so he puts it to the side gently before setting in on the letter.

Dear Harry, it reads in Sirius’s lopsided cursive.

Be careful.

He snorts, which turns into a full-blown chuckle when he reads the second sentence.

It’s rich coming from me, I know, but we worry. I get that you’re Heir Slytherin and all-- which, actually, that explains why you got resorted, right? Something about Heirs and all that--

There’s a few scratched out words he can’t read between the end of the sentence and the dash.

--but anyway, be careful in there. The snake pit isn’t exactly known for being kind to people, and I’d say you have an even bigger target on your back than most. I mean, come on. Boy who lived and all that tosh. Even if you don’t like it. Just. Be careful?

It’s a lot more rambling than his godfather usually is in person, or even the few letters he’s managed to exchange with him over the years, which probably means he’s anxious out of his mind.

Contessa Zabini is not someone to cross, Remus’ looping hand writes next. Harry smiles at it. I will reiterate what Pads said-- be careful, Harry. But if you think that they would be good assets to have, I’ll trust in your decision.

It switches back to Sirius’ hand here.

Keep us updated!! For that purpose, I’m enclosing this mirror. I was going to give it to you for Yule, but I figured now would be better. Look into it and say my name.

Love,

Sirius and Remus

He picks up the mirror. It tingles slightly against his fingertips, but he assumes that it’s just the magic in it that’s causing the sensation and not something like errant glass dust.

“Sirius Black?” He says, seeing only his own reflection of green eyes behind stupidly large circular frames, topped with shaggy black hair.

That changes in a couple seconds, however, to show Sirius against a light background, a bolt of red cutting through the corner. His room, perhaps?

“Harry!” Sirius beams at him.

Harry grins. Perfect.

“Kreacher,” Harry says. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting for nothing. You can return now.”

Kreacher’s mouth gapes open in surprise, but he still manages a bow before popping away without another word.

“So, Harry,” Sirius starts again. “How are you doing? Is everything okay?”

He smiles at him. “Everything’s… fine.” He was going to say great, and then realised that wasn’t that case, and then good, and then further realised that wasn’t the case, but he hopes Sirius doesn’t pick up on it. “A little trouble, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“With your new house, or…?” Sirius trails off, concern shining clear from his face.

Harry shakes his head. “Dumbledore, actually,” he says with a bitter twist of his lips. “I’m just thankful for my rings and such, otherwise I’d be under… wait, is Remus there?”

“Yes!” He hears faintly.

“Great. Remus, stop Sirius from doing anything stupid?” Harry winces. “Well, the both of you might, now that I think of it.”

“Pup, what the hell happened?” Sirius asks way too calmly.

“Kreacher!” Harry calls.

“Master Harry?” The elf asks, popping in and looking eager to do something after he was literally just dismissed seconds ago.

“Can you make sure Sirius and Remus can’t get out of their room until they calm down, please? Go now,” Harry says.

Kreacher instantly disappears, probably only too happy to comply.

“Harry!”

“Dumbledore attempted to put me under a compulsion web,” Harry says.

He can hear a doorknob rattling and then a muttered, rumbling alohom*ora from Remus emanating from the mirror.

“It’s really locked,” Remus grumbles, sounding even wolf-ier than when they found out Harry had a lingering injury over the summer.

The mirror’s pointing at what’s probably Sirius’ trouser leg, and he can see his fingertips around the corners of it. The whole image is gently vibrating from the pressure he’s putting on the mirror.

“Sirius, I need you to calm down for me. What happens if you break the mirror?” Harry asks.

That does the trick. Sirius drops his mirror like it’d burned him, the image going dark when it lands face first on the bed.

Harry hears a muffled apology before Sirius picks the mirror back up, showing his still angry face. He’s paler than normal, and his expression looks like it could have been carved out of stone.

“Harry, you did not tell me this,” Salazar says chidingly.

Harry almost jumps at it. He’d almost completely forgotten where he was.

“Harry? Who is that?” Sirius asks.

“Uh.” Harry leans to the side and brings the mirror up to his face’s level, showing off the painting behind him. “Padfoot, meet Salazar Slytherin. Sal, meet Sirius Black, my godfather.”

“Well met!” Salazar says cheerily to a gobsmacked Sirius.

“Well… met, Lord Slytherin,” Sirius says haltingly.

“Nonsense, call me Salazar!” The man waves his hand around airily, as if preemptively brushing off any future protests and also completely ignoring his mild rudeness. “You are my Heir’s godsfather.”

“Call me Sirius, then,” he replies, voice more even now, even if his face was still pale.

“And Remus Lupin is my… uncle,” Harry says as the man walks into frame, pausing for only a second as he figures out what exactly to call the man.

He’s fairly certain that Sirius and Remus are together, but they hadn’t confirmed it. And what even was the title for the partner of one’s godfather? Was there even one?

“Well met,” Remus says warmly, more calmed down now but still a little red in the face. “Now explain for us, please, Harry?”

So he does, which certainly doesn’t help the calmness levels of his two living relatives.

Salazar, though, is eerily quiet.

Finally, after Harry is done recounting the evening, he speaks.

“That man is not fit to be a Headmaster of my school,” Salazar all but growls. “A Headmaster is here to protect their students, not to use them as pieces in their own infernal games!”

“What do you think of him, then?” Sirius asks. “Your other Heir. Dumbledore’s doing all of this to try and defeat him.”

On one hand, Harry’s almost relieved that he doesn’t have to ask that question of Sal himself. On the other hand, he’s quite nervous to hear the answer.

Salazar sighs.

“He’s a misguided lad,” Salazar says, an undertone of profound sadness running through his voice. “I am not able to enter the portrait in the common room of the Slytherin dormitories until a Heir meets me here, in my Chambers. But, by the time he fulfilled that condition, he was blinded by greed and fear and dabbled in things that no wix should, killing a student with my Aurora in the process.”

It’s like Harry thought, then.

“...would it change your mind any if I told you he’s becoming less… mad?” Harry asks tentatively. “He’s realised his mistake, I think, and is working to change it.”

Salazar lifts a brow at him and Harry suppresses a wince. He wasn’t going to say anything for a reason and now he’s buggered it up.

“So you have met the current Lord of our House,” Salazar states, calmly staring him down.

“Yes,” Harry replies evenly.

Salazar studies him for a beat before sighing once more. “The Family magic accepted him for a reason, I suppose. It would not take on an unfit Lord.”

Harry holds back his own sigh, one of pure relief.

Salazar didn’t care that he was talking to Tom after all, then.

“It is quite unfortunate that my portrait was sealed, though,” Salazar says. “I would have liked to meet him now that he’s ‘less mad’ as you so say.”

“In your manor?” Harry asks curiously. “Who sealed it?”

Salazar grimaces. “An errant descendant of mine. The little fool was bullheaded and shortsighted and could not bear to be wrong. He claimed that I was somehow an unoriginal representation of myself, and sealed my only portrait in the building. I can only assume that he hid it somewhere afterwards, because it has not been unsealed since.”

“If you would like, I can write Tom and tell him,” Harry offers.

Salazar smiles. “It seems that he is truly a changed man. I remember his time as a student and he would not hear of someone calling him by his first name. Yes, please do so.”

The conversation peters out naturally from there, winding down with a promise from Harry to Remus to ask any questions of Sal the man wants in the future.

Eventually, he goes to say his goodbyes before a thought strikes him.

“Shoot. I was about to owl you with the questions and I almost forgot,” Harry says, resisting the urge to smack himself. “Sirius, how on earth did you become an animagus while at school? How did McGonagall not catch you lot?”

Sirius grins. “You mean with the mandrake leaf, right? Yeah, we figured she’d catch us right quick if we did it the traditional way. But you can just stick it to the roof of your mouth with a sticking charm and something else to cover it, ‘cause it’s got to be free against your skin. And then- most importantly,” he says, waving his finger around for emphasis, “You put a scent blocking charm on your mouth. Those things stink.”

Harry just sits there, though, a little dumbfounded. “Seriously?” He asks, having gotten his voice back. “It was that simple?”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “Hell no. But that’s just to make the first step easier.” He shudders with disgust. “Mandrake leaves taste absolutely awful. Good luck, pup. I’ll send the instructions for the rest with Kreacher some time later, yeah?”

“Alright,” he says. “Well, see you… sometime.”

“Yule, hopefully,” Sirius grins. “No reason not to.”

“Yule, then,” Harry agrees with an answering smile.

Harry’s getting ready for bed when he feels Tom’s presence in his mind.

‘I have some interesting news from the Ministry that I feel you would appreciate,’ he says with no preamble.

Hm?

‘Dolores Umbridge has been made High Inquisitor of Hogwarts,’ Tom says, and Harry can hear the sneer in his-- mental-- voice at the title. ‘It will likely be on the first page of the Prophet on Monday, but I surmised that you would rather like the forewarning.’

Harry stalls in pulling his pyjama shirt over his head, his mind turning over the new information.

Yes, very much so, he thinks back. I wonder if that was a bygone conclusion or if the impetus was my talk with her.

‘Oh?’ Tom asks.

Just laying some groundwork, Harry replies, finishing dressing before moving towards the ensuite washroom. I’d rather not be targeted by the Ministry’s toadie. Undoubtedly they want to hurt Dumbledore, but I’d wager I’m a fair bit more accessible than he is, not even mentioning personal vendettas from the sh*te he spread in the papers about me over the summer.

Tom hums. ‘Quite true.’

Hopefully all of her ire will be directed towards Dumbledore, but I’m not going to sit here if that’s not the case.

Tom actually laughs at that, leaving Harry with a light feeling in his chest. Are Tom’s emotions bleeding over to him? That would be annoying.

‘It seems that you still have some Gryffindor in you,’ he says, traces of laughter still in his voice. ‘Perhaps part of the goody two-shoes act was not an act at all?’

Harry snorts. Piss off. Like they wouldn’t expect me to do something stupid if someone else was in danger.

‘Right,’ he drawls, not sounding very convinced at all.

Harry rolls his eyes, waving his wand at his face and casting a tooth cleaning spell. At least Dumbledore would expect me to do something stupid, considering the web and all.

Tom huffs, a thread of agitation bleeding out. ‘Yes, how could I forget what the bastard tried to do to you?’

No need to get sarcastic, Harry replies. It’s frustrating for me as well that the bearded bastard is the driving force of most of my plans.

Tom pauses. It stretches on for just long enough to make Harry slightly confused before Tom replies. ‘Indeed. Well, I shan't put you off from your bed any longer. Staying in your head has me liable to fall asleep myself.’

“Wow,” Harry mutters, crawling into his four-poster. Good night to you as well, then.

‘...good night.’

Harry spends his Sunday going through the rest of Tom’s folio, with breaks only to test the multi-person messaging functionality of the necklaces-- which ended up working, thankfully-- and for food.

He needs less things to focus on, not more, after all.

Deciding not to do Quidditch this year was probably the best option, despite the miffed expression Angie gives him when he tells her at breakfast that she won’t be seeing him on the pitch this year after all.

(“Well,” she’d replied, “I wanted to win my last year anyway. At least now I’ll have a chance!”)

Harry closes the folio with a satisfied expression.

He’s finally bloody done.

“Tippy!” He calls, and Tom’s little elf pops in.

“Master Harry!” She frowns at him. “Are you eating?”

She pops away and Harry blinks.

Huh.

Ok.

But then she pops back in seconds later, closer to his bed, with a basket bigger than her head and covered by a tea towel.

“You don’t eat enough,” she says firmly, holding the basket out to him.

He takes it without a word, still feeling a little shocked by the whole situation.

“Erm… thank you, Tippy. Can you take this to Lord Slytherin, please?” He asks, holding out the folio.

“Of course, Master Harry!” She takes it with a smile, but then her expression turns serious. “Eat.”

“I will,” he promises, which turns her smile back on to blinding before she gives a short bow and pops away.

He opens the tea towel to find a whole slew of hand pies under an elf-wrought preservation charm, it looks like.

After taking one and biting into it, he finds that this one at least is beef with small bits of potatoes, carrots, and peas. It’s quite delicious, actually, and Harry eats two more before he’s full to the bursting.

He stores the rest on his desk, wishing once more that his trunk was one of the upgraded ones with separate compartments for everything.

Eventually. Eventually he’ll have the freedom to live how he wants.

Chapter 17: Steady the Course

Chapter Text

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione seethes, staring down at the Prophet clenched in her fists. The pages are getting wrinkled with the strength that she’s putting into her hands, and the whole thing shakes. “The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts? The professors here don’t need some kind of… nanny!” She trails off before biting the word out, lips pursed as she spears her furious gaze through the paper.

“As per Educational Decree Twenty-three, Madame Delores Umbridge has been appointed the Hogwarts High Inquisitor to combat the flagging standards of Hogwarts, and, as such, has been equipped with the ability to inspect her fellow educators,” Neville reads out of his own copy, looking concerned.

“Among other things,” Hermione grumbles, letting the paper flop down next to her plate.

And that ‘among other things’ was something that had troubled Harry the most, even though he hadn’t received anything like the official press conference from Tom.

One of the first messages Harry had sent with the new communication tags had been [Don’t trust Umbridge and don’t get into trouble with her.] so he’s right to be concerned. And Umbridge herself had only confirmed it-- indirectly, of course.

Blaise had already been hearing whispers over the weekend about her detentions. People would go into her office, and then, hours later, emerge with tear-stained faces and hands ripped apart and bleeding, now bearing the words that Umbridge had so decreed that they were in violation of.

I will not talk back.

I will respect authority.

I will shut my mouth and listen to my betters.

The contents had caused Harry’s hackles to raise the moment he heard them, the wording far too similar to admonishments he’d heard throughout his childhood.

As of right now, her detentions were mostly limited to upper year muggleborn Gryffindors with a smattering of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws mixed in, but that could change at any moment.

With what Neville had told him about their first day of DADA, Harry had been surprised that Hermione hadn’t gotten a detention with her.

The Dagworth-Grangers are extremely powerful. Maybe the chance of a connection there stayed her hand.

If Umbridge ever got confirmation that she wasn’t connected with them… Well.

He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

After breakfast, he got to see exactly what being the ‘High Inquisitor of Hogwarts’ meant.

Umbridge’s hovering was distracting for both Harry and the professors. He could see it in the way that Flitwick seemed to vibrate with nervous energy, his hands fluttering more than what would be called normal for him, or the way that even Binns paused for a whole five seconds before continuing his normal drone.

The pièce de résistance, though, came when she trundled into Snape’s class.

Neville freezes beside him like a mouse under a cat's gaze as she walks into the classroom.

“She’s staring already? ” He hisses under his breath, looking no better than he did, temperament-wise, than in the previous years in this classroom under Snape’s glare.

“She started this morning,” Harry murmurs to him, keeping the same level of volume. “You didn’t see her in any of your classes?”

“No! ”

Hmm. Is she picking my classes to inspect on purpose?

It’s annoying, but not particularly terrible. He doubts that she suspects that there’s anything off with his story, so it’s not strictly for surveillance purposes.

The only way she could is if she had access to the Slytherin common room, and Harry knows she doesn’t.

Snape would eviscerate her if she tried.

He has to hold back a smirk.

He’d have provocation enough. What an annoying woman.

Snape stares down at Umbridge in very well hidden contempt, his mask of bored detachment prominent instead.

“Yes,” he answers her pointed, probing question, his tone and words clipped both.

“But you were unsuccessful?” Umbride asks, all sweet, cheery poison, quill poised to continue scribbling at his answer.

“Obviously,” he answers dryly, tonally.

However, Harry can see the signs that belie his bored outer countenance-- the faintest tightening of his jaw, a touch deeper furrow of his brow, and the more obvious ripple and lash of his magic all paint a picture that very few would be able to interpret.

…he’s angry at her questions. Interesting.

Why did Severus Snape hold such emotion over the Defence Against the Dark Arts position?

“And you’ve applied for the position… hmm… every year since you’ve been employed here at Hogwarts, correct?”

“Yes.”

Snape’s anger is becoming more prominent, too, and it takes Neville’s soft touch on his elbow to remind him that yes, he has a potion currently brewing in front of him that he should probably be focusing on instead of trying to pick apart the enigma that was Severus Snape.

He barely gets the next ingredient into the cauldron in time and he grimaces at the harsh hiss that the potion emits when it’s introduced.

The heat’s too high, I think. Damn.

By the time he finishes wrangling the potion back into something that can pass for acceptable, Umbridge has moved back to her corner and resumed her furious scribbling.

He’s not getting anything else out of this today, is he?

Bollocks.

Tuesday was more interesting, comparatively.

It was fun to watch McGonagall stare Umbridge down without an ounce of hesitation, determinedly marching on with her lesson despite the little faux-polite coughs and interferences she introduced.

And then it came time for divination.

Again, while Harry was more respectful of the overall discipline of divination and had a small amount of wariness for the professor herself as a consequence of the two True Prophecies that she had delivered, Trelawney was still Trelawney.

She shakes like a leaf in the wind when she sees Umbridge ascend the tower’s ladder and insert herself into her heavily-perfumed classroom.

“Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney!” It’s an attempt at a lighthearted, chirping tone, but her oozing smarminess ruins it. “I trust you received my note about my scheduled inspection today, yes?”

At Trelawney’s sharp nod, she makes her way to an unoccupied armchair near the front of the class, dragging it uncomfortably close to Trelawney’s own chair.

Grudgingly, he gives her props for that. It visibly throws Trelawney off-balance, dealing such a blow to her that she can’t maintain her usual sweeping, dramatic mystic-type style of speech, nervous stutters emerging whenever Umbridge enters her range of view.

It gets worse when Umbridge decides that she just must have an up-close look and starts to follow Trelawney around, getting uncomfortably close at times, hovering just behind her shoulder as she goes around to talk to the students about their dream journals.

Patil and Brown glare fiercely at Umbridge but she never spares a single glance over to their table.

“She’s such a…” Brown growls softly in frustration, either lost for words or unwilling to segue into coarse language.

Patil nods heartily in agreement. “First she sabotages our Defence OWLs and now she’s doing this to the Professor?”

Neville grimaces from beside Harry. He’d escaped from Ron this time, but sitting next to Gryffindor’s resident Divination-fanatics wasn’t such a great choice either.

And then she began peppering her with questions, similarly to how she had Snape and McGonagall.

It all culminates some time about fifteen minutes before the end of the period.

“And… your great-great-grandmother was the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?”

“Yes,” Trelawney replies, seemingly bolstered a tad by the reminder of her respected lineage, her back straightening and her shoulders squaring.

“But you were the first in your family since her to be blessed with the Sight, is that right?” Umbridge smiles. “I’m just trying to clear things up. For the record, of course.”

Aaaand right back down.

“Er-- yes.” Her shoulders slouch again, eyes slipping to the side. “Matters of the Sight… they can be quite tricky, you see, and often skip generations-- many generations,” she tacks on somewhat hastily.

“I see.”

Patil and Brown scowl.

“Alright then!” Umbridge smiles. “Now, if you would predict something for me, then.”

On one hand, Harry’s wariness rises. It would be just his luck if she started to spout another True Prophecy that talked about him. On the other hand…

“I… don’t quite understand what you mean?” Trelawney asks somewhat weakly, drawing up her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

A scribble on the infernal clipboard of damnation. “I would like for you to make a prediction for me,” she enunciates, as if she’s trying to get a hard point across to a child. “To use the Sight that you possess.”

Trelawney gasps as she physically recoils from Umbridge, scandalised. “You…! The Inner Eye does not see on command!”

On the other hand, Trelawney was still Trelawney.

“Ah, I see,” Umbridge says, affecting a slightly sad tone. Again, though, its effect is ruined by the unbearable smarminess simply oozing from her. She starts to scribble once more on her clipboard, this time for a longer time, and Trelawney starts, leaning forward and reaching out a hand.

“B-but.. But-- W-wait!”

Umbridge looks up expectantly, her hand stayed for now.

“I do-- do See something… something in your future!” Trelawney is at least trying to pull that sense of mysticism around herself that she usually has, her dramatic, sweeping voice making somewhat of a return as she lifts one shaking hand to point at Umbridge. “Yes… I See… I See … something dark! Dark and terrible! You will be in peril in the future! Something will come for you, Madame Umbridge! I-- I am afraid that you are in grave danger,” she finishes with a dreadful intonation.

Umbridge just blinks placidly at her in the face of her foretold death, the same sweet-poison smile on her face, even as Patil and Brown practically swoon at the ‘divine deliverance’ that Trelawney just uttered.

“I see,” she repeats. “Well, if that is really the best that you can do…”

Yeah, Trelawney is Trelawney, after all…

Umbridge goes back to her scribbling, even retreating back to her armchair for optimised writing potential or something, and Trelawney can do nothing but stand there, gobsmacked.

She pulls herself together eventually, but there’s only five minutes remaining in the period.

Umbridge departs with nary a backwards glance.

[Meet by the portrait of the Black Lake on the second floor right before curfew.]

That was the message that Harry had sent to all the non-Slytherin members that morning. He had given Neville the Cloak, too, so they wouldn't get caught.

He’d finally-- finally -- gotten the Chamber fully cleaned up.

“So,” he starts. They all quiet down immediately, focusing on Harry. “Let’s get started. The Defence rota first, and then… extracurriculars, yeah?”

Not a single one of them wasn’t smiling at that.

“So, first off, the basic spells. Expelliarmus, stupefy and revennerate, and protego. Pair up and cast the first at each other.”

He merely has to cast an arched brow at the Slytherins when they start to grumble.

“Hey. I’m trying to get a baseline here” he scolds. “And besides, you want to be able to do these at the barest thought, easier than breathing, and faster than a blink. These will be the first ones you learn how to do wandlessly, and then wordlessly, and then both.”

Neville and Luna and Fred and George are already paired in the time that it takes the rest of them to shut up and get with the program. Millie just glances at the other four before they even make moves toward each other and shrugs, moving toward Harry.

“Do you mind waiting a bit for your turn?” He asks her. “I want to watch the rest of them.”

She smirks. “We could demonstrate for them first, if you’d like.”

But he shakes his head. “Everybody’s going to have a way that they do it. The more I see now, the more I can anticipate later.”

She looks faintly impressed at that, and Harry turns his gaze back to the pairs as the first person starts to fire.

He watches for a good three minutes as they cast back and forth. They succeed sometimes, and start to get it more often as the minutes drag on.

The twins are the best out of all of them, but that’s to be expected. They’re seventh years, after all. After them are Theo, Blaise, Luna, Daphne, Tracey, and then Neville, in that order.

He needs to get a new wand, Harry remembers.

Thankfully, their first Hogsmeade outing isn’t too far away.

But, that ranking doesn’t say anything about their actual skill, just where they are in relation to each other. As for overall skill, they could be faster, more forceful, and more precise. He's sure that he could get all their wands out of their hands before they could cast a spell that would do the same to him.

That needs to change.

“Alright, stop,” he says. They turn towards him and he nods to Millie. “Now’s the time for that demonstration.”

He figures that since she’d grown up along with Theo et cetera, she’d have the same quirks-- and he’s right.

“Expelliarmus!” She cries, flicking her wand down and in a short spiral, sending a flash of the yellowy-red light at him.

It’s moderately strong, but Harry keeps hold of his wand despite the visually obvious twitching and wrenching of his fingers.

“See how she did that?” Harry asks the group rhetorically. “The technical parts-- the flick, the spiral. Theo, Daphne, Millie-- did you all learn from the same tutor?”

“Yeah,” Millie says, the aforementioned people nodding along. “How do you know that?”

“You all don’t have a tight enough spiral,” Harry says. “You’ve probably been taught it that way. And I assume you taught Tracey that way, too. Also, Tracey, you’re not putting enough power into it. A sharper flick wouldn’t go wrong as well. Luna, you too-- sharp flick. Twins, faster with those movements and more power.”

He steps forward, raising his wand at Millie. She nods, readjusting her wand in her hand.

“Expelliarmus!” He casts, putting enough power into it to rock Millie back on her heels but not send her off her feet as her wand flies out of her hand and up into the air.

He reaches up and catches it as it arcs through the air to him.

“You have to want this to happen as well,” he says. “Magic is a good bit about intent. That’s why wix can use wandless and wordless magic at all. Otherwise, we’d all have to have our wands all the time, and say the incantations every time we cast.”

Blaise frowns. “Hang on a sec. You said we’d be learning it wandless, wordless, and both,” he quotes. “But why does the wand movement matter then?”

Harry smiles. “You have to get it right the normal way, first. And, I don’t know if it’s the same way for everyone, but from there you can… visualise, almost, the spell. You do it over and over enough times and at some point it’ll be ingrained enough in you that you can do it wordlessly. Wandlessly is a good bit harder from there, though.”

He claps his hands. “Alright, get back in pairs and remember what I said. Tighter spirals, most of you, sharper flicks.”

Harry leads Millie over to Luna and Neville.

“Luna, let me borrow Nev from you,” he says, almost as if he’s cutting into a dance. “Practice with Millie instead, yeah?”

“...I know I was the worst out of all of them,” he mutters once Harry’s brought him away from the rest.

Harry’s silent for a few beats, studying him. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it-- you are, right now. But I also think that’ll change when you get your wand.”

Neville perks up at that. “Right, the wand…”

“Hogsmeade is in three weeks, just about, give or take a few days-- it's the first weekend in October, the first and second. I’ll go talk to McGonagall next week or so, and then we’ll go.”

“What if she says no?” Neville asks.

Harry shrugs. “Then we’ll go anyway. You don’t deserve any less.”

Voldemort barely resists scowling down at the parchment in front of him. It is all a damnable mess. The stacks of parchment seem to be multiplying every time he looks away, leaving him with increasing amounts of work to do.

The thing is, however, is that it is all more banal matters-- simple letters to potential allies, various contracts requiring his oversight as their Lord, bank statements …

He scowls.

Then immediately feels foolish for doing so. The parchment cannot receive his ire any better than a brick wall and is thus unnecessary. He knows this. Why can he not--

He slams his hands down on his desk and pushes himself up to standing.

“That is it,” he growls. “Just what in the world is going on with me?”

Unfortunately, it seems that today is turning out like the other days. He would sit down at some point to attend to the work on his desk and then, at some point, become too irritable to continue for some mystifying reason and have to leave to get himself under control once more,whether that be through a few hours in the training room or a while meditating and attending to his mind palace.

It is not any kind of magical malady like a jinx, hex, or curse-- his protections and his regular cleansing rituals would have prevented or removed any such afflictions. Which left him with precious little to go on, unsavoury lines of thought such that they were.

He’s in the process of putting a leash on his emotions through occlumency focused meditation when he feels the first brush of Harry’s mind against his before he actually hears any communication.

‘Theoretically, how would you suggest I dispose of a body at Hogwarts?’

The corners of Voldemort’s mouth curl up at the faux innocent tone his Harry is sporting.

Why? What did you do?

‘Nothing,’ comes the quick reply. ‘...yet.’

There is plenty of dark promise in that particular adjunct.

Who has earned your ire today? He’s fully relaxed at this point, so he makes quick work of raising the walls of his occlumency shields, taking care not to block off the connection between him and his horcrux.

Voldemort feels a spike of pure, unadulterated rage from Harry after a few beats of silence.

What? He demands, half shifting out of his chair to a standing position. He immediately, silently chides himself for it, though. There’s naught he can do from here.

‘Umbridge,’ Harry replies, mental voice sliding into such a vicious hiss that it nearly sounds like parseltongue. ‘She’s started to carve into younger students. The twins have just told me of a third year that was subjected to her detentions,’ he says, voice heavily sneering at the last word.

Explain, he demands. He may not care about much, even with the majority of his soul back firmly in his body once more, but Hogwarts will always be special to him. That much held true even when he was a maniacal snake-faced monster. If this witch was violating the sanctity of her halls...

‘Her favoured choice of punishment is writing lines. However, the tool is nothing so banal. I assume she got her hands on a blood quill in line with her other dirty dealings,’ Harry says.

His tone is returning to normal, but Voldemort can still feel the roiling emotion bleeding through until that, too, ceases.

There are many things that he could do about this, but currently, Hogwarts was not a place that he could deal with directly. That is, without losses too great to be worth it.

But, there was someone who could intervene.

So, he swallows his pride-- for the sake of Hogwarts-- and asks, What will you do about it?

He gets no reply for about a minute.

Then: ‘I don’t know.’

The words are said quietly, and Voldemort can feel the discord running beneath the surface.

‘On one hand, it would be helpful for me in some ways. She won’t be scrutinising me. She'll be predictable. On the other hand, Dumbledore isn’t doing sh*te to help his students and the younger years will be badly affected. The upper years are naturally able to resist the quills’ magic more, but leaving them on their own to deal with it will be detrimental to my image with them, more so than the damage that’s already been done.’

A sigh.

‘Besides, Dumbledore thinks I’m under his damned web. If I don’t do anything, it’ll look suspicious.’

A cup of tea pops into existence on his bedside table, and Voldemort’s eyebrow ticks up almost against his will.

He beckons it over with a twitch of his finger and a small exertion of will, allowing the delicate floral aroma to fill his nose.

Chamomile.

Are his elves telling him to go to sleep?

How amusing. He had not yet had the experience of being mother-henned by his elves in the way that his oldest friends had nearly lamented about.

He sips it with a bemused expression, feeling particularly indulgent towards the little creatures, as he waits for Harry to continue.

So, what will you do? He asks again, prompting him as the silence stretches on.

‘The neatest solution…’ Harry hums. ‘If I was able to take the quills out of her reach somehow, and leave her to do more normal detentions… she can’t easily replace them and she might slip up. Leave her to fall on her own.’

So you are planning on stealing them, Voldemort says neutrally. Surely he can see the one issue with this?

‘I could, but then she would know someone was working against her to such a degree, causing worse reactions,’ Harry says, groaning slightly. ‘And there aren’t many who would be able to get into her rooms. Although…’

What?

A blush of excitement colours Harry's tone. ‘If I could set it up so that it looks like Dumbledore broke into her rooms and stole her things--’ He clicks his tongue, cutting himself off. ‘No, that wouldn’t work. Too much could go wrong, and Dumbledore... I’m getting ahead of myself.’

A thought for another time, perhaps, Voldemort says. Pitting the two against each other would be a masterful move if done correctly.

Harry voices his agreement with a muffled hum.

‘I’ll figure something out,’ he says finally.

Voldemort gazes into his cup of tea as he feels Harry start to disconnect from the link.

Good night, he says suddenly, startling himself.

‘Good night, Tom,’ comes Harry’s faint reply.

He stares down into the light amber of the tea like it holds the secrets to his irrational behaviour.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said,” Harry repeats, “I need to make fake blood quills.”

Bliase shakes his head. “No, I heard you. I heard you just fine. It was more along the lines of what the f*ck rather than what did you just say. You come back from some secret rendezvous with the two redheaded menaces and start spouting off about trying to recreate very dangerous artefacts. So I repeat: what the f*ck?”

Tracey snorts from over on the couch.

“Umbridge isn’t going to stop on her own,” Harry starts.

“And you need to deal with it?” Theo asks from beside them, sitting on his own chair, eyebrow ticking up. “So not everything about the Golden Boy was an act, then.”

A flash of agitation runs through Harry, but doesn’t allow any of it to show on his face.

“Oh, no,” he says sweetly, an angelic smile spreading across his face. “Not at all. I’m absolutely Dumbledore’s precious little lamb that can’t bear to see any evil. I’ve just been biding my time in the snake pit so I can turn you aaaaall in for being meanies and go cavorting into the Light where I belong.”

Theo’s face twists. “Ugh. Forget I said anything. That’s terrible. Stop.”

“Hear hear,” Tracy mutters, grimacing. Daphne bobs her head in agreement, making faint, mocking retching sounds.

Blaise laughs as Harry just clasps his hands under his chin and flutters his eyelashes, causing their protests to redouble. “You asked for it, amici miei .”

Harry sighs, good humour draining out of him as he drops his hands. “She went after the third years today. That’s what Fred and George had to tell me. I doubt she’ll stop there.”

Theo hisses sympathetically. “They’re barely thirteen, maybe fourteen. For blood quills to be mixing with their magic that early…”

Harry nods.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Tracey speaks up. “I know blood quills are usually used at Gringotts to sign contracts and other things, but why is it bad that younger wix use them?”

“Blood quills have their own magic,” Theo says. “That much might not be bad on it’s own, but the fact that they’re writing in their own blood is what makes the situation terrible.”

“Blood is pretty much the most important and most powerful thing in the wizarding world.” Daphne picks the thread up next.

As expected of her.

“Blood contains power and history,” she continues. “Family magic is one example. There’s pretty much no other way that it’s transferred. Even in cases of adoption, it’s only in blood adoption that can transfer the status of the family to the new child.”

…he might have something to ask Sirius about in the future, he thinks, filing that information away.

“Blood quills are used for binding agreements,” Harry says next. “Only part of it is because of the quills themselves. A larger and much weightier part is the fact that they're using blood itself. And the type of sh*te that Umbridge is making them write is under that binding agreement purview. Add in the inherent magic of the quills themselves, since they’re artefacts, and you’ve got an untenable situation when used for a prolonged time.”

“And you want to make your own,” Blaise says, shaking his head. “Well, if we didn’t already know you were ambitious before…”

“I doubt any of us can help with that, though,” Theo says, frowning. “Outside of the theory behind it, I mean.”

“That’s enough,” Harry replies. “Send anything you can find to the twins.”

Harry lifts the pendant of his necklace out of his shirt before pressing the tip of his wand to it. True, the ones most likely to be able to help with this borderline-ridiculous request of his would be them.

[Demons,] he writes, directing the message towards the twins. [Up for a new challenge?]

It’s only the next day that it finally happens. He exits the Slytherin common room with the Cloak pulled tight around him.

[Hermione is asking for you.] the message from Neville had read. [I said I could try and get you from the dorms.]

[Currently on the first level of the dungeons by the kitchens.] is the next message, just barest seconds later. Working with the space constraints for the messages made them get interesting with the wordings and such. Neville was more disposed towards proper sentences, but broken up into chunks.

[Why?] Harry’d sent back.

[She got a detention with Umbridge.]

And then it had been with a muffled curse that he got up off his arse and from under his perfectly comfortable blanket to abandon his after-dinner snack and his homework to retrieve the Cloak.

He meets up with Nev at the kitchens, wordlessly swinging the Cloak over his head.

“She had something to ask you,” Neville whispers to him as they walk, barely audible, the other boy having to duck down to come to Harry’s level. “I don’t know what it is.”

“Alright,” Harry whispers back. “It’s fine.”

Instead of going to the Gryffindor common room, Neville leads him to an unused classroom a short distance away from it.

Inside is Hermione.

She looks up when they enter, even if the only thing she’s able to see is the opening of the door, and he can see her eyes are full of tears. Her cheeks, though, are dry.

If only she hadn’t chosen Dumbledore, Harry thinks, suppressing a sigh.

“Hermione!” Harry whips the Cloak off of himself and moves to her side. “Are you alright?”

She nods shakily. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

She looks down at her hand and Harry’s gaze follows, alighting on the red, still slightly oozing cuts she received from the blood quill.

I will not tell lies.

“I’ve already put murtlap solution and essence of dittany on it after I cleaned it. The murtlap solution reduced the pain and the essence of dittany is helping heal it,” she says to him like she’s lecturing from a textbook.

Harry nods. “That’s good,” he says lamely.

“At least it’s on my left hand,” she says after a few beats of silence, a self-deprecating chuckle slipping out. “If it was my right…” she trails off.

…why did she have to choose Dumbledore?

When she wasn’t being an arsehole know-it-all, Hermione was actually pretty alright. And now, seeing her like this…

“Why did she give you a detention?”Harry asks, tearing his thoughts away from the unnecessary nonsense clogging up his mind.

Hermione shakes her head. “I may have gotten fed up with her nonsense… and, erm, asked what we would do if we saw Voldemort in front of us…”

Harry winces. She hadn’t even called Tom ‘You-Know-Who’ in front of her? That would do it, potential reaction of the Dagworth-Grangers be damned.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shakes her head immediately, but then bites her lip a second later, gaze still cast down at her.

“There is… one thing. I know you’re having a hard time right now, with everything, but… we’re not going to be ready for anything.” She raises her eyes, her gaze spearing right through Harry. “We need a way to get ready to fight-- a proper teacher, so we can learn Defence on our own.”

A slight foreboding feeling starts to rise in Harry’s gut.

Don’t tell me…

“We should just do it ourselves,” she says decisively.

“Hermione…” he tries to keep the warning tone out of his voice and mostly succeeds. He just sounds a little cautious. “What do you mean? Find a teacher ourselves? Like Remus?”

She smiles slightly at that, but shakes her head. “No. Harry, you’ve done so many incredible things over the years. I’m talking about you . You could teach us.”

“You’re joking,” Harry says, tamping his desperation far, far down and only showing a light tone, half grinning like she’s telling him a funny joke. “Right? Me, a teacher?”

He catches Neville pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle laughter out of the corner of his eye, likely remembering last night’s lessons. Thankfully, he’s not in Hermione’s sight.

She shakes her head and he forges on. He’d very much like to get her to drop this. “You’d be better at it, Hermione. I’m sh*te at classes.” He’s grinning properly now, shaking his head slightly. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Harry, you’re the best in our year at Defence Against the Dark Arts-- maybe even better than the upper years.”

Well, he can give her one thing-- she’s steadfast.

Hell.

“Tests don’t matter!” She says. She reaches a hand out to him, but winces and pulls it back.

Hell, he repeats with more feeling.

“Harry, you’ve got to look at what you’ve done! First year: you saved the Stone. Second year: the Chamber. Third year: hundreds of dementors. And I don’t have to remind you about fourth year.”

Right, the revival of Voldemort-- of Tom, the blessing in the disguise of the devil.

Harry grits his teeth. She’s really not going to drop it, is she?

The damned S.P.E.W. sh*te should’ve made me realise far earlier, huh.

“I-- can’t,” he says, his last ditch effort. “I mean, everyone thinks I’m a nutter and all, and--”

She lays a hand over his-- her right hand, the one without the deep blood quill wounds-- where it rests on his thigh, clenched into a fist.

“Just think about it, please,” she asks softly. “It-- you don’t have to give me your answer now, but… please. Just think about it.”

…why did she have to pick Dumbledore?

He’d thought, once upon a time, that she was his first real friend. Now…

Harry deliberately relaxes his body, first unclenching his jaw and then letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders so that he slumps slightly.

“...I’ll think about it,” he says.

She smiles faintly at him before patting his hand once and withdrawing. “Thank you. Now, you should probably get back to your dorms before Professor Snape catches you out of them.”

Harry groans, standing up. “Yeah.”

Chapter 18: The Autumnal Equinox

Chapter Text

“...so, she basically wants what we have,” Blaise sums up. A smirk cracks across his face. “How lazy. Can’t she just do it herself? Sure, you might have experience, but she has eyes and free time. And besides, isn't she supposedly even more of a bookworm than our dear Theo? She can research just as well as him, at least.”

Harry snorts, flicking his wand over the ground. Cushioning charms are up. We'll definitely need them today.

“Pretty much,” Harry replies. “Although, I can’t help but wonder-- even if it sounds too paranoid-- that Dumbledore is behind it somehow.”

He turns his attention to the room. “Alright, you can start now. Attempt to defend from your partner’s stunners and then switch. Let them get their shield charms up first, though. We can focus on speed later.”

With that, flickers of bluish-white light start to form throughout the room, followed shortly by bursts of red light.

Blaise hums. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. But explain your reasoning, at least. Maybe I can help confirm or deny some of your theories.”

“I’m not spending a whole lot of time with his chosen pawns anymore,” Harry says, watching the rest of them pair up as normal. “And besides, he needs his figurehead in tip-top shape.”

“That makes sense. Too much, actually, so much so that it would be suspicious. Are you sure it isn’t just Granger’s obsessive need to be the best leading her to leech off of you?”

Harry laughs, lips twisting into a wry smile. “She did try to lean on the ‘you’re better in Defence than I am’ angle quite a bit.”

In the end, though, it didn’t really matter much. Even if it was originally Hermione’s idea, Dumbledore would know eventually. He’d most likely jump at the idea after she told him. It would look strange if Dumbledore’s Golden Boy didn’t want to help out.

Bugger, he really didn’t want to do it.

They deserve nothing from him, and besides, he’s too busy already.

And it’s OWLs year too.

Harry winces as he sees Luna nail Daphne with a stunner right in the chest, smashing through her shield charm, sending the blonde tumbling to the ground.

Yeah, cushioning charms were a must…

“She’s really got an arm on her, huh?” Blaise asks rhetorically with a grin, tracking Harry’s eyes over to the pair of girls.

“Don’t even think about it, Casanova.”

Blaise barks out a laugh, watching Luna wrap an arm around Daphne's shoulders and touch her wand to her breastbone to cast a revennerate . “Nah. I know Daph well enough to know she’s called bagsy, even if she doesn’t say it.”

Harry’s eyebrow flies up of its own accord, the surprise of the statement overriding his light control of himself in the otherwise relaxed situation.

Blaise glances over to him, noting his surprise and silence. “She basically tossed Tracey over to Theo so she could pair with her. You didn’t see, earlier?”

Harry just shrugs. He’s usually so good at… well, people. Understanding them and their motives. He did see that Daphne hadn’t paired with Tracey like usual, but he didn’t think that there was any kind of deeper meaning to it.

“Ooo,” Blaise grins. “Something that us mere mortals can claim to be better than the great Harry Potter at: real human emotion!”

Harry’s quiet for a beat, then two, and then he calls out to the Chamber with a smile: “Alright, everyone! Gather up!”

And it’s at that moment that Blaise visibly remembers what his role is right now: practice dummy for stunner day.

“Aw, hell. ”

Harry just smiles at him, slow and curling.

Hermione doesn’t bother him all the rest of the week about her idea for a Defence class, even if she is progressively quieter and quieter at mealtimes, fresh bandages around her hand every morning.

He sees her glancing at the backs of his hands every morning, as if she’s checking and double checking that he hadn’t suffered the same fate as her.

He wonders if she fancies herself a martyr.

But, he puts the thought of her out of his mind, instead focusing on the bigger issue with this week: Saturday is the Equinox.

The Autumnal Equinox, also known as Mabon or Mea’n Fo’mhair or plenty of other names in plenty of other cultures, was one of the holidays of the old wixen world. The word Mabon was a more modern invention… respectively, of course, since it gained prominence around the turn of the 19th century. Plenty of groups had-- and have-- similar holidays. Japanese wix, for example, still celebrate Higan-e right along with the muggles in their country; Greek wix hold a send off for Persephone as she returns to her husband in the Underworld.

It is one of the balanced holidays, with the Spring Equinox, or Ostara, being the other. It’s on those days that the dawn and dusk had roughly the same times, making each day and night more or less equal. Ostara was seen as marginally more acceptable among wix today in the British Isles, though, because it oversaw the coming of the lighter half of the year as opposed to Mabon which ushered in the dark, cold months of winter.

Wix divesting themselves of the old holidays had started before Dumbledore’s time-- mostly due to Christian influence in the British Isles after Roman invasion and the proliferation of their religion over the ‘pagans and heathens’ of the area-- but it had certainly picked up speed after his rise to power.

The myriad religions behind the holidays was another matter. A fair amount of wix didn’t particularly worship any gods, instead preferring to give their thanks simply to Lady Magic. It was easy to hide any daily veneration of ‘forbidden, pagan gods’ if it didn’t happen. The holidays were partially only holidays because of the fluctuations of nature’s inherent magic.

But those, too, eventually were under attack. It hadn’t been until the early 1900s that the legislation passed in the Wizengamot had forbidden most rituals, including those that the practice of the old religion depended on, really started to squash practitioners. The holidays, instead of venerating any gods, were mostly for connecting with the land and such, which required a ritual.

Officially, the legislation was raised and passed because rituals had a propensity towards being used in Dark magic… which aligned with the political geography of the time, considering Grindelwald was active, spreading death and destruction.

Which really was a whole other mess of prejudice, but Harry didn’t want to get into the rest of that right now.

He shuts the book, which, while interesting, told him exactly nothing about the rituals themselves.

Which he really, really needs because Mabon is tomorrow and he has no idea what he's doing.

He sends the book to a table by the door to the library with a small push of magic, getting it out of his way and in prime position to be sorted back into the stacks in the future.

Harry opens the next book that Salazar had pointed him towards and starts reading.

In his previous year after he’d learned what the Equinox was, he had kept an eye on what the other Gryffindors had served themselves at suppertime on the day of. It never really had changed from their day to day fare, despite the changing menu as summer truly ended and fall began. The menu had been the same ever since Lady Hufflepuff had created it back during the school’s founding, so it wasn’t too surprising that it reflected the past traditions.

It’s definitely different for the Slytherins, though, he thinks.

Harry watches as they serve themselves generous helpings of squash and different root vegetables to go with their smaller selection of meats.

Harry does much the same, albeit on a smaller scale since he’s still working up to a normal portion size.

He does note with some satisfaction, though, that his plate is more full than the first day. Snape’s nutrition potions were definitely working, as was his regular exercise down in the Chamber.

He’d be able to see how much his magic had grown as well tonight.

Harry’s time with the first years tonight is short, and they take the role of the storyteller for the night.

Finley in particular ends up telling most of the tale, their rendition of Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump from The Tales of Beedle the Bard interesting. It’s definitely a fable for young children, that much is clear, even though most of its message boils down to ‘muggles are dangerous stupid and wix are good and should be clever.’

He leaves them with a promise that he’ll tell the story next time, but also promising that he’ll continue to listen to their stories as well. Maybe he can even get them to tell most of the stories so he won't have to increasingly make up more and more fake Star Wars plots to satisfy their appetites for the "space magic story."

Wouldn't that be a boon?

It’s not like Neville had never celebrated a cyclical holiday in his life.

He has fond memories of celebrating Ostara and Beltane with some of his cousins as well as his Gran and Uncle Archie when he was younger, but that had mostly stopped around the time he turned five or six.

He knew why, of course: everyone had thought he was a squib.

Neville looks over the rest of the people with him. He would have never in a million years have thought that he would have sworn himself to anyone as their vassal, even less Harry Potter. It was almost like living in a fantasy world.

They all move under the cover of darkness. There’s no moon overhead, just one day off of it being a true new moon, and all that’s providing light is the castle behind them and the stars overhead.

He can hear his own breaths and the faint rolling splash of small waves on the rocks from the lake, the sound of their footsteps completely absent because of a silencing charm.

A small hand wraps around his elbow and he looks to the side to see Luna. Her form shimmers slightly from the modified disillusionment charm that Harry’d cast. He smiles and crooks his arm slightly, letting her get a better grip as he starts to lead her. He’s slightly confused by it for sure, but he doesn’t question it.

Harry’s leading the group, obviously, and Neville’s a little amazed to see that he doesn’t even slow in the slightest when he gets to the forest’s boundary.

He speaks when everyone’s under the cover of the trees.

“We’re not going too far in,” Harry tells them, turning to look at them with a sardonic smile. “I know it’s dangers very well.”

As far as Neville knows, Harry’d only come in here once during his first year. He remembers him and Ron complaining about the detention they were assigned.

He can’t help but shiver as his surroundings get darker as they go deeper into the trees.

Luna pats his arm, but doesn’t say anything. It’s more comforting than words would be, honestly. He’s heard a lot of empty platitudes over his life about how he’ll be protected. He relaxes further when Harry sends out a small ball of light from his wand to hang over the path ahead of them as they walk.

Neville Longbottom, only good for carrying the Longbottom name on and not even that sometimes, he thinks, barely suppressing a snort.

He feels another tap on his arm and he looks down to see Luna offering him an apple, bright red with a green stem and leaf still attached like it was just freshly picked.

He blinks, and then blinks again as he uses his free hand to pat his pockets.

…oops.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the apple with a sheepish smile.

“Of course,” she replies with a smile. “I picked up an extra because I had a feeling.”

Of course, he knows what those ‘feelings’ she has all the time now are for real: the Sight. Not like Trelawney’s-- although, Harry said that she did make a True Prophecy once. It was real Sight.

Everyone around me is really amazing.

The rest of the group was made up of the Weasley twins (who, unlike their reputation, were scarily smart and genius inventors) as well as a bunch of young Slytherin Heirs. He didn’t put a lot of stock in everything his Gran said, but even he knew that they would have some serious power in their world once they grew up. And besides that, they were already magically strong.

And physically, he thinks, looking at Theodore, remembering the one day that he brought his knife that he somehow had out at Harry’s behest. Oh, wait. Theo, right.

Oh, and the fact that he’s on a first name basis with all of them .

He’s taken out of his thoughts by the way everyone in front of him stops. He holds his breath, moving his hand to Luna’s on his arm. They’re not at the clearing that Luna had told Harry about yet. Why are they stopping?

His heart pounds in his chest as he catches the sound of clopping hooves.

Centaurs.

But, as the light catches the approaching figure, he can see that it’s thankfully only one centaur.

“Hail, son of Mars,” the centaur says, coming to a stop a little ways in front of Harry. “It was foretold that we would meet again, but I was not expecting it to be quite so soon.”

“Firenze,” Harry greets, bringing his arm up and putting his closed fist against his heart before bowing his head slightly. “Well met. We’re simply passing through to the thestral’s clearing for tonight’s ritual.”

Neville’s slightly amazed that he knows the centaur by name, and even more so that the centaur seems to know him.

The centaur Firenze smiles down at Harry, returning the gesture with his arm. “I see. It’s been a long while since any of your kind has honoured the turning of the year in this forest. Travel safely, tread lightly. May the stars light your path.”

Harry bows his head once more before letting his arm drop as Firenze canters away.

“Ominous as usual,” Harry mutters. Neville just barely catches it as they start to walk again, the group drawing up tighter behind him. Neville is just to his right, now. “At least it wasn’t Bane.”

“Bane?” He asks.

Harry nods. “That’s the crazier bastard. He really dislikes humans.”

Neville thinks back to the bow and quiver that was slung over Frienze’s back and silently agrees.

It’s not too long until the reach the clearing. Neville can see the thestrals at the far side, and while a few of the adults near the foals raise their heads, none really move from where they’re lying.

Luna’s hand slips from his arm and she skips, almost, over to the herd.

Harry moves more leisurely to the centre of the clearing, sending the ball of light to float high overhead. More smaller balls of light float up to join it, bathing the clearing in a soft, glowing light, just enough to see by. It looks like fairies flying through the air.

Larger logs, all covered with detritus, come zooming into the clearing under what’s most likely Harry’s silent, wandless summoning charm. The logs stack themselves in a neat pile a small distance away from Harry before he points his wand at it and murmurs a fire charm. Instantly, it alights, giving the clearing an even brighter glow.

Everyone falls into a rough circle at each of Harry’s sides. Neville ends up directly at his right side for some reason, Luna standing beside him. Daphne claims the spot next to her with Tracey after her. The twins bracket Millicent after that, and then the circle comes around and ends with Theo and then Blaise on Harry’s left side.

There’s a casual feeling to everything, more than he’d have thought. Everyone is standing close to one another, but not uncomfortably so. It feels more companionable than anything, especially as they all sit down on the ground around a little ways away from the fire, just far enough not to get burnt.

Harry sits up straighter, and the hairs on Neville’s arms stand up.

He knows he doesn’t have the greatest magic sensing abilities-- or any at all, really-- but he instinctively knows that his body is picking up on Harry’s magic. The fact is only solidified when the Mark over his breast warms slightly, just enough so that it’s like picking up a warm mug and not at all approaching painful.

The balls of light floating in the air start to vibrate gently before they bob outwards from the original, largest light, forming a circle over their heads, the boundary line just behind their backs.

“A circle has no beginning and no end,” Harry starts, the words familiar. His voice holds more gravitas than usual, and Neville can feel himself almost perking up like a cut plant in water. “Tonight, we call upon nature’s elements to watch over our circle as we honour the turning of the earth in its cycle under Lady Magic’s watchful gaze.”

From here on out, though everything would be unfamiliar to Neville, even if he had gone over it prior.

He shifts the apple in his grip, and Neville copies him. He can see the others do so as well out of the corner of his eye.

“On this day, the seasons shift. Gone will be the rich summer and in will come the ripened fall. With this turning of the earth, we realise what needs to be done.”

Harry grasps the apple’s leaf and tugs it off the stem.

“As we go into the darkening months ahead, we must leave unnecessary burdens behind to focus on gathering strength to face the coming darkest times.”

Neville swallows. He knows that the words were created in the past, mostly when they had to focus more on the survival side of things even with the aid of magic, but the fact that it matched up with their situation so perfectly…

He puts the thought out of his mind to instead focus on the leaf in his hand. They were supposed to push their magic into it just slightly as they focused their minds on the burden that they wished to ‘remove.’ Of course, that part was symbolic and only good for each individual person-- they would reflect, and then move to better themselves in the future. The actual tangible effect would be casting the magic-soaked leaf into the blaze, involving fire and air.

His burdens…

Really, the only thing that came to mind was the fact that he was weaker than the rest of the group. Harry believed that he would magically- heh -- get better once they got a new wand for him, but Neville couldn’t help but think that it might not be the case. If it was just an issue with his wand, why wouldn’t he show magic earlier in his life? Why would it take a life threatening situation to draw it out?

But he won’t be weak forever. No, he can’t . Harry has an inordinate amount of trust in him and he needs to answer that call.

Even if changing his wand didn’t work, he’d get stronger.

He clenches the leaf in his hand, pressing outward into it with all his strength.

Harry shifts beside him, swaying away from him a little, before he picks up the thread of the ritual again.

“We have what we need to release. Let the fire burn the leaves and the wind carry the ashes away.”

They all toss their leaves into the fire and--

The hairs on the back of Neville’s neck stand up even as Harry lets out a small sigh beside him. The magic in the air around them was so thick for a moment that he could almost feel it caress his arms and cheeks as it dissipated.

“The end of the summer also means the start of the harvest. In some cases, the fruits of our labours have started to show.”

Neville’s fingers tighten around the apple in his hand.

“We give thanks for what nature has provided us.”

Each of their apples split into four perfect sections at the twitch of Harry’s wand.

“With each seed in the apple, we find a strength already in us or one that we will cultivate in the future.”

Neville starts to dig out the pips in the apple, his fingers expertly probing the stiff inner core-- the endocarp, his brain spits out readily-- without too much difficulty, even if it was slippery with the apple’s juices.

…his strengths. He already knows that he needs to get stronger, but does he have any redeeming qualities now?

Yes, he thinks fiercely, even as he presses his magic into the flesh of the apple just like he did with the leaf. There would be no reason for Harry to take him on otherwise, right?

He did say that he wanted Neville by his side because they were friends, but he refused to be deadweight.

…herbology, he thinks. Harry’d complimented his skills in herbology plenty of times now. And herbology knowledge was useful in plenty of other disciplines as well, like potions.

He’s physically strong, to an extent. Hard labour under the Master Herbologists at the Longbottom holdings in Whinsmann, a completely magical town in Australia, had given him some muscles over the summer holiday.

He needs to become more skilled outside of just casting, he thinks as he pries the last pip out of the core.

“We take the seeds that will sprout in due time and one half of the apple for the future, but return the rest of the fruit to the earth in thanks and to return the energy to the cycle.”

An aguamenti shoots from the tip of Harry’s wand to a spot just in front of the fire, soaking the earth to make it easier to dig and involving water in one move.

Harry stands and approaches the wet patch and the fire before turning the dirt up with his wand, not even murmuring a spell as he just flicks his wand. He drops in his apple pieces first, before turning to Blaise. As Blaise gets up, Harry walks back to his spot and sits down.

One after another, everyone gets up in that same clockwise order to drop their apple pieces into the hole.

Finally, Neville gets up and drops his own remaining pieces in.

He turns back to his seat and Harry rises once more to close out the process.

“With this offering, we give thanks to nature and to Lady Magic.”

He returns the dirt over the apple slices with a flick of his wand. As he reaches down to firmly pat the earth flat with his hand, a second wave of magic issues out from the area, sending another wave of shivers down Neville’s spine.

Harry walks back to his seat and sits before closing out the ritual circle.

Neville can’t help but to admit to himself that he really does feel… different. Like he’s more aware of magic, at the very least. The feeling of it almost seemed to linger on his skin, and the memory of it was etched into his mind.

The other things on that list, though, would be his sincere and firm resolutions to make up for his weaknesses and get stronger.

He thinks over it again as they sit there for a while longer, watching the fire die down.

I won’t be dead weight.

Chapter 19: Highwire

Chapter Text

The energy from the ritual buoys him through the beginning of the week. He’s more alert than normal even with roughly the same amount of sleep and he eats a larger portion at mealtimes. His magic comes more easily and his wandless casting is more natural and flowing, some of the usual strain that comes with it either unnoticeable or completely absent. Emotionally, too, he’s more even-keeled. It also takes less energy to wrestle down his emotions with his occlumency whenever something annoying or irritating happens, which happens often.

(If Hermione mournfully stares at his hand during breakfast one more time he’s going to glamour it to look just like her hand. Bloody hell , doesn’t she have a hobby that’s not making sad moon eyes at him?)

So he’s able to quite easily stuff everything down when Umbridge summons him to her office on Thursday after classes.

[Any update on the quills?] He asks the twins before he leaves the common room.

[It’s pretty tricky], one of them starts.

[Not enough to function.] The second message comes quickly after the first one.

[But soon, we think.]

[No rush,] Harry sends back. [Umbridge called for me, so I thought of it.]

The necklace warms again a few paces outside of the common room, and he pulls it out to read [ Holler if you need an extraction! ] with a little smiley face [☺] at the end.

Harry smiles at the sight.

It’s after dinner but before curfew, so he’s not surprised that it’s dark by the time he comes out of the dungeons.

It’s also near enough to curfew that he’s not surprised by Snape striding down the hall, face instantly creasing into a frown when he sees Harry.

“Potter,” he starts, and Harry can’t tell this time if the terseness in his voice is real or faked. Harry cuts in quickly before he can test that theory.

“Umbridge summoned me to her office,” Harry says, composing himself appropriately for any potential onlookers. It’s not an unfounded worry, because only seconds after he slumps down and scowls up at Snape, a pair of Ravenclaws round the corner, likely coming up from a last minute study group in one of the abandoned rooms in the dungeons, the swots.

Snape looks down his nose at him, but his eyes tighten slightly. In… worry? “See to it that you return before curfew, or else you’ll have another detention.”

Oh, perfect.

He hears a twin pair of gasps from the Ravenclaws who promptly bolt off when Snape turns his scowl on them.

“Alright,” Harry answers mulishly.

Snape gives him one last look-over, sneering all the while of course, before sweeping past him to the stairs, leaving his path free again.

Word always spreads fast at Hogwarts, and the closer he gets to the Defence offices, the more people stare at him with varying tints of emotion, all the way from pity to something that’s almost excitement, which… eurgh.

His reputation’s really in the toilet, isn’t it? It wasn’t this bad even in his second year when everyone thought that he was the one controlling some unknown monster with the intent to petrify and kill everyone else in the school.

It’s quite the extreme difference.

He raises his hand and knocks on Umbridge’s door.

It would almost be funny, the difference, except for the fact that he has to live it.

‘Harry. Are you alright?’ Tom’s voice suddenly issues from the back of his mind.

Harry’s expression twists into a frown, because why in Merlin’s name does he sound like he’s about to kill something or, perhaps, someone?

Unfortunately for him, that’s the exact second the door swings open.

Umbridge takes one look at his face and her expression softens.

Why wouldn’t I be? Harry replies, slightly baffled.

“Oh, don’t worry one bit,” she says, hand reaching out to clasp around his wrist and draw him into the office (which he instantly does not like in the least, but tolerates it) before shutting the door behind him. “You’re not in any trouble at all!”

Harry lets his frown melt into a relieved expression, letting a sigh escape. “I’m sorry,” he hastens to say. What does he even want to look like at this point? Ah, yes. “I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t help but worry.”

‘I see,’ Tom replies, now sounding faintly amused. ‘You have her hook, line, and sinker, do you not?’ He says it like it’s a foregone conclusion.

Establishing that I trust her implicitly, but I’m not a secure enough person to be on my own, he says somewhat smugly back in lieu of a proper answer. Indeed I do.

One of his worries going into this had been that sometimes mind games just wouldn’t work at all with someone, especially if they were too thick to understand or just unobservant enough to miss the nuance behind things that were said.

It had been a legitimate potential issue, because as he had said and thought several times before, Umbridge was hardly a good representation of a Slytherin.

Thankfully, though, she seems to pick up on most of what he says.

The better question, though, is why you would think that I wasn’t, Harry thinks back.

“Of course,” she all but purrs, which is weird and gross “Everything is completely fine. Come, come, sit,” she says, bustling behind her desk.

The cats in the picture plates on the walls follow him with their eyes as he does as he’s bid, dragging the chair just a tad away from the table. Hopefully, it’s not noticeable.

‘Severus contacted me and reported that you were serving detention with her,’ Tom says, tone bending disdainfully over the last word even as it overlaps just a tad with Umbridge starting to talk.

Harry enthusiastically agrees with that sentiment.

“I just wanted to have a little chat, catch up a little,” she smiles at him, beckoning a tea set over with a short gesture of her wand. “It’s almost October, after all, and we’ve only talked once.”

Gods, what a thinly veiled ploy to pump me for more information, he thinks derisively to Tom. The only way she could get more transparent is if she just up and said ‘spill everything you know.’

‘Indeed,’ he agrees. ‘I can plainly see that you are not, in fact, serving a detention.’

She pours him a cup of tea before sliding over the rest of the service for him to use.

I’m not, he agrees. I may have let Snape believe that so he could spread the appropriate rumours.

‘I see,’ Tom says again, approvingly. ‘I will disabuse him of the notion, then. Best of luck.’

Harry drops a sugar cube and a splash of cream into his tea, stirring it idly as he chats back to Tom.

Harry mentally groans. You’re going to leave me to her mindless drivel and inelegant interrogation all by my lonesome?

There’s no reply.

Bastard.

Umbridge waits for him to take a sip before she starts talking again.

“How have your classes been? As the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, I simply must ask, you understand.”

They chatter about useless things like how his classes are going and if there’s anyone who’s bothering him and other such tosh like that for a good quarter and a half of an hour.

It’s finally after all that, segueing in, that she finally gets to the meat of the conversation.

“Have any other staff members given you any trouble? The Headmaster, perhaps?”

He’ll give her props for her ability to masterfully steer a conversation. Or, at least, the tenacity to hold on through over an hour of small talk before moving in the direction she wanted. That much he can give her.

“Erm… no,” Harry answers, caution audibly colouring his tone. He takes a sip of his now-lukewarm tea. “Not… recently, at least.” She leans forward, interest clear in her eyes and expression, nonverbally urging him on. “It was shortly after term started. Headmaster Dumbledore called me up to his office and tried to get the Hat to resort me again,” Harry says, staring down into his cup. “He said that I shouldn’t be in Slytherin.”

“Really?” Umbridge asks, sounding interested. It’s the same tone that the ladies in Petunia’s book club would use when talking about interesting gossip, the half-scandalised, half-interested almost-gasp.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking up and forcing himself not to roll his eyes at her barely veiled voracious and delighted expression. She has the same expression as them, too, open to a fault, eyebrows raised, and mouth half-open yet covered by a hand. “He had all the Heads up there in his office, too, but the Sorting Hat just told him that I’d my one resort already and that I was stuck in Slytherin.”

Umbridge hums, summoning a piece of parchment and a quill with a flick of her wand and a quiet mutter of a charm before scrawling something down in a looping hand, her ink a lurid pink.

Does she turn those little notes into the Minister? He has to suppress a smile at the thought of those almost offensively pink notes going across the Minister’s desk with the rest of the official memos and such.

I wonder if they’re perfumed. Does she fancy Fudge? She’s already got the gossiping housewife act down pat.

He has to tamp down on a shudder that rises at that thought. That’s not something that he wants to be imagining in the slightest.

“He didn’t understand that you had already been resorted once already, as per the Hogwarts Charter?”

Ah. She’s looking for actionable information. Dumbledore so blatantly ‘forgetting’ such an integral part of the basis of the school would be good evidence in any proceeding to remove him from his position. It would either indicate a professional failing-- the Headmaster should know the Charter best, after all-- or a personal one.

If the latter was ascribed to the situation… Well, Rita would have a field day. He can just imagine the loud headlines: ‘Dumbledore going senile? How will Hogwarts fare? ’ Or, perhaps, 'Our children threatened! Dumbledore too old to remember basic information about Hogwarts?'

Harry nods. “Professor Flitwick even asked him that beforehand, and he just said something about it only applying to student-requested resorts, or something.” Harry shakes his head. “I can’t remember exactly what he said,” he says apologetically.

“It’s completely alright,” Umbridge smiles at him. “Don’t you worry about a thing!”

That seems to be her mantra to him at this point: don’t worry about a thing.

Harry wonders, briefly, if he was just a little bit more like his Golden Boy persona, if he would have fallen for it.

He has to say no, in all honesty, despite the ‘sad orphan’ part of his persona being quite heavily evident, because the ‘saviour of justice’ part was that much bigger and he would’ve already blown his top during classes.

“Speaking of the Headmaster,” she segues, “He actually asked me why you hadn’t gotten a detention from me already. How shameful,” she tuts. “He has no faith in you at all!”

Forming a worried frown isn’t all that hard to do, considering it’s quite close to what he actually feels right now.

Dumbledore actually did that? Harry would have thought that would be an overreach for him. Of course, he’d gone nearabout a month without detention under Umbridge. Of course he was getting suspicious. Still, to so clearly communicate one’s intent to the enemy…

Well, he was a Gryffindor, after all-- the house of brainless bravery and foot-in-mouth syndrome and all that. Honestly, he was somewhat surprised that Dumbledore was as good at his manoeuvres as he was, political or otherwise. Perhaps age imparting wisdom wasn’t just an empty saying after all.

…he was going to have to join Hermione’s little Defence club after all, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t be able to assuage the old coot’s suspicions elsewise. Brainless bravery, indeed.

Harry just bows his head, hoping the small lapse in conversation would go misattributed to his ‘shock’ over the statement.

“I get in trouble a lot,” Harry mumbles into his tea. “I’m not surprised that he would ask… even Hermione got detention, and she’s usually the best of all of us.”

A hand lands on his shoulder. “It still hurts, though, doesn’t it?” She asks softly, tone sympathetic-- knowing . “It hurts to have people assume the worst of you, especially those whom you used to look up to.”

Ironic, considering just who instituted a smear campaign against him in the national newspaper over the summer. And considering who exactly sent two dementors to Kiss him. Potentially, of course, but still.

He just lets his shoulders slump further, his spine curving as he draws into himself and nods slightly.

“It does,” he says softly. “Just like last year… I still don’t know who put my name in the Goblet. No one believed me, not even my best mate. He wants nothing to do with me now.”

She gives him another sympathetic pat.

It’s a lie, of course. That reminds him, he’d have to ask Tom if Barty was still kicking. He’d like to know if his effort to get the poor sod out of Hogwarts before Dumbledore could catch him was wasted or not.

“Well, I will always be on your side, Harry. If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to come find me.”

She’s about to let him leave when she calls.

“Oh, and would you mind terribly wrapping a bandage around your hand?” She asks him with that same sickly-sweet smile. “I saw you shaking a little when you were picking up your teacup, and the pressure should help with fatigued muscles.”

He smiles automatically, nodding his head, before heading out of the office.

Once he’s outside, he rubs his face tiredly.

That was, perhaps, the worst excuse I’ve ever heard in my entire life, and Vernon lied to my face for years about how his precious Dudders really needed that fifth serving.

She must really not believe he’s a Slytherin in the slightest, huh?

It’s just so glaringly obvious, gods.

The Ministry really is disgustingly incompetent if that is what passes for an elite. She’s the bleeding Undersecretary for the Minister. There’s, what, one other person that’s superior to her before you hit the Minister? She’s literally third in rank in the entire Ministry.

Now, that’s not to say that only Slytherins are good politicians. Far from it, in fact. However, Harry believes that high ranking Ministry officials should be someone with at least some intelligence.

We need a way to make Fudge look so ridiculously incompetent, he has no choice but to resign or risk getting thrown out on his arse by the whole of the Wizengamot.

Well, they have time yet.

Hogwarts is efficient at spreading rumours. Very efficient. By morning, everyone seems to know that Harry Potter has finally gotten detention with the infamous Umbridge.

The Slytherins snicker and whisper behind their hands as they should, despite having seen him testing glamour charms in the common room the night before to get the correct wetness and visceral look of a semi-fresh blood quill injury.

It’s refreshing not having to lead someone by the nose into doing what I want them to do.

They were more than capable of acting their part without much interference from him.

The necklaces were quite handy-- all it had taken was a short message to his non-dormmates and he could alleviate their fears without having to do much of anything.

Hermione drags him off for a walk about thirty minutes before breakfast ends to talk ‘in private,’ staring at his hand the entire time.

Once they’re out of earshot, she starts fretting almost immediately.

“Have you soaked your hand yet? I have extra murtlap in my bag, some essence of dittany too. Is it bad?”

Harry just gives her a lukewarm smile. “I’ve had worse. Don’t worry about me, Hermione. And yeah…”

He moves his ‘good hand’ up to the back of his head and rubs his neck sheepishly. “Blaise actually helped me out with it.”

“Blaise? Blaise Zabini?” She asks, concern clear in her voice. “Harry--”

“He’s neutral,” Harry protests. “I dunno if I can trust him like I do you, yet, but he’s been pretty clear with me that he’s no supporter of Voldemort. I at least trust him to, y’know, not hex me whilst I’m asleep.”

She hesitates, but nods. “If you say so, Harry…”

Umbridge holds him back for a few minutes after class that day.

“Keep the bandage on for a few days,” she says with a smile. “It might not be your dominant hand, but muscle fatigue is nothing to trifle with.”

Kill me.

Unfortunately, his free periods on Friday coincide with Hermione’s, so he’s doomed to the library with her, revising and re-revising subjects he already knows as per the schedule that she drew up at the beginning of the year.

At least he won’t have to bullsh*t his way out of explaining any better OWLs grades than expected.

Snape just gives him an arched eyebrow and a derisive sniff in Potions, but Harry’s able to ignore it both literally and figuratively. Literally, as he knows that it’s all fake, and figuratively, because he’s now a Slytherin and wouldn’t outright badmouth his House’s Head in public to his face. It’s a win-win, really.

“The Hogsmeade outing is in two days,” Harry says quietly to Neville as he leans over to stir the potion. “I’m going to talk to McGonagall today. Are you still up for this? I know it’s important to you-- your dad’s wand. But…” he wipes the stirring rod clean on a clean rag as he sits back, turning his gaze to Neville. “I really think it would help.”

Neville gives him a soft but wry smile. “Like I said before, Harry, I trust you. My dad’s wand is important to me, but…”

He trails off in the same way that Harry did before letting out a small sigh.

“I trust you,” he repeats. “It’s not like I’m completely discarding dad’s wand. I’ll still have it. It’s just not right for me. It’s not my wand.”

Harry smiles. “I’ll go right after class ends.”

He pulls out the map on the way to her office just to confirm that she’s still inside and not gone to dinner already before tucking it away and applying a notice-me-not to the bandage on his hand.

He’d prefer not to have any unnecessary chatter about it. He needs Umbridge around for a while longer.

Harry knocks on the door, and it doesn’t take long at all for it to swing open of its own accord, inviting him in.

It’s not the first time that he’s been in this office, but it has been a while. A little less than a year?

A fine record indeed if he went by the frequency at which he’d been sent to the Head’s office in primary.

“Potter,” McGonagall greets warmly but curtly. “Come in and have a seat.”

He does so and is about to open his mouth to ask his question when McGonagall starts to talk.

“I figured that you’d come sooner or later. Have a biscuit, Potter.”

“Have a-- excuse me?” Figured I’d come sooner or later?

“A biscuit.” She nudges forward the tartan tin that’s sitting on the edge of the desk, just to the side of the stack of parchment that she was most likely marking before he came in.

He selects one for himself and palms one for later, sitting back to bite into it. Ginger Newts were scarce at the Hogwarts dining table.

“Potter, listen to me.” The warmth in her tone was still there, but changed. Her voice was more strident-- low and anxious, trying to reinforce the idea that he should most definitely listen to him. “You need to be careful in Dolores Umbridge’s class.”

“Professor--” he starts to protest, but is cut off.

“I know you were assigned detention last night. For, what was it, talking back and speaking badly of her?”

Harry grits his teeth. This is going off the rails already.

“She’s unlike any other Professor here,” she says, staring down quite sternly at him. “Remember where she came from. Misbehaviour in her class has a greater meaning beyond losing House points and a simple detention.”

“Simple--” he starts again once more, this time with more feeling, but he's cut off once more.

“Use your common sense!” She snaps. “Keep your head down and control your temper at all costs. Do not make another mistake.”

“But, Professor, she--”

“For heaven’s sake!” She cuts him off yet again. It seems that McGonagall is determined to not let him get a single thought in. “Think! She is not an opponent you can deal with.”

Harry slumps back in his chair, jaw set. This is going nowhere.

Well, I at least have another Head that I can ask, and one that would be worlds easier coerc-- rather, gently persuading.

“Have another biscuit, Potter,” she says, standing abruptly, jaw tight.

Ooh, she’s unexpectedly hot-tempered. If she were in her animagus form, fur would undoubtedly be lifting.

He takes another from the proffered tin, staring up at her warily.

She takes a deep breath, seemingly centering herself. The tension bleeds from her jaw, and her shoulders slump just slightly.

“You may not be one of my Lions anymore, but my office is always open to you. Please, keep my words in mind.”

[She didn’t let me get a word in edgewise. She thought I was there to talk about Umbridge.]

The message just barely fits on the plate, but he manages it.

The necklaces were extraordinarily handy. Everyone ignored Neville, so he was free to check it and send messages back from across the room.

[Are we sneaking out then?]

[Not necessarily. There’s still one more Head we can ask.]

[Harry.] His return message comes fast and barely has time to fade before the next one comes in. [Harry you’re not talking about Snape are you?]

[Please tell me you’re not talking about Snape.]

[That’s exactly whom I’m talking about. Don’t worry about it.]

He sends a second message before Neville can reply.

[He’s just Apparating us there and back. Nothing else.]

[If he even agrees.]

Harry grins darkly and Malfoy, who had been trying to see exactly what the hell he was doing, recoils.

[He will.]

Harry knocks on Snape’s door after everyone returns to the dorm, but before curfew.

“Enter.”

Snape’s sour expression quickly changes to something more neutral when he sees Harry.

“Scheming something, are we?” Snape asks, brow arched. Something in his expression must have tipped him off. Oh, well.

“When am I not?” Harry jokes, taking a seat in a mostly-graceful slouch. “I need to get to Diagon during the Hogsmeade outing. Do you have any shopping that needs to be done?”

Snape sighs, placing his quill on the desk next to the marking he’s doing. “I can invent some. May I inquire as to why?”

“Neville needs a new wand.”

His brows raise in shock. “I didn’t see any evidence of his wand breaking. Why the change?”

“I’m not familiar with wandmaking, not really, but I’m fairly certain that it’s hampering his ability to cast,” Harry says. “His grandmother sent him off with his dad’s wand.”

Snape nods. “A familial relation does not guarantee that a wand would work well. The differences between parent and child can be... staggering."Heh. "How did you come to this conclusion, if I may ask?”

Harry grimaces. “Sure. I’m not sure, though, why you’re suddenly being so formal with me.”

“Well, you are my future Lord, are you not?” Snape asks sardonically.

“Oh bugger, please don’t tell me you’re going to call me that,” Harry says, mostly faux-desperately, a scandalised look on his face. “I’d rather you continue to call me a dunderhead than that. Gods.”

“Well, if you do not wish as such,” he says entirely unconvincingly.

Harry knew he was hiding mischief somewhere underneath that dour exterior.

Harry hangs his head with a sigh. “You’re going to do it on purpose just to piss me off, aren’t you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

Snape stays quiet.

Bastard.

“To get us back on track,” Harry picks up eventually, “I… like I said, I don’t know much about wands, but I can see magic. Among other things,” he adds offhandedly. “So when I look at Neville when he’s trying to cast, it’s like the wand is… rejecting? Well, not entirely rejecting , but it’s at least not… getting along, shall we say, with his magic. It’s working a bit, but nothing like what happens with others’ wands. It’s like trying to sieve flour with a pinhole, or trying to core an apple with a straw.”

Snape stays quiet throughout his rambling explanation, nodding slightly. “Yes. What you’re describing is similar to when you use a wand not suited for you.”

“Ollivanders it is, then,” Harry says. “We just need to be Apparated over and back. My original plan was to bring it up with McGonagall since she’s his Head of House, but…”

His expression sours just thinking of it.

“She was too busy warning me about Umbridge like I was a blind idiot to listen to what I was trying to say.”

“You’re not exactly known for your intellectual prowess,” Snape says dryly.

“You know I have a reputation to keep. A terrible one, I know, but a reputation nonetheless.” Harry’s face twists into a frown. “It’s not like I enjoy playing at being a dunce. Sure, I may be used to it and it’s nice to be underestimated sometimes, but it gets tiring very quickly.”

“How long have you pretended?” Snape asks.

“Oh, since primary,” Harry says with an airy wave of his hand, sitting back further in his chair. “Aunt Petunia didn’t like her dearest Dudders being shown up by the Freak, after all. I didn’t have to pretend much for the first term in my first year, because it was the first time I’d seen any of it, not knowing about magic until a month before, but I was able to read a lot over winter holiday. When I wasn’t being hounded into Dumbledore’s schemes, of course.”

Harry looks at Snape. He’s tense, his breathing shallow.

Ah bugger. Did I say too much?

“Well!” Harry says, pushing himself up out of his chair. “I’ll be going, then. Places to be, first years to regale, research to oversee and all that. Let’s meet at the Shrieking Shack at nine. Have a good night.”

Snape doesn’t call him back when he leaves.

Hermione basically ambushes him before he can scurry off the next morning.

“Come with me for a second, please,” she says.

She’s got a determined sort of stance, similarly to… well. There were multiple occasions he could remember that she had that sort of countenance, and they were all before she would do something reckless and Gryffindor-ish.

But he has no good reason not to follow her, so he does.

They end up in that same unused classroom from a week ago.

Ah, right. A week ago.

“...Just think about it.”

The Defence group.

Hermione faces him with a strong stance. “Have you thought about it? About the idea I had-- you teaching us Defence.”

“I… did think about it a bit,” Harry says slowly. He brings his hands together in front of him and rubs his thumb over the bandage, (hopefully) seemingly lost in thought.

Hermione waits for him to keep talking, eyes on his hand. “I don’t… I don’t know, Hermione. Will anyone even be interested in learning from me now that I’m--”

He cuts himself off, leaving ‘now a Slytherin’ unsaid.

“You’re still amazing at Defence,” she argues. “Even Viktor said that you knew more than him, and he was in his final year at Durmstrang. Durmstrang!”

“I don’t know how I would sneak out,” Harry says, slumping. “There’s no point in doing it once a week, we won’t get enough done in that time, but sneaking out of Slytherin multiple times a week?”

Hermione shoots up. “Oh! I have an idea!”

Perfect.

“You could come once a week and set us to do practice on other days. Give us homework!”

Harry nods hesitantly, internally cheering. “That sounds like it would work.”

She nods decisively, a smile on her face. “Great! Then I’ll ask around and gather anyone who’s interested we can meet at the Hog’s Head on Saturday.”

“Why the Hog’s Head?” Harry asks. That sounds like an outstandingly bad idea. It’s just begging for someone to overhear them in a perpetually mostly-deserted, seedy pub.

“Well, we can’t do it inside the castle,” Hermione says matter-of-factly. “I doubt Umbridge would be happy if she heard about what we were doing. And no students visit the Hog’s Head, so we won’t be overheard.”

Harry’s forehead creases. “I have detention with Snape during the Hogsmeade outing.”

Well, he has a something with Snape, anyway.

Her smile droops slightly, but she nods. “I was going to pitch it like you were a once-a-week helper, anyway, and not a leader. I figured more people would listen that way.”

“Wow,” Harry says, slightly surprised and not even having to act it. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

She nods. “The Defence situation is untenable. We have to do something.”

Her conviction is clear in her everything-- tone, word choice, stance.

She’s got passion, but she’s too naïve.

Harry nods. “I agree. Whether people believe it or not, Voldemort is back, and he’ll do something eventually.”

‘How touching.’

Harry holds back a snort as he says his goodbyes.

I can’t get out of it, he replies. Dumbledore will know sooner or later, and it would be wildly out of character for his Golden Boy not to do something like this.

‘Annoying but true,’ he acquiesces.

Annoying? You’re telling me, Harry snorts mentally. Not only do I have to grow my own people and myself, I have to participate in day to day school life, and lead Umbridge around, AND study for OWLs. You might have your paperwork but I’m sure I’m the busier one.

That earns him a laugh, which he smiles at.

I’m already running into scheduling conflicts, he bemoans jokingly. Hermione wants to do her little seditious meeting at the same time I’m getting Snape to take Neville and I to Diagon to get him a proper wand.

‘Severus is taking the two of you to Diagon?’ Tom asks, interested.

Harry pauses at the bottom of the staircase for a beat before continuing to walk.

Yeah.

‘Might I suggest coming over to the Manor afterwards?’ He asks. ‘The issue with Severus is yet to be resolved.’

Right. Taking Tom’s Mark off and having Harry swear him in.

‘Besides, I have a gift for you.’

Now, that’s interesting.

If it’s just another folio of plans for me to look over… Harry trails off faux-threateningly, sure that his purposefully-leaked feelings would head off any misunderstandings.

‘Perhaps,’ Tom replies, tone similarly teasing.

Harry grins. Well, we shall see.

Chapter 20: Fated Choice

Chapter Text

The morning of the Hogsmeade outing dawns bright and windy. There’s an air of excitement that pervades the newly-minted third years-- Harry can see them smiling widely and talking excitedly with their friends. Of course, once they step out of the common room, it’s all replaced with a mask of neutrality.

Harry spends most of his breakfast complaining about Snape giving him a detention that coincides with the event, to his small circle of friends’ sympathy and the rest of it listening to the gossip around him. Angie’s thinking of having Ron on as their new keeper and they’re having quite the spot of trouble finding anyone to effectively replace Harry as seeker.

It sounds like Gryffindor won’t be winning the cup this year.

Neville just stays mostly quiet throughout breakfast, though, only giving short answers to questions and nodding or shaking his head to indicate he’s still listening, small hums peppered throughout. He hardly eats, too, just picking at his food.

When it’s time for people to start heading out for Hogsmeade, they make their leave.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks him quietly as they walk away.

Neville nods, sticking closer to Harry’s side as they walk through the halls. “Just… nervous,” he says.

Harry bumps-- well, not shoulders, because of the height difference, but he bumps Neville’s upper arm with his shoulder, trying to give him some comfort. “Everything will be fine, trust me.”

He just nods again, this time more reluctantly.

Seeing as he’d lied to Hermione about serving a detention with Snape-- which he’d promptly actually given him when Harry’d mentioned it to him, the git-- he and Neville had to sneak out of the castle instead of just simply walking through the gates.

Which lead to their current predicament: huddled beneath the Cloak out on the grounds and trying to levitate a stick to the knot of the Whomping Willow. What he wouldn’t give to have just gone through the Honeydukes exit…

Well… predicament was too harsh a word, actually. It was just mildly annoying to manage the Cloak so as to not create a ‘floating hand’ situation-- once as a floating head in front of Malfoy was quite enough, thank you-- and to be precise enough to actually hit the damned knot with his sh*te eyesight.

I wonder if there’s a magical version of an optometrist and if they have a shop in Diagon…

Getting new lenses-- or even specs in their entirety-- was something that he’d always wanted to do but something he’d never really had the chance to do. Even the summer before his third year when he’d been on his own in Diagon for a week or so, he never had an opportunity to explore the place, having been cooped up in the Leaky under strict orders to do absolutely nothing. And, of course, there was the problem of not having any money to do anything at the time, so it was all moot anyway.

He’d learned a lot about the wizarding world in his studies over the last few years, but it certainly didn’t encompass everything there was to know about it. It was learnt out of necessity a lot of the time-- spells for defence and power, politics to better handle his peers (et cetera), and history for pretty much everything else-- but rarely ever for pleasure, and he hardly knew what normal wix would know.

For example, if there was an optometrist’s shop in Diagon, or if there was even a magical version of one in the first place.

Even the little first years could teach him things.

…even if those things were currently only culture-related in the form of children’s stories.

The branches of the Whomping Willow droop once he’s successfully landed the stick on the knot and Harry tugs Neville along with him into the secret tunnel, racing against time and hoping that no one was looking too closely at the Willow to notice it go limp. Harry releases the magic on the stick the second they’re within the tunnel, the Willow’s branches once again perking up and ready to whomp once more.

“Wow,” Neville breathes, looking back at the entrance. “I can’t believe this goes outside Hogwarts.”

Harry nods, tucking the cloak back into his expanded pocket. “There are a few passageways that do, although some of them are unusable.” He starts walking, although he continues to talk, pulling out his wand to light a nonverbal lumos . “One of them even goes to the back room of Honeydukes. I used that one to sneak out in my third year. It would’ve been difficult to get out, though, if I didn’t have my Cloak.”

“Where does this one go, then?” Neville asks him, interested, as he looks around the mostly dark tunnel.

“The Shrieking Shack.”

Neville’s footsteps stutter, leaving him a stride and a half behind Harry.

“The Shrieking Shack?”

Harry stops, glancing at Neville.

His face is pale in the low light of the lumos .

“It’s all rumours, don’t worry,” Harry says. “None of it is true. No vengeful dead or whatever nonsense they say.”

Harry starts to walk again, Neville following just a beat after. Neville soon reaches his elbow again, despite the extra distance Harry had gained.

Curse his short legs.

“So you’re just saying everyone in Hogsmeade imagined the screams?” Neville asks incredulously. “I mean, something was screaming, right?”

“Well, no. And yes, respectively,” Harry says, watching Neville stoop slightly as the floor of the tunnel starts to arc upwards. “There was something here that made the sounds, but it’s definitely not here anymore.”

“That doesn’t fill me with a lot of confidence,” Neville mutters, ducking to avoid a particularly low-hanging intrusion. “You’re sure?”

“At the very least, do you think anything would happen in broad daylight? Don’t all the rumours say it happened at night?” Harry asks, pushing open the propped board that covered the hole into the main area of the Shack.

He’d tell Neville, but it’s not just his secret. Sure, most everyone knew that Remus was a werewolf after the way that he’d left the school, but there was something different about sharing the fact that this is where he was cooped up once a month every single year he attended Hogwarts. Too personal.

The Shack still remained as dusty and ramshackle as the last time he saw it. Neville pauses for a few seconds to stare at the claw marks on the walls, deep gouges into the aged wooden panelling.

Harry cancels the lumos on his wand with a spare thought, storing it back away.

Neville doesn’t ask about the marks, instead choosing to silently stick close to Harry’s side.

Harry leads him outside, throwing the Cloak over the two of them once more once they’re out of the door.

The mystery of the Cloak passes briefly over his mind once more-- it was as windy as anything and yet the Cloak’s edges merely fluttered as if caught in a light breeze, making it nearly impossible to be exposed to sight by accident.

But he has no time to keep thinking over it, seeing as Snape stands at the edge of the fence enclosing the Shack. His back is to the fence, facing outwards towards Hogsmeade proper like a guard on watch.

Harry co*cks his head as they come within a metre of the man, feeling the edge of a featherlight ward brush over his skin. Something… repelling? Similar to a notice-me-not , but specifically targeted to certain people, similar to the muggle-repelling wards that he experienced over the World Cup’s area last year but different…

Ah.

He sweeps the Cloak off of himself and Neville, confident enough in Snape’s spellcasting that no one would be around to see it.

Harry hops the fence easily enough, planting a hand on the wood and vaulting over it in a nimble leap, Neville following behind him more sedately, already looking nervous once more.

Not, of course, that Harry could blame him.

Briefly, Harry wonders if Neville’s boggart would be the same right at this moment as it was in third year.

Snape nods at him in lieu of any verbal greeting. “I will be apparating us to a small side street just off of Diagon Alley proper. I will make my purchases and then return to the same place to wait for you both.”

Harry nods, taking out his wand once more.

“Nev, stay still for a second,” Harry says, and Neville stills obediently.

He layers two glamours over him. The first is a parseltongue one, giving him jet black hair and dark brown eyes, as well as thinning his cheeks even more and adding a port wine stain over the bridge of his nose and eyebrow up to his hairline. The second is exactly the same as the first, except it’s a standard spell, seeming to only remove the port wine stain.

“Interesting,” Snape murmurs, sounding surprised and-- dare he say it-- even a tad impressed. “In the case that the first glamour is seen through, it will only show a man trying to hide an obnoxious birthmark.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, before turning his wand on himself and turning himself into a chubby cheeked blond with blue eyes and a massive, puckered scar running from temple to chin, which summarily gets glamoured over. “It’s nearly impossible for a non-parselmouth to easily see through a parsel glamour, but much easier to see through a regular one, especially if you’re paying attention for it. If that’s the case, they’ll naturally want to see what’s under it. People will usually stop looking for an answer if they think they’ve found something, hence the eye-catching… cosmetics.”

Snape offers his arms now that he’s done disguising the both of them, and then they’re off in a whirl of light and colour.

Harry slumps when the world finally stops moving, extraordinarily thankful for his decision for a minimal breakfast.

“Oh, I bloody hate that,” he grumbles, swallowing hard to keep the slight rise of nausea at bay even as he supports himself against the brickwork, waiting for the world to stop spinning. “What the hell?”

Both Neville and Snape stare at him, the former with a lot more visible befuddlement than the latter.

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone have such an adverse reaction to side-along apparition,” Snape says mildly.

Harry grumbles wordlessly, beating back the urge to give him a two finger salute, and straightens up.

Neville just shakes his head, a strange expression on his face, and Harry suppresses the urge to go fishing to see exactly what he’s thinking about.

Whatever it is, he’s entitled to his privacy and Harry’s almost obsessive need to know everything about his surroundings and the people in it does not trump that.

…that can be called growth, at least. I think.

“Alright, let’s get going,” Harry says.

Snape takes that as his cue to leave, almost immediately turning on his heel and stalking away, heavy black potioneer’s robes flapping around his ankles.

The walk to Ollivander’s from the side alley is short. It’s dead empty, thankfully, probably due to the fact that hardly anyone was going to be buying a new wand in October.

Neville stalls just before the door, looking up at the sign with wide eyes and a tight jaw.

“What if it-- will the glamour--” He cuts himself off with a great, heaving breath that’s just barely not a sigh before instantly spiralling again. “What if I can’t-- or, well-- what if a wand doesn’t choose me? This will be a whole waste of time, and then--” He cuts himself off again, looking like he’s seconds away from dropping his face in his hands and crying or running away entirely without a backwards glance.

Harry puts a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “The glamour won’t affect your magic like that. And trust me, your wand is in there. And if it’s not, then we’ll get one special made that works perfectly for you. Alright?”

Neville nods slowly, straightening up once more. He visibly pulls himself together and evens out his expression, exercising at least a little of the little-seen pureblood acumen that he has. “Alright…”

Harry pushes the door open. It’s just the same as it was that summer back before his first year: the light in the room at a comfortable, dimmed level; lingering dust on most surfaces and dancing through the light from the one window; and most exceptionally, the zing of magic from every surface, all the way from below the floor to the tops of the tall shelves. Despite how it permeated through everything, the sight component was somewhat… dimmed. The smell of it and the feel of it was borderline overwhelming, but at least he wasn’t blinded.

Ollivander shuffles out from behind the desk, his discerning, silver eyes already raking over the pair of them. Notably, they linger on each of their ‘obnoxious cosmetics’ that he’d glamoured on.

He saw through the glamours way too easily. So he can sense magic. Sight, maybe?

It would not only make sense for a wandmaker to be able see magic as it flowed through something, it would be quite invaluable as well.

And, of course, it would explain the dampeners.

“Well, hello,” Ollivander says, voice soft. “Welcome to my shop. Searching for a wand?”

Harry pats Neville’s shoulder and he steps forward, nodding. “Y-yes, I am.”

“Which is your casting hand?”

“My right…”

Ollivander hums, his tape measure flying out of his pocket with a crook of his finger. It starts to measure Neville as Ollivander talks.

“Did your old wand break? I must say, I’ve never seen you in my shop before. I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, you know.”

Neville cuts a panicked glance to Harry, even as he stays stock still to let the tape measure continue its work.

“It was an heirloom wand,” Harry says smoothly, pitching his voice slightly deeper than usual. He’s not sure that Ollivander would remember his voice but he doesn’t want to take the chance, even if it’s unlikely that he would talk about Harry bloody Potter visiting his shop in the middle of a school year. “I finally convinced him to come in and get a proper wand. He had some issues with it.”

Ollivander nods heartily. “An old tradition, yes, and historically revered, but not necessarily a good one!” He moves forward, casting a keen eye over Neville’s right hand. “The wand, of course, chooses the wizard. Some are quite alright with being bequeathed, but not all. What was your heirloom wand made out of, if I may ask?”

“Apple and dragon heartstring,” Neville says cautiously.

Ollivander clucks as he turns to the shelves, shaking his head. “Apple! Not to mention dragon heartstring… good lord, I can quite understand why it wouldn’t work for you. It's quite the steadfast thing, pining after its first user.”

Harry winces at the pained look that rises on Neville’s face. He smothers it before Ollivander spins back around, bearing a wand box.

“Elm and phoenix feather, 10 inches,” Ollivander says, presenting the open box to Neville. “Springy, swishy…”

Neville picks the wand up, tentatively giving it a flick. Harry shakes his head slightly at the same time that Ollivander vehemently exclaims, “No! No, not the right one. Not the right one at all.”

He plucks the wand from Neville’s fingers, plopping it back into the cushioned interior of the box and storing it on his desk, before pulling another from the wall.

“Cypress and unicorn hair, 8 inches, firm…”

Neville picks it up. Harry can see somewhat of a connection, but not entirely. Neville’s magic is drawn towards the core, but the bunching of the magic is nowhere near the state he’s seen in his own wand and in others’.

The right core, maybe, but not the right wood? Interesting.

He’d have to read more on the subject of wandlore and wandmaking. Would the study of foci have any impact on any other branches of magic?

“Not quite it either, but we’re getting there!”

They go through a total of five more wands before Ollivander goes behind his desk and takes a wand from a cabinet there.

“Cherry and unicorn hair, 13 inches, unbending,” Ollivander says, presenting the box to him. It’s mostly a rosy brown colour which deepens to a darker brown near the spiralling, fluted handle that ends in a subtle ball. “Quite the combination. The cherry, especially…”

Neville picks it up, and Harry can instantly see the easy connection. Neville’s magic flows smoothly through the wand, permeating the wood, gathering from the nebulous state that surrounds him to a manageable centre, and amassing in the unicorn hair core. He swishes the wand down and there’s instantly a gust of wind that carries the scent of greenery and wet earth. It doesn’t tingle like magic would, so he’s actually making the scent.

Harry grins.

Unfortunately, the wind is strong enough to knock all the papers on Ollivander’s desk into disarray, as well as quite a few boxes.

“Ah…” Ollivander starts to pick up the boxes now littering the floor, smiling.

Neville isn’t looking around the room, though. He’s looking straight down at his wand, eyes wide.

“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like…?” Neville mumbles, clutching the wand more tightly.

Harry’s grin softens and he moves over to Neville’s elbow, reaching up to pat his arm.

“Yup. What did I tell you? You were worried for nothing, mate.”

Neville gives him a small smile in return.

Harry pulls the galleons from his bank pouch when Ollivander prompts them to pay, waving a hand at Neville to stave off his protests. Harry’s got more than enough money to spend, and besides, he’s taken Neville on as a vassal. It should be in more than name only, in his opinion.

Besides, it’s nice to spend money on his friends.

Yule should be fun.

Once they’re outside again, Neville slides his new cherry wand into his rather beat-up wand holster with another grin, although it dims slightly as he takes in the sight of his father’s wand.

“I don’t want to just put it into my pocket,” he mumbles.

Harry blinks. “Are your pockets-- no.” He’d put in the undetectable expansion charms on his pockets himself. There’s no way they’re standard. “Here, I’ve got expanded pockets. Do you want to store it there?”

Neville gives the wand one last glance before nodding and handing it over.

“Once we’re back, you’ll have it again,” Harry assures him. “I just wouldn’t want it to get broken sitting in your pocket.”

“Yeah,” Neville nods.

After a while, once they’re almost back to the meet-up spot, Harry remembers the other thing that he wanted to do today.

“Oh, yeah, Nev,” Harry says, drawing up close to him so that he doesn’t have to speak overloud, “Is there an optometrist in the Alley?” At the questioning look he gets, he revises his word choice. “An eye… healer,” he says lamely. “I need to do something about my vision. My lenses are sh*te.”

Neville frowns, his expression turning thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had to go, I mean.”

“An optometrist?”

Neville startles at Snape’s voice, but Harry just turns to face him.

It’s interesting that he knows the muggle term. Is he not a pureblood? Or, at least, not a wix raised halfblood?

He’d never seen the name Snape in any of the books he’d read, so it was certainly a possibility.

“There is one,” Snape continues, expression neutral. “However, I have vision correction potion in my backstock.”

Harry tilts his head, thinking.

On one hand, it would be more tactically sound to completely do away with his glasses, but unless he came up with a solution for his current lenses… Well, he could just replace it with some plain glass. He doubts anyone would truly notice.

“Sure,” he says aloud, decision made. Well, one down, one to go. “Nev, we’ll need to drop you off first.”

“Drop me off? Why?”

Harry doesn’t grimace, but it’s a near thing. He hadn’t thought this one through at all, had he?

“I have to go see Tom,” he says, noting the way Snape’s eyebrows near-instantly shoot up to his hairline. “I doubt you’d want to come.”

Neville pauses. “Okay… I’ll come.”

It’s Harry’s turn to lose control of his facial expression.

“Really? It’s no issue. It wouldn’t take long to take you back to Hogwarts,” Harry says, a touch of caution in his tone. Neville’s nothing like the stuttering mess he was in his first year, but he doubts that going to see the Dark Lord is something he particularly wants to do.

“If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.” His shoulders are squared and his eyes are hard, his decision obviously made. “I’m supposed to be one of your vassals, right? Let me stand with you.”

Harry can’t help the fond smile that blooms across his lips.

“It’s not nearly as perilous as you’re imagining, but alright.” Harry turns to Snape, who looks, again, faintly impressed. “Shall we?”

Seconds later, he’s doubled over again.

“Still bad. Still… still hate that,” he groans. “Why.”

“You’re brilliant on a broom, why are you so bad with apparition?” Neville asks, visibly fighting a losing battle against a smile.

“sh*t, you’re asking me?” Harry laughs, breathing deeply. “It’s less terrible this time, and not nearly as bad as using a Portkey. I figure I just need to get used to it.”

“Performing the act yourself may help alleviate some of the symptoms,” Snape offers. “It may be that the foreign magic is what’s making you ill, especially as you are sensitive to it.”

That could be true. Both apparition and portkeys moved the user’s body by wrapping it in magic. The main difference is that a portkey was mostly external in that application. Of course, there was some internal intrusion-- the magic would hook onto the user’s main body mass, creating that tugging feeling in one’s navel-- but most of the magic used in a portkey was layered over the user to protect from the force generated by the spell.

Apparition, on the other hand, was silent and internal. Side-along apparition, with him being a passenger, meant that he was both being wrapped in another person’s magic and their magic was invading internally.

Harry nods. “Hopefully.”

Apparition was a useful and powerful tool. It would be a huge blow if he was so disabled every single time after he performed it. A couple seconds saved could mean his life or his people’s lives saved. Besides, he didn’t want to look like a bloody fool every time.

Snape takes his silence as a cue to start walking into the mansion-- or, perhaps, Tom felt their arrival and merely summoned him in.

The place is even more impressive than he first thought, now that he’s able to actually walk through it.

It may be decorated in the same exact way that the Slytherin common room is, but he can’t find a lot wrong with it.

Tom is waiting for them in what looks like a damn throne room. There’s one large chair at the head of the room that he’s lounging in, Nagini curling up his body and resting her head on his shoulder.

‘I see your vassal came with you,’ Tom says, the slightest of smiles gracing his handsome face.

He very deliberately clamps down on that thought and smothers it in the sink in his mind almost immediately, giving Tom an answering grin.

He decided to embody his house today. He was concerned for me. It was sweet, if misguided.

“He was concerned for you? ” Tom asks, probably using parseltongue instead of their link just to freak Neville out.

“Hey, ” Harry frowns. “Are you seriously messing with a teenager? He’s one of mine, as you said. ” Harry lays a comforting hand on Neville’s arm. He’d tensed up the second the hissed language issued from Tom’s lips.

Nagini perks up on Tom’s lap. ‘A Speaker? Another Speaker? ’

She unwinds herself from Tom as speedily as she can, causing him to sigh and raise his eyes to the ceiling.

“Well hello, ” Harry grins, crooning, and crouches down to stroke his fingers across her scaled brow. “Aren’t you a pretty one? ”

Nagini preens-- or, well, as much as a snake can preen-- and then starts to climb up Harry. In the span of a few seconds, he has most of a gigantic snake draped over his shoulders, the rest of her body trailing down his to the floor.

Neville is leaning away from him as much as he can, and Snape actually took a step back when Nagini had started to speed over the floor to him.

‘Master, I like this Speaker, ’ Nagini hisses, her tongue flicking out to scent him, directly on his temple. His right temple, actually, right next to his scar. ‘He even smells like you. Are you finally gaining a mate? ’

Harry sputters slightly, while Tom just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He smells like me because there is a part of me inside him. Now come, come back here. ”

Nagini’s head droops, but she climbs down Harry and makes her way back to Tom’s side, seemingly sulking under his chair.

“She’s even more opinionated than Noir,” Harry chuckles. Tom raises an eyebrow and Harry hastens to explain. “One of the first year’s pets. Although I’m not sure how she got a blue coral snake into Hogwarts with Dumbledore as Headmaster, even if she is Anaïs’ familiar.”

“Mm.” Tom looks faintly impressed, but swiftly steers the conversation back to their original purpose.

“Severus, come forward and bare your arm.”

Harry looks on, interested. He’s not entirely sure how Tom modified the oath, but seeing him remove it from Snape would give him a clue.

Snape’s arm shakes just slightly as he holds his bare forearm up to his master, the Dark Mark striking against his pale skin.

Beside him, Neville tenses again.

“For disloyalty, the oath you have sworn unto me is now null,” he hisses. Tom presses the tip of his wand to the top of the Mark on Snape’s arm. Harry can see the magic in it start to vibrate and Snape winces. “Vibi Sever; non est iusiurandum. From this moment, you, Severus Tobias Snape, are no longer in service to me. Your Oath is broken.”

He drags his wand down the Mark harshly and it immediately lightens in colour, magic tearing through the lines with the intensity and chaos of fire catching in dry brush.

Immediately, Snape gives a choking gasp, stumbling back and collapsing to his knees. He clutches his forearm, tucking it to his chest and curling over it in a defensive position, shoulders shaking like he’s resisting screaming.

Slowly, he uncurls from himself and once again rises to his feet, breathing heavily. Harry takes a look at his arm.

It’s completely bare, not a trace of the Mark nor any lingering magic to be seen.

Tom talks over Snape directly to Harry. “I assume you’ll want to wait until you arrive again at Hogwarts to confer your Mark upon him?”

Harry nods.

When he had told Snape that his Mark was less painful than Tom’s, he didn’t quite know just how much more painful Tom’s was, it seems.

Is it just the intent? I have no idea how he could alter it to make it that painful. Or why , honestly He thinks to himself. …unless he’s just a sad*st.

“Yeah,” he answers verbally, punting the thought from his mind. “But besides that, there was something you had for me?”

“Yes. However, that comes later. I wanted to first notify you of certain matters pertaining to the folio you returned to me.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, curious. What was it that he would take time to tell him now, instead of in a note or in his mind later?

Tom hums. “Your suggestion as to the retrieval of my Knights was masterful. Preparations as to the creation of the required constructs for your modification of the plan are ongoing.”

Harry grins. “Out of all of everything I suggested, if nothing else, I’m glad that this is the one you listen to me on. I can’t believe that you would have just stormed Azkaban otherwise!”

Neville freezes next to him.

“Ah, yeah, that reminds me.” His grin turns a little sharper. “What do you plan to do about Bellatrix Lestrange?”

Tom glances at Neville for a beat before returning his gaze to Harry. “I see what you mean. The Oath sworn between the two of us would make it rather difficult to enact any sort of revenge against her. I will simply strip her of my Mark and cast her out of my service.”

Harry snorts. “That’s as much of a punishment for her than anything else. So, was there anything else?”

“Ah, yes,” Tom says. He takes a book from… somewhere, an inner, expanded pocket of his robe, perhaps, and sends it drifting over to Harry with a short gesture. “Your gift.”

Harry plucks it out of the air and studies the cover.

Ain treatisæ ophe curseſ. Not only is it written in parseltongue, the translation is to Mediaeval English. In modern English, it would read A treatise of curses. There’s no author noted, but…

“Is this written by Salazar Slytherin himself?” Harry can hardly believe it. He knows that some of Sal’s personal journals are missing-- as evidenced by the gaps in the section and words from the man himself-- but he would’ve thought that they would all be destroyed by now, by either age or outside interference.

--

“It is indeed,” Voldemort says, one of his rare smiles gracing his face. There was just something about the way that Harry’s face lit up once he figured out what exactly Voldemort had just given him.

He is the same as me, after all. Now that he had been conversing and corresponding with the boy, he’d gotten a better grasp of his personality, and it was extraordinarily similar to his own.

Suddenly, Harry presses his lips together like he’s trying to stave off a smile.

“That reminds me. I think I have a gift in return.” Oh? “Salazar has a portrait somewhere here.”

Voldemort freezes.

“One of his descendants sealed his portrait and stashed it away somewhere. If you can find it and unseal it, he’d very much like to talk to you.”

Harry is smiling, but he hardly thinks that this is a time to smile.

“And why would he?” Voldemort asks, drawing up indifference like a cool cloak over him. “He has already made a choice not to do so. Why would that change now?”

He narrows his eyes when he sees Harry roll his own. The Longbottom Heir at his side tenses.

“You’ve changed, that’s how,” Harry says easily, completely uncowed by his severe expression. “He doesn’t like black magic much, and you’d involved yourself in plenty of it by the time you reached his office.

When he says nothing nor does his expression change, Harry rolls his eyes yet again.

“Tippy!”

The elf pops in in front of him, giving a short bow to Voldemort before attending to Harry.

“Find Salazar Slytherin’s portrait, please,” he asks her.

She only hesitates a beat before nodding and popping away once more.

“Come on,” Harry says cajolingly. “He really does want to meet you.”

It only takes another silent minute for Tippy to return, portrait in hand. It dwarfs her, stretching high above her head and going beyond her arm span.

Harry withdraws his wand, and, with a short spell, unseals it.

“Ah, Heir mine,” a voice in a warm tenor, tinged with the slightest hint of a brogue. “I see you were successful. Now, where is the current Lord of the Family?”

Harry gestures and the portrait lifts up from the elf’s magic and into his own before turning to face Voldemort.

--

Harry can hardly see Tom’s face around the bulk of the portrait. He can, however, hear him.

“Well met,” Tom says smoothly, if not a tad coldly.

Is he… nervous?

Harry would laugh at the thought in nearly any other situation, but the way his expression had completely closed off earlier when Harry was explaining it was telling. More so than their link, at least, which is completely closed off so that not even a hint of an emotion can bleed through.

“Well met,” Sal responds warmly. “I must apologise. Whilst a portrait of mine sits in mine House’s common room in Hogwarts, only those who gain entrance to the inner office are allowed to interact with me by means of it. However, if that had not been the case, perhaps I might have been able to sway you from the path you so took.”

Snape is standing stock still to Harry’s other side.

He can see Tom shake his head. “I sincerely doubt that, but many thanks nonetheless.”

There’s a beat of silence before Sal talks again.

“Did Harry surprise you with my portrait?” He chuckles dryly. “Once you are more ready to talk, you may find me in the library. Elf, if you would?” Sal asks, addressing Tippy.

“Yes, sir!”

She lays a hand on the portrait and disappears… taking the border between him and Tom away.

For a moment, he’s worried that Tom is going to be catastrophically angry with him.

Thankfully, his fears are allayed in the next moment.

Tom sighs. “Well, my gift rather pales in the face of yours,” Tom says, a rare smile appearing on his face. It’s small, but it’s there. Harry feels rather accomplished to have been the one to summon it. “I will endeavour to find something that matches in kind.”

They make their goodbyes and Snape apparates them all back to the Shrieking Shack. Before they part ways, however, Harry drops a necklace into his hand.

“Everyone has one,” he says, when Snape looks at him in askance. “The twins made them.” He pulls his own out from under his shirt. “Just press your wand to the crest and think of your message and a recipient, and then it’ll be transmitted to the person in question. No one will be able to send you and only you messages just yet, because that feature depends on a person’s magical signature.”

Snape nods and drops it around his neck. “You mentioned Marking me when we returned. Where?”

Where indeed? Hm…

“Go to the first floor girls’ bathroom,” Harry says decisively. “Put another repelling ward just inside the door and wait if I’m not there first.”

“Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?” Snape asks, disdain only mostly cloaked.

“You’ll see!” Harry vaults the fence once more, Neville again following him.

Once they’re inside the Shack and heading back into the tunnel, Neville talks.

“He’s… definitely not like the stories say,” he says quietly.

Harry pauses for just a second, glancing back at him, before starting to walk again.

“He isn’t anymore,” Harry agrees. “He was definitely more batsh*t when he crawled out of that cauldron a few months ago. Remember what I said about him splitting his soul?”

“Yeah?”

Harry tips his head to the side. “Remember second year?”

“...yeah.”

“One of his soul pieces-- the name for it is horcruxes, by the way-- was what made it all happen. I destroyed it, so that piece of soul went back to the main part.” Harry sighs. “Or, well, I think that’s what happened anyway. He said it helped him not be insane anymore, and I’m rather inclined to believe it.”

They part ways once they’re back in the castle. Neville heads to the greenhouses as he usually does on weekends and Harry heads to Myrtle’s bathroom.

As he predicted, he’s there first.

He’s looking at the map to make sure that no one’s coming-- and that Snape goes straight to the bathroom-- when he feels a brush of cold behind him.

“Oh… it’s just you again,” Myrtle sniffs disdainfully.

Harry raises a brow at her. “I know I haven’t been around for a while, but still. Why are you angry with me?”

“Because you haven’t been here!” She wails, floating on her back and generally having a temper tantrum. “Do you know how dreadfully boring it all is?”

Harry reaches up to scratch his head, sighing, when Myrtle freezes.

She’s over to him in an instant, peering at his hand.

“Myrtle?”

She gently grabs his left hand from his head and pulls it closer to her face.

Wait… what?

Harry blinks and then blinks again, harder, as he twitches his fingers in her cold but fully corporeal grasp.

That’s not supposed to happen.

“Myrtle… how are you touching me?”

“...I can see it,” she murmurs, tilting her head, staring at his hand with wide eyes.

“Myrtle,” he repeats more firmly. “What do you see? What the hell is going on?”

She looks at him, startled, and then back down at his hand. She squeaks and then releases him like she’s been burned before diving back into her toilet with a splash.

Harry groans.

It’s only a few minutes after that-- filled with fruitlessly standing over her toilet and calling Myrtle’s name in an attempt to get her to talk to him again-- that Snape shows up.

“So…” Snape drawls, looking around the bathroom. “You wish to do this here ?”

He snorts, shaking his head. Harry beckons Snape over to the last sink. “No. This is just the least conspicuous entrance at this time. Open. ”

With a grinding groan, the sink shifts out of the way and reveals a gaping hole in the wall.

“Down there is where I want to do this,” he says with a slight grin. “After you.”

He’d recast the cushioning charms when he was cleaning everything up, so he has no need to warn the man as he steels himself and slides down the chute.

“Close behind me, ” he says before jumping in.

He grins at the grinding that starts up behind him as he clears the entrance. It was a handy little trick that he’d found last year.

Snape stands at the bottom, looking around him with slightly wider eyes than normal. For him, it’s just about gaping around.

When he was cleaning, Harry had repaired the ceiling and renewed the enchantments on the magelight as well as cleaned up all the animal bones and shed skin, so the area looked as good as new. It also gave him a direct view of the second door framed by two giant, carved serpents with emeralds for eyes.

“Open, ” he hisses again once he’s in front of it. The serpents curl back and away and the door slides open with a much more quiet grinding sound.

Harry leads Snape out and into the main hall of the Chamber. The man stares up at the tall pillars as they approach the statue. He starts as Harry presses his fingers to the door and sends out a pulse of magic, unlocking it.

“Off to the ritual room?” Salazar asks.

Harry doesn’t startle, but Snape does.

Huh. I would’ve figured that he’d still be at the manor.

“Tom hasn’t talked to you yet?” Harry asks.

Salazar shakes his head. “I would have thought that you would have handled that more delicately, Heir mine.”

“He looked appreciative after you left,” Harry replies. “I think he’s just getting used to having emotions again.”

Salazar laughs. “I suppose you are correct. Now, introduce us. Who is that?”

Snape straightens up when Harry looks at him. “Severus Snape, the current Head of House for Slytherin.” Snape’s throat bobs slightly as he swallows.

“Well met, Lord Slytherin,” Snape says, bowing.

“None of that, now,” he says, waving his hand. “Lord of my portrait, maybe, but naught else. So, you are the current Head of my House?”

“Yes, sir,” Snape says, nodding deeply.

“Although I was not able to visit there until recently, I am still able to hear things through my portrait that hangs in the common room of my House’s dormitories,” Salazar says. Snape swallows again. “And I must say, you do a fine job, Professor. You can be content in carrying on exactly as you are now.”

Harry grins at the way Snape’s face spasms with surprise.

“Well, Sal, we’ll be off now,” Harry says, raising a hand in a wave as he turns.

He leads Snape into the library.

“Is this Salazar Slytherin’s personal collection?” Snape asks, voice just a tad breathless as he looks around the shelves as they walk.

Harry snorts. “You sound just like Theo. Yes, it is. I’m sure you’re a lot less free than we all are, but whenever you want to come down, just ask. Perks of swearing yourself to me, I guess. Theo’s especially excited about having the run of all the ancestral libraries I have access to.”

They start to climb the spiral staircase.

“All of them?” Snape asks mildly.

“I mean, you’re about to find out, but…” Harry trails off. He pushes open the door to the ritual room. “Slytherin and Potter, obviously, but I’m also Heir Black.”

He brushes the chalk from the last time off the ground and scowls as his hand starts to spark again.

“I also qualified for the title from the Potter’s siring line, so I’m also Lord Peverell. The last one was a bit of a surprise,” he says as he stands up and faces Snape, circle drawn once more. “Especially since it came from my mum’s side.”

“Your mother?” Snape asks immediately. “What? But she…”

“Was a muggleborn, yeah. I mean, I still have my Gringotts genealogy test if you’d like to take a look at it, but at least two different wixen names either were adopted or married into the line. The one in question was the Emrys line,” Harry says.

Snape’s silent for a beat before his eyes widen. “Emrys-- Merlin?”

Harry nods, flicking his fingers at the braziers in the corner, lighting them. “Yup, although my reaction was a bit more severe when I found out. Did she ever have any mage sight or any other magic sensing abilities?”

He nods slowly. “She could smell it, just like I can.” Oh? That’s interesting. “She could also feel it, to an extent. So you’re saying that came from the Emrys line?”

Harry nods. “Not sure what else has, since I haven’t had a chance to see if there are any journals or anything of the sort in the Emrys vault.”

He’s gotten audits from the Potter and Peverell vaults so far and was summarily going through them, but the Emrys vault hadn’t been completed yet. It would be interesting to see, but, well…

“Alright. So, the ritual goes like this…”

Chapter 21: A Meeting of Opposites

Chapter Text

“So,” Harry mutters to Hermione, the both of them standing side by side and staring up at the wall, “I assume it went well?”

Hermione doesn’t answer, the silence dragging out longer and longer as he waits for her to respond.

He finally glances over at her to see her magic whipping around her, her expression deeply creased in anger.

“Hermione?” He prompts. “Are you okay?”

“Someone was listening,” she mutters darkly, finally breaking her silence. Harry glances up at the wall again, skimming the flyer once more.

By Order of the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts… All Student Organisations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded… Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge). No Student Organisation, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.

Yeah, he’d say someone was listening.

“Was it one of the people you invited, you reckon?” Harry asks. “Or…” he trails off, watching her jaw tighten.

“It couldn’t have been,” Hermione says, turning away sharply. “Everyone signed a secrecy contract.”

Harry blinks. That’s certainly an option, but he didn’t think that Hermione would know of it or how to use it.

“Secrecy contract?” He asks, probing for more information. He shouldn’t know what they are, either, so it’s an easy bet that she’ll tell him something.

Hermione nods, leading the two of them into the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry can see and sense the discontent among the students there.

Harry smothers a smirk. Ah Umbridge… that wasn’t a smart move. Now every single club at Hogwarts is going to hold an even more negative image of you, even the purists that might have supported you otherwise.

It wouldn’t even be effective at doing what it was supposed to. There was no way they would have let her know about it anyway. Did she think that they would have made it an official club from the get-go?

Once they’re seated, Hermione starts to talk again, leaning in close to keep her voice down. “Once they signed it, if they talked about the Defence group, they’d be jinxed and really, really regret it. It’ll make Eloise Midgen’s acne look like a conservative smattering of freckles.”

So not a legitimate secrecy contract, he thinks. And then: I should never sign that.

He, of course, had protections from hexes and jinxes and a fair few amount of curses, but if there was any sort of binding terminology, Magic just might see it through anyway.

Your word is your bond.

“So… it had to be someone else, then,” Harry says, stabbing at his eggs. “Were there any other students there other than who you invited?”

Hermione immediately shakes her head. “No.”

Fred and George slide into seats on Harry’s left side, Neville claiming his right side as per usual. Ginny and Dean, of all people, take seats at Hermione’s sides.

“So, you reckon she knows?”

“We all saw the sign,” Ginny agrees.

“One of the adult patrons must’ve told her,” Hermione says. “No one else was there!”

“Well, if we saw it…” George starts.

“...then everyone else did, too,” Fred finishes, pointing.

Hermione twists around in her seat to see Ernest Macmillan, Zacharias Smith, and Hannah Abbot from Hufflepuff as well as Michael Corner, Terry Boot, and Kevin Entwhistle from Ravenclaw all start to approach them.

So six people at least, Harry thinks, amused at their thoughtlessness. This whole thing might be over sooner than Harry anticipated if they keep this up.

“Idiots,” Hermione hisses under her breath. “That’s too suspicious!”

She gestures for them to leave, exaggeratedly mouthing later.

…and that’s not?

Ginny sighs as she stands. “I’ll tell Michael. You’re right, Hermione, he’s an idiot.”

Minor crisis averted, attention turns back to the matter at hand.

“We’re still doing it, right?” Dean asks, glancing over at Harry.

Why are you looking at me? Didn’t you think I was barmy? Hermione’s the damn organiser.

Harry suppresses a sigh, instead pulling up a determined expression as he nods. “Of course. It’s not like we’re going to be taught anything this year. We have to do it ourselves.”

Hermione nods.

Talk of the seditious Defence group and the related Decree peters out from there, until Angelina comes over to talk to the twins.

“I don’t have to warn Harry since he’s not my problem anymore, but Weasleys,” she starts, expression more serious than anything he’s ever seen on her face, eyes narrowed and jaw set, “Absolutely no pranks until Umbridge approves our Quidditch team. Nothing, not a peep out of the two of you. I’ll make you regret it if you do.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, tilting his head.

“Didn’t you see it?” Angie asks, grimacing. “Everything-- all clubs and student organisations over three people are disbanded until she approves them. That includes Quidditch.”

Dean’s mouth drops open. “Everything?”

“Aye aye, Captain!” The twins chorus.

“No pranks--”

“--no tomfoolery.”

“For now,” they finish together with matching, devilish grins.

Angie sighs, a sort of a half-mournful, half-resigned look on her face. “That’s about the best I can get out of the two of you, I reckon.”

The twins laugh.

On Wednesday, before the training in the Chamber, the twins call him to their experiments room.

Immediately after he slips into the room, the door barely closing behind him, they’re on him with matching, wide grins.

“We did it,” George says, grinning ear to ear as he grabs Harry’s wrist.

“So did you devote all of your time to… whatever this is… when Angelina said that you couldn’t prank anyone?” Harry asks, amused, as he’s tugged, albeit gently, to one of the farther tables.

“Yes,” they nod. Fred speaks for the both of them as they approach the table. “And it’s not just anything, Harrikins.”

“Remember what you asked us to do?”

Harry’s jaw drops as Fred clicks open a shallow case on the table to reveal three ink-black quills with iron nibs.

“Unfortunately, it’s not exactly what you wanted yet,” he says apologetically.

George finally drops Harry’s wrist as he moves forward. “They’re exact reproductions, but from here, we’ll be able to change their properties.”

“Tinker with it,” Fred adds on.

“But of course, you haven’t told us exactly what that is.”

“Hence the meeting we’re having now.”

Harry nods. “So…”

“Dobby?” Harry calls into the room, half expecting nothing to happen. Dobby had no obligation to answer his call, being simply an elf of Hogwarts-- and a paid one, at that.

But, there he is in an instant, smiling ear to ear and looking up at Harry with wide, almost reverential eyes.

“Harry Potter sir!” Dobby chirps. “What can Dobby be doing for you?”

He’s draped in the most eye-wateringly neon shirt that Harry’s ever seen. There are hats stacked as high as two handspans on his head and looking all the more excited for it and Harry feels just a little bad for what he’s about to ask.

Kreacher was technically an elf of House Black. Any member of House Black would be able to call upon him and request his services. Tippy was of House Slytherin, similarly. So…

“Dobby,” Harry says, “I need an elf. Would you like to be my elf?”

Dobby’s eyes widen.

“You’d still be able to work here at Hogwarts,” Harry continues. I’d need you to, actually. Dumbledore knows you’re here, pays you too. “And you’d be able to wear whatever you want. In addition--”

“Yes sir!” Dobby’s practically bouncing with excitement at this point as he cuts him off, head bobbing wildly as he nods. “Dobby will be Harry Potter sir’s elf!”

…is he using his magic to keep the hats on his head…? He must be.

“Alright, thank you, Dobby,” Harry smiles. Both the words and his expression are genuine. He can’t lie-- he’s definitely a soft spot for elves, Dobby in particular. He hadn’t heard back from Tom on the legislation that he proposed yet, far in the back of the folio, but he’s sure that he’ll hear something.

He holds a book out for Dobby to see. “I have a lot of secrets, so would you mind swearing this special oath?”

“Of course, Harry Potter sir!”

“So, run that by me one more time?” Harry asks, brow raised to the sky.

“I want to go to your little Defence meeting,” Blaise says again, a far too cheeky grin firmly on his face. “Wouldn’t it help your image? Turning us poor, unsuspecting sods away from the evil Dark and all that?”

“...there’s nothing you won’t be learning later,” Harry says slowly. “Won’t it just be a waste of time?”

Why would Blaise want to join?

No, seriously. I can’t think of a single reason he’d want to. Boosting my image isn’t that good of an excuse. Besides, it’d just as easily backfire.

Blaise shrugs. “Maybe, but still. Humour me?”

Harry sighs. “Fine.”

So that’s how the two of them start to forge up to the seventh floor that Saturday. Harry hadn’t wanted to divulge the secret of the hidden, appearing room to her, but there wasn’t really anywhere else that this whole thing could be held that wouldn’t immediately draw Umbridge’s attention.

And, unfortunately, it needed to happen.

Ugh.

At least for a little while, he amends. There was always the option of leaking the whole thing to Umbridge-- undetectably and untraceably, of course, because if he was ever credited with the dissolution of the group many things would start to rather quickly and thoroughly fall apart-- and to let the pieces fall where they may.

“Harry,” Hermione greets warily, eyes darting to Blaise who’s standing behind him.

The option of spilling everything to Umbridge has suddenly become about a hundred times more attractive.

“‘Mione!” Harry grins, immediately dialling his little Light idiot Golden Boy persona up to eleven. “I forgot to mention it earlier, but Blaise wanted to come.” He steps closer to her and lowers his voice. “He wants nothing to do with Voldemort, trust me.”

Her face and body language both scream that she’s unsure about this whole situation, but she nods anyway.

Fred and George wave at them from behind Hermione, Neville standing beside them.

“So, Harry, the room?” Hermione asks. “I’ve already told everyone, of course…”

Harry nods. “Just give me a second… it’s supposed to be three times in front of the door, so…”

The rest of them back up and Harry walks the requisite three times, thinking of having a place to study Defence in.

Hermione gasps slightly as he turns around for the last time and a door melts into being on the stone wall.

“The Room of Requirement…?” Hermione whispers, evidently beside herself. “Supposedly, there existed a room that would give the person who asked anything they wanted, as a gift from Helga Hufflepuff to the students that would go to Hogwarts in the future. The others’ gifts being, of course, Rowena Ravenclaw’s library and Godric Gryffindor’s armoury.” Unsaid, of course, was Slytherin’s Chamber. But more to the point…

An armoury, huh? That might be interesting to look for later.

“So this is Hufflepuff’s room, then?” Harry asks, moving forward to swing the door wide open for all of them. Hermione nods before moving past him, looking excited.

There are small gasps when they all enter the room properly and Hermione predictably rushes straight to the stuffed-full bookshelves that line the walls. She spends the barest few seconds scanning the titles before pulling one out and sits to start reading it, mouth moving wordlessly as her eyes dart over the pages.

Blaise follows him closely, staying at his elbow, as he walks in deeper.

“This sure is handy,” Blaise murmurs. “And you said it could give anything the person asks for?”

“Mm,” Harry hums, moving closer to the various sensory devices on a far table. “I mean, I haven’t tested it out, but it’s been the case so far.”

“Nice.”

Their conversation peters out as they move back to the main group.

People start to stream in around twenty minutes before eight, staring at him and Blaise and muttering under their breaths.

Eventually, the clock strikes eight. Harry steps forward to lock the door, the old key turning in the lock with a satisfying clunk sound, and turns back to face the group, walking back to his previous position next to Blaise. There’s about 32 people, mostly fifth years with the exception of Fred, George, Cho Chang, the younger Creevey whose name Harry can’t remember, and a few smattered sixth and seventh years from various Houses.

Something that starts with a D. David? Demetrius? Dennis? Duncan?

Hermione finally pulls her head out of the book and stands up, clearing her throat.

“Thank you all for coming,” she starts. “Like I said, Harry’ll only be here once a week as more of an assistant than anything. It’ll be hard for him to sneak up out of Slytherin so much.”

“Why is Zabini here?” Someone calls from in the crowd. Harry can’t exactly pinpoint who said it, but he’d bet good money that it was one of the Gryffindors.

“Just because he’s a Slytherin doesn’t mean that he’s up Voldemort’s arse,” Harry says, frowning even as people wince and hiss. “I mean, look at me.”

“If I may?” Blaise asks quietly, yet loudly enough for it to carry. “I have never wanted to swear myself to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I have not sworn myself to him, and I never will. I swear on my life, may Magic punish me if I lie.”

Several gasps ring out around the room as he makes his proclamation, several of the muggleborn students looking confused.

“As you can see, I’m not dead. I have no intentions of becoming a Death Eater now or at any time,” Blaise continues.

Harry has to stifle a grin.

Blaise is really very good with words. He has not sworn himself to Tom , he’s sworn himself to Harry , who just happens to be on Tom’s side. He has no reason to swear himself to Tom in the future because he’s already one of Harry’s vassals.

It is interesting, though, that he had no intention of joining Tom at all before meeting Harry, though. To be fair, he was one of the few that had a logical escape from Britain should worse come to worst.

“So, shall we get started?” Hermione cuts in once more, looking faintly relieved. “I think we should vote on a leader to start with.”

“It’s Harry, isn’t it?” Cho Chang says, her question sounding more like a statement.

“He’s only going to be here once a week,” Hermione says, sounding doubtful. “Still, we can vote. All in favour?”

More than half of the people raise their hands, Blaise included.

“Well, Harry’s the leader, then.”

Delightful, Harry thinks drolly.

“Well, thanks,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. Sheepish, but not too weak. “Yeah, Hermione?”

She puts her hand back down and says “I think we should also have a name. It would be too awkward to call this the group all the time, I would think.”

“Alright. Any suggestions?” He asks the crowd.

“Yeah, how about the Ministry Sucks Group?” Fred asks.

Harry snorts.

“Or the Anti-Umbridge League,” Angelina suggests, grinning.

There’s a fair amount of nods at that, but Hermione shakes her head.

“How are we supposed to talk about it covertly if it gives it away in the title?”

How about we don’t talk about it at all so we don’t get expelled?

“How about the Defence Association?” Blaise suggests. “It’s smoother than Students Against Professors Ruining Our OWLs Grades.”

That earns a few laughs and Blaise grins.

“I like it,” Ginny declares. “But how about Dumbledore’s Army? That’s what the Ministry’s afraid of, right?”

Harry very deliberately keeps his gag contained.

Not her, too, Harry grumps silently, keeping any indication of his mood off his face. Magic knows Dumbledore doesn't need another sycophant.

“All in favour of the D.A.?” Hermione asks, scribbling something down on a piece of parchment she got from… somewhere.

Everyone raises their hands, Harry and Blaise included.

“That’s a clear majority,” she says before scribbling something else.

She gets up and pins the paper on the wall with a short Sticking Charm.

It clearly reads DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY right overtop all of their names.

Well, that’s not incriminating in the slightest, Harry thinks.

“Right, so erm… shall we start?” There’s a round of nods. “Let’s start on something simple, then. How about the Disarming Charm?”

Zacharias Smith, front and centre in the crowd, snorts. “Like that’s going to do anything against You-Know-Who,” he says derisively.

Bold words for an idiot.

“You’re wrong,” Harry says quietly, forcing the noise level to drop for them to be able to hear him. It always works well. “It saved my life against him just last June.”

That shuts everyone up. Smith gapes at him like a fish out of water.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave. Self study, and all that,” he says.

No one moves.

Harry waits another beat before starting to speak again.

“Let’s get started, then. Pair up.”

Neville, unsurprisingly, is left without a partner.

Blaise claps him on the shoulder. “Me or Longbottom?”

Hermione’s also without a partner, so whomever he didn’t choose would be paired off with her.

The decision is taken from him, though, when Hermione turns to Neville herself.

Harry grins. She’s surely in for a surprise.

“On the count of three!” Harry says loudly. “One… two… three!”

Blaise fires off an expelliarmus right on the third count, his voice nearly drowned out in the din of everyone else doing the exact same thing.

Harry manages to keep ahold of his wand but it nearly gets knocked out of his hand.

“Good one,” Harry grins, before returning the spell. “Little more oomph and you’ll have it.”

Blaise is rocked back on his heels and his wand flies right out of his hand, arching high. Harry catches it neatly with a short burst of wandless, wordless magic, rocketing it back into his palm. He tosses it back, aided by magic, and nods.

“Again.”

He lets the buffoonery go on for a while longer before he starts to walk around the room, correcting grips and motions and generally giving people tips.

Luna winks at him as she makes Justin Finch-Fletchley’s wand shoot straight up out of his hand and into the air. It comes back down squarely on the top of his head in a subtle show of precision.

Harry has to bite back his snort at Finch-Fletchley’s confused expression.

Eventually, he circles back ‘round to Blaise, drawing him back away from Neville and Hermione to practise for a little while longer.

He’d gotten a lot faster and more precise with his movements since they’d started training down in the Chamber. His power could sometimes be lacking, as shown by the first time he popped off the spell, but he was overall quite good at it. They all might be ready to start wordlessly casting it soon, actually.

Harry lets his mind wander to his vassals’ lessons as he goes through the movements and only barely catches himself before he starts to wordlessly fling the spell.

The clock high on the wall chimes nine.

“Alright!” Harry yells.

The last couple of wands clatter to the ground as everyone ceases.

“That’s it for today, I think, unless we want to get caught by Filch,” he says. “Er… nice job?”

Chang stares at him as he and Blaise walk out, leaving Hermione to manage their next meetup.

Harry waits until the portraiture is less dense before speaking.

“Do you intend on coming back next week?”

Blaise glances at him, shrugging. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you?” Harry returns his question with another.

“Eh,” Blaise says, waving his hand in the air. “Let’s call it scoping out the competition, shall we? And moral support,” he adds with a grin. “It’s quite entertaining to see you act like that. I’d hate to leave you there all by your lonesome.”

This, of course, is ignoring that Nev and Luna are also both there, but it seems that Blaise won’t stop.

Harry shrugs. “Your funeral.”

The next night, he’s back in the Chamber. Everyone stands in a half-circle in front of him, looking excited.

“Finally,” Fred grins.

“Not that the other stuff wasn't helpful--”

“--or interesting, but--”

“--we’re finally learning the big stuff.”

On the docket for today was basic but powerful Dark combat spells.

Harry only had basic proficiency over these. He’d read about them in his fourth year and had practised some times when he had the chance, but most definitely not to the point where he was able to wordlessly or wandlessly cast them.

“However,” Harry butts back in, wagging a warning finger at the twins. “It’d be good if we knew your type before you started to learn. So, do you all know?”

The Slytherins nod, and, to all their surprise, Luna does as well.

“My magic tends towards dark,” Luna says plainly, causing the Slytherins to look at her in newfound appreciation. “My mother, Pandora Lovegood née Alarie, was a dark witch. Daddy is grey.”

“Alright,” Harry replies, nodding. “Twins, Neville, there’s an easy way to find out your inclination. You just need to cast a dark-aligned spell, and how well you cast it will tell us your type.”

“Really?” Fred asks, sceptical.

Harry nods. “Your type doesn’t forbid you from using any other spells with the opposite alignment, but you’ll have a significantly easier time with them if you’re of the same bent.”

Contrary to what most believed, the vast majority of spells taught at Hogwarts were of the grey variety. There was plenty of scholarship on the three alignments, but there wasn’t quite a concrete agreement between the academics on what exactly caused wixen to even have a type in the first place.

“But, since I have mage sight, we can skip all that flailing,” Harry continues, grin on his face. “Fred, George, Nev, you’re all grey.”

“Really?” Neville asks, surprised. “How?”

Harry nods. “Your Gran was a Selwyn, wasn’t she? And as far as I know, most Longbottoms were grey. She married your grandfather, who was grey, and had your dad, meaning he was either dark or grey. I’m not sure about your mum since I don’t know too much about the Fortescues, but…” He trails off, shrugging inelegantly.

“And us?” George asks.

“You know your grandmother used to be a Black, right?” Harry asks, watching surprise spread across their features. “Evidently not. Besides, the Weasleys used to be a traditional Dark family, politically and otherwise. Prewitts are traditionally light, hence the two of you. The rest of you are all grey, too, besides your mother and your father.”

“Wait,” Theo says, holding up a hand. “Are you insinuating that Arthur Weasely is a dark wizard?”

“I mean, I was a sentence away from outright saying it,” Harry says, amused.

There’s a few seconds of silence as they all digest that information.

“Anyway, let’s get started, shall we?”

Chapter 22: Twilight

Chapter Text

“And then?”

Harry grins.

“I am the Lorax and I speak for the trees!” Harry quotes grandly. “The little orange creature spoke, chest puffed up proudly, eyes narrowed at the humans who dared to intrude in the forest. ‘You will not continue what you’re doing to these lands, or else you will face Nature’s wrath!’”

Just as he’s about to continue with his very tenuously remembered story, grin on his face from seeing the veritable stars in the first years’ eyes, Snape strides up to them, looking down at him with an inscrutable expression.

“Potter, with me. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but Harry hasn’t the foggiest why he would be calling for him. Was something happening? Or was this just his way of talking with him as Harry had requested?

Harry glances up. Snape’s face is neutral. “Coming, sir,” he says, standing. The little first years all groan.

“I might be back in time before you all have to go to bed,” Harry comforts. “Alright? If not, we'll continue tomorrow.”

They nod, still pouting just a little, and Harry starts to walk away, following Snape's silent departure.He follows Snape out of the common room and to the man’s office, the air silent between them.

Once they arrive, Snape sits down, beckoning Harry to do the same.

“You wished to speak to me?” Snape asks.

Ah, so it’s the latter. Dramatic bastard.

Harry nods. “You may notice Blaise and I leaving the common room beyond normal hours on Fridays,” he says. “This is because Granger, in all her wisdom, has concocted an idea and put into motion a very illegal defence group that I’ve thusly been elected leader of.”

Snape stares at him for a beat before closing his eyes slowly.

He opens them just as slowly, exhaling a large gust of air in a heavy sigh.

“And, pray tell, why did you agree to any of this?” He asks, sounding so very tired.

Harry can definitely sympathise.

“Dumbledore,” Harry replies simply. “She’s undoubtedly reporting back to him in some way, shape, or form, and I can’t have him hearing that his precious Chosen One has done something so out of character,” he says, lips curling almost unconsciously into a sneer.

“I see,” Snape says. “Why is Zabini also going, then?”

At this, Harry shrugs, the last of the tension dissipating from him. “I can’t say for sure either. He did give me several reasons, all of which sounded half-baked. At this point, I’m inclined to let him do whatever he wishes. It’s not particularly harmful to anyone or any of my plans.”

Snape nods.

“I actually had something to talk to you about as well,” Snape says after a few beats of silence, just before Harry would have otherwise said his goodbyes. “I would like to warn you to stay… safe,” he starts, mouth twisting like he’s just bitten into a lemon, “In the case that you choose to enter into any… dalliances.”

Harry stares at him for a second, amazed at the words that just came out of his notoriously dour and distant professor, before snorting.

“Dalliances?” He parrots back, half smiling and half grimacing. “Does it look to you like I have any time for anything as trivial as romance at the moment? Or even anyone that I might remotely be interested in?”

His snorts turn to chuckles as he shakes his head. “I would be asking what bet you lost and to whom, if this was the outcome, but I doubt that’s what happened. Thank you for the warning,” he says anyway, climbing to his feet, “But I’m in no need of it. Good night, Professor.”

Snape doesn’t reply and he can feel his eyes on his back as he walks out of the office.

Dalliances he said, Harry mentally scoffs. Who in the bloody hell would I even be interested in?

Severus watches the door close behind Harry.

“Magic give me strength,” Severus murmurs under his breath, sighing, head halfway into his palms. “He’s surely blind.”

Harry sits down at the Gryffindor table with a groan.

“Harry?” Hermione questions as he drops his forehead to the table. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got detention with Umbridge,” he moans pitifully.

She, in all her wisdom, had summoned him to her office yesterday and told him of her little plan. Of course, it was presented in such a-- heavy handed and obvious-- way to not set off his delicate Gryffindor sensibilities. She just wanted to chat, you see, so don’t worry about a single thing!

Harry was also of the same mind that it would be suspicious as hell that he, Chosen One and Golden Boy extraordinaire, had only gotten one detention with Umbridge thus far. Was he fundamentally changed, would they wonder? After all, he had somehow gotten himself resorted into Slytherin, the exact polar opposite of his personality and temperament.

Pah.