Chapter Text
Harry didn't have to wait long after his nap for Ron and Malfoy to come back. Arthur dropped them off and Madam Pomfrey made individual dinner trays appear for each of them. It was a little awkward as Harry struggled to finish his mountain of apple slices and his enormous ham sandwich, but the others waited patiently until he was done. Ron, as ever, ate his in about three seconds. Harry thought he must be ravenous to eat that quickly and offered him his own but Ron stared at him like he was crazy and shook his head. Malfoy didn’t say much. He shuffled the snap cards while Ron pulled out a packet of fudge flies and tossed Harry a couple. He offered them to Malfoy but he shook his head looking a little sniffy and pulled a face when Ron fed one to Scabbers.
Harry thought the truce between the three of them was odd, but maybe things were just different in the holidays. Malfoy seemed less annoyingly showy-offy, perhaps simply because he wasn’t being trailed by his usual gaggle of clingy Slytherins. He was still a bit sneery and sarcastic, but Ron had been putting up with him for days, so Harry supposed he should give him a chance. He waited politely for him to deal the cards.
As the evening went on, Ron told story after story about funny things Percy or Ginny or the twins had done and Harry laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. Malfoy sometimes snorted or raised an eyebrow or very occasionally let out a little chuckle. But often he didn’t even look like he was listening. He examined his hands or stared at the wall as though merely tolerating their unexpected presence in his company. He looked as neat and clean as he always did. It gave Harry the urge to ruffle his hair up just to see what would happen; he wanted to draw Malfoy into the conversation. There was so little they had in common. And then Malfoy looked right at Harry and Harry jumped, panicked to have been caught staring. Ron paused and without thinking Harry immediately blurted out "what's the difference between a nimbus 2000 and a nimbus 2001, anyway?"
And Malfoy looked startled. Then, it was like he had swallowed a catalogue. Harry watched in wonder as he listed technical detail after detail and then, without pausing for breath, went on to narrate the history of all nimbus brooms and list which quidditch stars had performed which famous stunts on them. Ron’s eyebrows shot up and then he grinned at Harry, but neither of them interrupted. At least Malfoy wasn’t going on about himself. Harry asked a few questions, and still thought privately that there wasn’t a lot of difference between the brooms, but he found he didn’t mind hearing about it at all. Malfoy’s eyes had lit up.
“You sound like Hermione,” said Harry, after around 10 minutes of this spontaneous presentation.
“I do not!” Malfoy said coldly, though his face looked suddenly hot. Harry watched the blush spread like ink over every curve of his pale face, even into his hairline. Ron giggled at him and Malfoy scowled.
“You’re a quidditch nerd!” Harry grinned. He patted Malfoy’s hand, suddenly strangely anxious to let him know it wasn't a criticism. “That’s cool.” Malfoy withdrew his hand quickly behind his back.
“What’s a nerd?” asked Ron, putting Scabbers on his shoulder and taking the cards back to reshuffle.
“A Hermione,” Harry said. “It’s not a bad thing. Got any flying tips?” He asked Malfoy.
“No, Potter. Why would I give you tips?” His lip curled downwards, like he was trying to sneer but there was something like a smile twitching at the corners.
“What? I’m serious! I didn’t know you knew about brooms. I found the funniest book about ancient quidditch tricks the other day. I’ll show you when I can go get my stuff.”
Ron and Malfoy both looked at him. Ron leaned in. “Where is your stuff anyway?” he whispered. “Where did you stay? The adults couldn’t find you anywhere. Not even Dumbledore!”
Harry hesitated. Malfoy looked up and down the empty hospital wing and then Ron hissed “you can tell us, we won’t snitch!” and Malfoy nodded. Harry peered around, but Madam Pomfrey’s office door was shut.
“Er… I can show you when I’m better,” he promised. “But you have to keep it a secret.” He stared at them until they nodded. He closed his eyes, gathering his nerves. “I found a disappearing room that turns into whatever you need,” he admitted.
“As if,” scoffed Malfoy.
“Really?” asked Ron.
“It’s true. It started off as a swimming pool and then turned into a bedroom. It was quidditch themed and had a bed for me and a perch for Hedwig and everything.”
The other two looked sceptical. “Why didn't you ask for more food then?” said Malfoy.
“Malfoy!” Ron gasped.
But Harry smiled. “I did, actually. It was a bit inconsistent. It couldn't do everything. And some things disappeared when I tried to take them outside. But other things worked, you just had to walk up and down outside and imagine and it appeared.”
“Sure,” said Malfoy scathingly.
Harry shrugged, a little relieved. His room was precious, he hadn't really wanted to share it with everyone. “Suit yourselves. Maybe I won’t show you. But it was full of quidditch books and magazines. There were strategy ones that had all these weird diagrams and everything. Wood would love it.” Perhaps Harry could take him in term time, if it was still there.
“And then Gryffindor will definitely get the cup,” said Ron happily.
“You wish,” said Malfoy. He paused and then said, “I’m thinking of trying out for Slytherin next year.”
“Really? That’s cool! Maybe we’ll play each other!” said Harry.
“Which position?” asked Ron.
Malfoy shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Ron punched him playfully. “Confident you’ll get in then?”
Malfoy grinned. “Can’t be that hard if Potter’s done it.”
“Hey! So that’s why you won’t give me any tips! Bastard!”
Malfoy actually giggled. “Why did I never realise how much you swear? Potty mouth Potter.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your delicate ears, Little Lord Malfoy,” Harry rolled his eyes.
“Shut up!” Malfoy smirked. “So uncouth. Worse than a mud-”
Ron sucked in his breath. Malfoy stopped. There was an awkward pause. “Sorry,” he said suddenly.
“What?” Harry asked. Ron's face had fallen and suddenly all the cool tension of last year had rushed back at once, like a cold wind through an open window. “What?” asked Harry again when neither answered. Then Ron cleared his throat.
Malfoy gave a deep sigh. “Here we go,” he muttered.
Ron scowled at him. “He was going to say “mudblood,” he said. “It’s a slur for muggleborns. I keep telling him not to.” Ron grimaced and then looked right at Malfoy and spoke slowly. “Hermione is our best friend. She is smarter than you’ll ever be.”
“Whatever,” said Malfoy airily. “I didn’t actually say it this time.”
“Evil git,” muttered Ron.
“Stupid Gryffindor,” said Malfoy.
“What are you talking about?” asked Harry.
“Care to explain, Malfoy?” said Ron moodily.
Malfoy glanced between them. “Let’s just forget it. I won’t say that word if you don’t like it-”
“It’s not the word that’s the problem.” Ron said, mouth twisting. Harry looked questioningly at him. He was surprised that things had turned sour so quickly. Ron picked a bit of fudge fly wing out of his teeth and Malfoy grimaced. Ron just rolled his eyes. “Malfoy believes that so-called purebloods are better at magic than wixen with muggle parents or ancestors,” he said. “It’s an old theory that makes no sense, it has been disproved so many times-”
“Hasn't,” Malfoy interrupted. “Father told me-”
Ron ignored him. “Lots of purebloods stick to themselves. They don’t really spend any time with muggles or muggleborns, so they don’t really know any. They call them mudbloods, because they think they're dangerous and stupid and immoral and that it’s alright to bully them.”
“It’s not like that at all,” said Malfoy haughtily. “We’re all purebloods here. I wasn't going to rub it in Granger's face. No need to jump down my throat.”
“But you really believe it?” Harry asked. “That muggleborns are stupid?”
Malfoy sniffed. “Of course not. I never said that. I’ve got nothing against them. Some are probably very civilised. Obviously Granger is terrifically clever. But as a general rule… “ He paused as Harry stared at him, horrified and then went on quickly. “Look, it’s not my fault magic doesn’t really want them. That’s just the way things are. Perhaps they’d have more magic if they didn’t make bad choices and have… a certain lifestyle. They’ve forgotten the old ways and the magic doesn’t like it. Look, I feel sorry for them, honestly, but it doesn’t help them any by lying about it. It’s only fair to have safe, wixen-only spaces. And mudbloods, it's not really their fault, but they're caught in the middle. Muggles could infiltrate our world by pretending to be muggleborns or their relatives. Hogwarts is a school. Nobody wants muggles sneaking in and hurting vulnerable wixen children.”
“That’s nonsense, Malfoy,” said Ron.
“No, it isn't. You can't just pretend all muggles are harmless. There's a reason they don't have magic. Muggleborns could have their own school so they can keep up with muggle traditions. Or they could wait to study magic when they’re eighteen, so they don’t confuse wixen children with their muggle beliefs. That would be better for everyone.”
“Muggleborns are wixen children,” Ron pointed out.
Malfoy snorted, “you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
Harry felt sick. “I lived as a muggle for ten years,” he said. “You think I should go to a different school instead of Hogwarts? You think my mother had bad blood?”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion. You’re not really a mudblood,” said Malfoy. “I mean, your mum was a muggleborn,” he coughed slightly. “But the Potters are an excellent family! As long as you are careful with who you choose to marry you should be fine, squibs aren't very likely to come from Potter stock.”
“There's nothing wrong with squibs. It's not an illness,” said Ron.
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Sure. But it’s not exactly something to celebrate is it? I don’t hate squibs or muggles or muggleborns. It's all fine, as long as they don’t try to come over here and tell us what to do and how to live our lives. And I think it’s dishonest when they claim they’re the same as us. How are we supposed to tell who’s muggleborn and who’s not just by looking at them? I don’t want my kids to be squibs.”
“Why not?” said Ron.
Malfoy looked exasperated. “You know why not, you’re just afraid to say it. You've been brainwashed by your parents and people like Dumbledore. Though it’s completely obvious that if muggles were any good, they’d have magic too. That’s just a fact.
“Some people have magic, some don’t, it’s no better or worse,” said Ron “It doesn’t make them good or bad, or more likely to hurt anyone else.”
“Sure, I agree! They’re not completely bad people,” Malfoy nodded. “Mostly just misguided. But it’s still dangerous to just let them all in without taking precautions. The magic doesn’t like them; they’re unnatural. There’s plenty of rituals that could cleanse their blood and then they could truly accept magic into their hearts and turn away from their muggle temptations. They might not be able to use magic, but they could acknowledge that it's better and at least try to live as magic teaches us, under the rules that are there to keep us safe.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever! They’re not unnatural, Malfoy, that’s so offensive. How does living as a muggle hurt anyone?”
“If we all lived like muggles and had squib children the magic would die out! It’s just not the way it’s supposed to be. And muggles do hurt people - wixen have always been persecuted. Time and time again through history they’ve killed us with their machines and burnt witches alive -”
“See? Muggle phobia.” said Ron to Harry, rubbing his eyes. “They just lump them all together and claim mad shit about them. Then they claim anyone who disagrees is a danger to wixen women and children and tradition and magic itself. Can you imagine Hermione or her parents attacking anyone? Can you imagine saying to their face that they're unnatural?”
Malfoy sneered. “I already said, I’m not saying they’re all bad. But you can't just expect everyone to trust them. They don't have magic! It's disgusting! How can they even keep clean properly or heal their diseases? They can do whatever they want in their world but there's no need to bring it into our schools.”
“Bring what into schools?” Ron demanded.
Malfoy sniffed. “Now you’re just being difficult.”
Harry shuddered. Malfoy’s face was so very earnest; Harry had no idea how to argue back. Where to even begin? Even engaging with Malfoy’s statement that magic didn’t like muggleborns was like losing the fight before it began. Malfoy was sharp and smart and quick and Harry didn’t really know anything about the wixen world. He had never even managed to argue with the Dursleys. He was starting to get a headache, like he always did. They were always so defensive. Shut up, get back to work, don't ask questions. Let me fear you and hate you and hide you away. How dare you exist. Would Harry and Hermione one day get thrown out of Hogwarts because of their muggle connections? Was Harry still considered a little abnormal, a little worthless, a little wrong for something he had no control over? Perhaps he had been so caught up in the wonder of this new world, that he hadn't noticed those kind of telltale sneers or patronising smiles.
Harry had heard all his life that he had bad blood. It was one of Aunt Marge's favourite topics. For most of his life he hadn't realised the Dursleys hated his magic, because he hadn’t known it existed. He had tried so hard to change whatever it was about himself that was bad. He had thought himself lazy, so he had gotten up earlier to start his chores. They had called him untidy, so he had scrubbed himself clean obsessively and tried to steal their shampoo and shower gel, borrowed their combs and scissors and trimmed his own hair. He had always tucked in his shirts. They had called him rude and ungrateful, so he had peppered his sentences with pleases and thank yous and sorrys. When that hadn’t worked, he had looked for deeper reasons.
The Dursleys weren’t the only people who distrusted him. The neighbours, the other parents at primary school, the teachers… most of them were white. While they would be outraged to be called racist, they still considered themselves normal and watched Harry with wary eyes and pursed lips, even before Petunia told them all about his behaviour problems and his stupidity. They had no trouble believing her. After all, Harry didn't look like Petunia’s nephew. He looked like trouble. He was always asked where he was from. And when he said Little Whinging, Surrey, they said, “yeah, but before that, where are your family from?” and he knew what they really meant.
And that, he could do nothing about. So he had stopped trying. He had still cooked and cleaned for the Dursleys, but he gave up on chasing any reward for doing it well. He didn’t care what he wore or what his hair looked like or how well he did his homework. He would always be imperfect. Wrong. He wasn’t really good at anything. Except maybe playing quidditch, he thought now, but what did that matter in the great scheme of things? Bad blood will out, Aunt Marge always said. Mudblood, said Malfoy. And Harry didn't know how to fight it. Just ignore it, he thought. Tell them they're full of shit when you can, try not to let it get you down. But that wasn't fair. That wasn't good enough!
Ron and Malfoy were still sniping at each other but Harry had lost the thread of their conversation. He wriggled his legs, feeling restless, then brushed his eyes and realised with horror that they were hot and his nose was wet. He was crying. He wiped his face and tried to look at the ceiling hoping neither of the others would notice his tears. But the more he fought it, the more he struggled to catch his breath. He felt on show, trapped here in his pathetic grief for his mother's so-called dirty blood and his father's so-called dirty skin and the way some people said his full name reverently like he was a hero and some people called him “boy,” like he was nothing. None of it made any sense. He felt completely untethered. Alone. He suddenly missed Hermione terribly. She'd get it. He should owl her and get her thoughts. But he wanted… he didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know how to be. He was just Harry, wasn’t that enough? He didn’t even really know why his parents had been targeted all those years ago. The world was a crowd of cold eyes and polite sneers and impossible demands and there was no way out, no way to challenge any of it.
His chest burned and clenched. He never cried. At least, he hadn't before this summer. But in the last few weeks, it seemed like any tiny thing could set him off. And today, for some reason, he had felt wobbly ever since that hug from Mrs Weasley. He fought to get a hold on himself, but something was rising up, a kind of screaming sadness that ached and ached. He had to fight it. He couldn’t let the Malfoys and the Aunt Marges of the world win. The ones who knew they were normal and tried to protect themselves by squashing anything different. Wixen weren’t persecuted by muggles. Muggles were just living their lives, mostly ignorant that wixen even existed. Harry had never done anything to hurt Aunt Marge. But it didn’t matter. Hogwarts, Privet Drive. Maybe they weren’t as different as he had thought. He wanted to go home, wherever that was. He longed for it, he was so homesick he felt nauseous. But for what? He’d never had a home. Not really. He groaned. There was a sudden lull in the background chatter.
“Are you crying, Potter?” Malfoy sounded astonished. Harry shook his head, but he could taste salt from his tears as they dribbled over his lips. Cold drips were sliding off his chin to land on his collarbone. He kept staring at the ceiling. He could get this under control. He could.
“Harry,” said Ron. Harry couldn't look at him. “Mate, it's OK. What's wrong? Malfoy was just being a little shit. Just ignore him.”
Harry was just so tired.
“Why are you crying?” hissed Malfoy. He sounded scared. Perhaps he thought Harry was crying on purpose to get him into trouble.
“His grandparents were muggles. And you were being a arse,” Ron explained.
That wasn't it exactly, but right now Harry didn't have the breath to explain.
”I don’t understand the problem," said Malfoy. “It’s not unreasonable to say that muggles don’t have magic and mudbloods are more likely to have squibs.”
Ron groaned, “Shut up, Malfoy. That’s not the point! Stop saying such nasty things! You're a bigot!”
“Now who's saying nasty things?”
Ron was getting red in the face. “Bigot isn’t a slur! Not like mudblood! You are scared of a whole group of people and arguing that they are dangerous and should be excluded from Hogwarts. I am pointing out that you, Malfoy, an individual, are saying something that spreads fear and hate. Muggles and muggleborns are a huge, diverse group of people. You, Draco Malfoy, are a bigot. That’s the difference. You are earning that label yourself. There’s nothing Hermione can do to stop being muggleborn. There’s no reason why she should. But you could and should change your prejudices.”
“I’m not prejudiced,” said Malfoy. “How dare you? You’re the ones prejudiced against purebloods and our way of life. We have the right not to be around mudbloods if we don’t want to be.”
Ron swore at him. Harry flinched back. Draco started to stalk away, muttering.
“Sorry, Harry,” Ron said. “It just winds me up. Dad’s always telling me about this stuff.”
Harry stared at him. He had never heard him so riled up about anything. Malfoy turned back.
“See, Potter?” said Malfoy. “I told you, he’s brainwashed! I didn’t even want to argue about it. You're both from old pureblood families anyway. He’s just trying to stir up trouble.”
“Whatever,” said Ron.
In the silence that followed, Harry wondered if that was it. Truce over. The quiet was very uncomfortable. Malfoy was staring out of the window, his mouth scrunched small. Ron had his arms crossed as he glowered at the floor. Harry hated the tension. He was buzzing, fidgety, he wanted something to do with his hands but it seemed impossible to suggest another game of snap now. He supposed they might just sit in awkward silence until Arthur came back. But his thoughts were jumpy, sparking and something kept getting stuck. Before he could help it, he cleared his throat.
“How do you even know about my dad’s family anyway?” he asked Malfoy. Ron looked up.
“The Potters?” Malfoy shrugged. “Everyone does.”
“Do you know where my dad was from? Originally, I mean?” Part of his childhood fantasy had involved being able to travel far, far away and find family living somewhere warm with good food. Anywhere better than miserable, racist, rainy Britain.
Ron looked confused. Malfoy shot him an uncertain look. “Potter's Place was in Godric’s Hollow,” he said. “It was an old, historic mansion. I believe your family lived there for at least 7 generations. It was destroyed during the war. Your parents were living in a nearby cottage when they died.”
“Oh,” said Harry. “And where is Godric’s Hollow?”
“Somerset,” said Ron. “Near Exmoor. It’s not that far from the Burrow, really. Have you never been? There’s a statue of you and your parents. Mum took us one halloween.”
“On Halloween? Why?” asked Harry. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to wipe his leaky eyes.
“Oh. The anniversary. You know,” Ron bit his lip. “The date your parents died and you defeated the Dark Lord.”
“Oh yeah,” said Harry. “I remember. October 31st.”
“You remember?” said Ron, eyes wide.
Harry looked up. “Oh, no, I don’t mean I remember that night. Not really. I have nightmares sometimes about green light and screaming but nothing apart from that. I just meant, the Dursleys told me my parents died in a car crash. How they were drunk and fed up with having a horrible, crying baby and went off for a night out to get away from it all and they got what they deserved for being lazy and shirking their responsibilities and leaving me as a burden on good, hardworking, normal people. And sometimes I forget that’s not true.”
“Oh,” said Ron. There was a long silence.
“Are statues like paintings?” Harry asked.
“What do you mean?” Ron ran his hand through his hair as though dazed.
“Like the Fat Lady? If I went to see the statue, could I talk to them?”
“Ah, no. Sorry.”
“But what if someone painted my parents now?”
“Er… no. It doesn't work like that,” Ron shook his head.
“You have to commission a painting before someone dies if you want it to hold their essence,” said Malfoy. “Like the Headmaster portraits in Dumbledore’s office. But it’s very expensive.”
“Oh,” said Harry. He paused. “I wish… I really wish they’d done that. Or any of my grandparents or whoever. I never even saw a photograph of them before this year.” He fiddled with his blanket again. “If they had a big, old mansion, they could have made paintings. Kept them safe somewhere.” His heart was racing, he felt a little dizzy. “Although maybe they did and it all got destroyed,” he realised. “But then… I’d have thought at least one of them could have stayed back as a ghost. They could have been a professor like Binns. And then I could have lived here.” He didn’t know why he was saying all this. It was like all the looping thoughts he had had over the summer were spilling out. All the questions he had saved up for years while lying in his cupboard.
“That would have been cool,” said Ron. “I wish you could have talked to them.”
“What was the place called again?”
“Godric’s Hollow. Like Godric Gryffindor.”
“Ok, thanks. And what’s a squib?”
“Someone born to wixen parents who has no magic.”
“Oh,” Harry nodded slowly. “So what will you do if you have a squib child?” he asked Malfoy.
“I won’t,” said Malfoy.
“But if you did?”
“I won’t.”
Harry wondered if Malfoy would lock his children in a cupboard. He rubbed his eyes, though the tears had stopped a while back. He didn’t really understand why he felt so sad. It was all just stuff from ages ago. From when he was a baby, really.
“Why did Voldemort want to kill me and my parents anyway?” he muttered. Ron and Malfoy both jumped. “Dumbledore wouldn’t say. Was it just because of the muggleborn thing?”
“You-know-who killed lots of people,” said Ron. Scabbers started to squeak. Ron was probably squeezing him a bit too hard. “He wanted to take over everything. And yeah, he hated muggles.”
“People were killed on both sides of the war, actually,” said Malfoy.
“So You-Know-Who was just a victim, was he?” said Ron. “Just wanted peace and quiet from all those troublesome muggleborns telling him they had as much right to magic as he did?”
Malfoy shrugged. “If you want to be a good historian you have to look at both sides. The Dark Lord did some good things. Got further than most defeating death, didn’t he? Wouldn’t you want to live forever if you could?”
Harry thought about that. “Not if I had to drink unicorn blood or stick out of Quirrel’s head,” he said finally. “Not if I got kicked out of Hogwarts anyway because of my blood.”
Malfoy blinked at him and then scowled. “What are you talking about? You're not listening, Potter. You’re a pureblood, mostly.” he said. “The Dark Lord probably only went after your parents because they joined Dumbledore’s forces. I don't know; maybe they could have stayed out of it. Dumbledore was against the Dark Lord from the beginning, because he wanted to explore immortality arts. Even though Dumbledore is friends with the Flamels! If they had just shared the philosopher’s stone with the Dark Lord in the first place, maybe the whole war could have been avoided.”
“That’s not the point at all,” said Ron. “Everyone loved You-Know-Who in the beginning. But he went on and on about the danger of muggles. Thousands of them were killed in the end.”
“Obviously I agree, it all got out of hand, the war was bad. Whatever,” said Malfoy. “It’s good Potter stopped him back then when he went a bit crazy, blah, blah, blah. But nobody wants to kill mudbloods now. All I’m saying is I don’t agree with their way of life and I think it would be dangerous to just let them everywhere and if they can’t handle a bit of debate, they shouldn’t be at the same schools.”
Harry considered this. “Mudbloods,” he said, trying the word out on his tongue. “Mudblood.” He had much preferred not knowing this word. It was going to be hard to get it out of his head. “Another clever idea to get ourselves killed, or worse, expelled,” he murmured to himself.
“What?” said Malfoy. “Potter, speak up. You’re talking very quietly, I can’t really hear.”
Harry’s face felt a bit crusty. Old tears and snot. He wiped it on his sleeve and saw Malfoy cringe away. Harry didn’t care. The Malfoys and the Dursleys of the world knew how to see and be seen, not Harry.
“Just as strange, just as abnormal…” he muttered. He closed his eyes. All was well, in Malfoy’s world, as long as people stayed in their places.
“Are you feeling ok?” asked Ron. “Harry?”
“Still here are you?” Aunt Marge always asked, whenever she saw him. She looked at him with her nose scrunched up in disgust, like he smelled bad, worse than the messes Ripper made.
Aunt Petunia’s mouth had twisted in anger. Her eyes had bulged. “I was the only one who saw her for what she was … a freak…”
“Harry!” Ron’s voice sounded oddly far away, as though underwater. “Harry, can you hear me?”
“Potter?” Malfoy called. “What are you doing?”
Harry was so tired.
“Back to the cupboard, boy!” Uncle Vernon’s voice tore through him. Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe it wasn’t too bad to stay there, in the peaceful dark. Nobody was fighting.
“Bloody hell,” said Ron. “He’s disappearing. Harry? Harry?”
Harry felt cold. He wasn’t shivering though. It was more like falling. Slipping off the path, sliding towards the deep lake and the long sky. The same kind of magic. The place where he went straddling.
“Harry, stop it!” Ron said and grabbed his arms. “It's OK, you're ok. Don't disappear.” Harry could feel his fingers gripping him. Burning warmth, holding him in place.
“I’ll get Madam Pomfrey!” Malfoy said. And Harry could hear him running.
“Come back,” pleaded Ron. “Harry!”
With a great effort, Harry opened his eyes. He looked down. He could see Ron's pale, freckled hands through his own. He felt a little calmer. He hadn't just imagined it earlier then. He really could fade away. It was nice to know that was an option. He could be transparent: so clear, obvious, easy to see. Or transparent: see-through. Nothing. Coming and going. Here and Nowhere.
“Harry, stop! What are you doing?” Ron begged. “Harry? Are you using the cloak somehow? Please, don't disappear! You're my best mate and I've missed you and I wanted to show you the Burrow and our field and play quidditch. Hermione will kill me if we lose you again.”
Harry looked at him and tried to calm down. Hermione. He did want to see Hermione again. The field. He missed being outside and playing quidditch. He wanted to know what the Burrow looked like. He hadn’t eaten the new sandwiches from Mrs Weasley yet. He’d like to try another hug.
“I want to see the swimming pool room and the quidditch books,” said Ron. “Next year will be amazing, we can go every day after class. We'll throw Gryffindor pool parties. I bet Neville will forget his towel every time.”
Harry snorted. “Doesn't matter,” he croaked. “The room will have spares.”
“Awesome,” breathed Ron. “Sounds like a plan. I don't think even Fred and George ever found a pool room. Hogwarts must really like you. We could keep it a secret from them. Serve them right for being stingy about the kitchens. They'll probably go mad, try and prank us. But we’ll get Ginny on our side, prank them back.”
Harry half laughed, half shrugged. That sounded fun. Hogwarts saw him. Hogwarts had given him a bedroom, a bathroom, a safe space of his own. He hadn’t asked to be a wizard. He hadn’t asked to exist. But he did. He wasn’t hurting anyone. He tried so hard to be good. And he deserved to be here as much as anyone else. He deserved to laugh at Ron’s jokes and play chess and read books and train for Quidditch and eat treacle tarts. He barely knew anything yet. And it wasn’t time. He had that power to straddle, but it wasn’t time. That memory was silky, shifting, hard to hold onto. But somehow he knew, he didn’t need to worry about that yet.
When he looked down again, his hands were normal. Solid. He assumed his face was OK too, because Ron gave him a wobbly smile. There was a clattering of footsteps and then Malfoy and Madam Pomfrey were peering at him.
“What happened, Harry?” she asked.
“I… faded out a bit,” he said. “But it’s ok. I’m back,” he added quickly. The three of them looked at him.
“He was turning invisible,” said Ron. “No cloak or anything.”
“How did you do that?” Malfoy asked.
“Er…” said Harry. He couldn’t remember. “I don’t know. Sorry?”
“That's OK,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I think I had better call Professor Snape.”
“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “But it’s ok now,” he said. “I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good, that’s good,” said Madam Pomfrey calmly, slicing her wand through the air in a frantic dance. Something silver shot out of the end. It looked like some kind of large animal which lumbered away and disappeared through one of the walls. “You rest now, Harry. I’m just going to do a few tests. Professor Snape is on his way.”
