Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry had been planning this for some time. He had managed over several weeks and months to build up quite a stash of food. It started off as instinct; he had done the same thing often enough at the Dursleys. He had learnt at a young age which foods could be easily hidden and which lasted longest. There had been plenty of days when Dudley had stolen his packed lunch and neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia had shown any interest in feeding him dinner. A secret food stash was a sensible precaution. So all through first year he had done the same thing; any time the Hogwarts meals included dried food or anything self-contained, like the little packets of cereal they sometimes had at breakfast, or the tubs of dried fruit for sprinkling on porridge, he would swipe some into his bag and later store it carefully in his trunk.

He checked it fairly frequently. Several early Privet Drive disasters involving rotting meat or hungry mice still lingered in his mind. There was at least one patch of mould on the carpet at the very back of his cupboard under the stairs which had never come off, no matter how much he bleached and scrubbed it. Ants were relentless; he knew all about tight seals now. And worse than ants… the time he had left a box of seeds too long. He didn't pause too long on that memory - it still made him retch. He had been holding the box close to his face when he opened it, squinting in the low light. When he realised it was wriggling he had immediately flung it away, but releasing squirming, white larvae into his little, enclosed space was one of the stupidest things he had ever done.

But what started off as a habit became more and more urgent as the school year drew to a close. He told himself he was saving the food just in case, not thinking too hard about exactly why. Perhaps a few extra snacks would help during exam revision. He checked the expiry dates avidly - even some of the stuff he'd gotten off the trolley on the Hogwarts Express back in September was still ok, not to mention the toffees Mrs Weasley had sent him at Christmas. He was so rarely hungry here, he’d never had to open it. He had gone as far as looking up food preservation spells and even found a pretty cool stasis spell, although it looked way beyond his current skills. He thought he might have asked Hermione to help but decided it would probably lead to too many questions.

And that was when he knew. He finally admitted it to himself: there was no way he was going back to Privet Drive. Not if he could help it. Why would he? The mere thought of it made him sick. He had had a whole year out of his cupboard and he wasn't going to just let them put him back in there. Besides, it wasn't safe for Hedwig. What if they hurt her? He could very easily imagine Vernon locking her in her cage for weeks or Dudley breaking her wing. Dudley had once thrown his pet tortoise out of the window. No, it was simple. He would hide. He had the invisibility cloak after all. He'd find an empty classroom and sit there until everyone forgot about him. Or he could lie under his bed until everyone had gone. He'd cling on to the bannisters in the Entrance Hall, he'd lock himself in Hagrid's hut, he’d even consider jumping off the train… it didn't matter. He wasn't going back.

The main problem was Ron and Hermione. They'd notice. They’d ask questions. This was not something he knew how to explain. He’d already had a few awkward conversations. They had asked why he never got letters, why he hadn’t known anything about his parents, why he never talked about home. A couple of times Harry had tried to join in when Ron joked about his brothers or Hermione rolled her eyes about her parents. But the others had never laughed about anything he said about Dudley or Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. They looked worried. They started asking odd things. He had managed to avoid those questions for months. He knew with absolute certainty that he would be so much happier staying at school over the holidays, even if he was on his own. But he didn’t want to explain why. It was much easier not to think about it.

He had to be casual. He didn’t want to make a big fuss. But he needed some excuse for not getting on the train. Could he pretend to be sick? Or say that the Dursleys were picking him up, that they were all holidaying together in Scotland? He snorted at the ridiculous thought. But he couldn't come up with anything better. As the remaining days dwindled down, his stress had him by the throat. It was the penultimate week and he still hadn't decided on anything. Exams were done, Quirrel and Voldemort had been stopped, but Harry was angstier than ever.

And then, finally, Harry thought of the perfect lie. They had all traipsed down to Hagrid’s for a last cup of tea. He had been chewing on a particularly rough rock cake, savouring every bite even though it made his jaw ache. He remembered the first time he ever met Hagrid. The boom on the door, the birthday cake, the pig’s tail. That was it. He could say Hagrid was going to take him home. He could say Dumbledore had asked Hagrid to explain to the Dursleys what had happened with Quirrel and everything. He could say the Dursleys had demanded someone spoke to them in person. Hagrid had met them before. Hagrid often disappeared from Hogwarts for small chunks of time on various jobs away from the castle. If Harry said his goodbyes and started hiding at the same time, hopefully no-one would question it.

He packed his trunk that night while the others were at dinner and hid it under his invisibility cloak alongside his broom and Hedwig's cage. He kept a few clean clothes and his toothbrush separate in a rucksack with a couple of books and other bits and pieces, which would keep him going until the end of term. He scouted out a good room; an empty classroom on the second floor, rarely used, with a broken lock. That would be his first hideout. His luggage was so heavy, it took him four days to move it out of Gryffindor Tower and down several staircases. He dragged the trunk in one hand, broom in the other, one arm poked awkwardly through the bars of the cage. He moved like a snail, stopping often to make sure the cloak was completely covering everything. He left it all out overnight several times, always taking care that it was fully invisible and tucked into some corner where it wouldn't be tripped over, then returning early the next morning to move it further on.

The trickiest part was timing when to come back out of the cloak so as not to surprise anyone. He misjudged it one time and heard a loud yelp from a group of third year girls as he suddenly appeared from nowhere. He hurried on with his head down and they didn't say anything or stop to investigate, so he figured he had gotten away with it. Hermione also paid a little bit more attention than he really wanted. After eyeing him with some concern several days in a row, she finally asked what he was up to. Harry guessed she meant why he kept coming back to the common room sweaty, scrunching his hands open and closed to release the tension in his sore fingers. The trunk handle was brutal, it had very little give and his palms were rubbed raw. His arms and shoulders were aching, not to mention the bruises where he had bashed the broom against his shins. He told her he had decided to try jogging and push-ups now the quidditch season was over. She stared at him a little while, before suggesting he change out of his jeans next time. "Oh yeah, good idea!" he agreed breezily. She nodded with a slight frown but didn't ask again.

Then, with his luggage finally in place, Harry waited. He peered through a window on the east side every morning and evening to check Hagrid's cabin for signs he was away. Nothing changed for the first few days; smoke still rose from the chimney, the curtains opened and closed, the lights went on and off. Harry was starting to feel anxious that Hagrid wouldn't have any offsite errands so close to term ending. But the day before they were due to leave, Harry saw it. No smoke. Dark windows. This was it.

He raced to the owlery and scribbled a letter as quickly and neatly as he could. It was a polite letter for the Dursleys, telling them not to bother picking him up at the station tomorrow. He wrote that he would be spending the first half of the holidays at Ron's and then the second at Hermione's. He didn't leave any details of how to contact him; he highly doubted they would care. He whispered to Hedwig to come find him back here at Hogwarts after the delivery and she had stared at him a little reproachfully. He wondered how much she understood sometimes. "Don't come back to the owlery," he clarified. "Come find me. I might be in Hagrid's hut if he leaves it empty or I might find a classroom or camp out or something. But I'll be around here."

She bit his finger, but not too hard, and set off, swooping low over the forest and then gaining height above the lake. He had filled the envelope with owl treats so she'd have something before the long journey back. He could only hope one of the Dursleys would let her have them. He rolled his wand absentmindedly between his fingers. This was it; the final jump after weeks of planning. He wondered if he would dare try using magic over the holidays. He would still be at school... technically. He decided he could manage without; it was probably best to save for emergencies only. The only time he thought he might really need magic was if he ran out of food, but nowhere in his research had he found any spells that created food or even just made more of it. It was weird. Something he'd have to keep researching.

He was ready as he would ever be. He practised what he was going to say as he trudged back to the tower. He collected his rucksack and gave his pillow one last pat goodbye. Then he headed back to the common room. He found Ron playing chess with Neville and Hermione reading nearby. "Er, bye guys," he said, stumbling over his words a little awkwardly. "I'll see you next term."

"Huh?" said Ron, not looking up. "Train's on Friday. Tomorrow."

"I know," Harry garbled. "But Hagrid's taking me early so he can explain what happened with Quirrel to my aunt and uncle. They've been complaining about Dumbledore's letters or something." Ron was frowning at him. Hermione had also looked up. "It's fine, don't worry," he smiled. "Hagrid will sort them out."

"You serious?" Ron looked gutted. "I wanted to buy chocolate frogs and set them free in Malfoy's compartment."

Harry laughed. "Save it for September," he said, before remembering suddenly that all being well he wouldn't be on that train either... but that was too far ahead to worry about now. Hermione gave him a tight hug and made him promise to write. Neville gave him a hug too, which was a little surprising and then he and Ron shoved into each other. Ron sent him flying and Hermione rolled her eyes but Harry giggled. He waved back at a few others who had overheard and then climbed back out of the fat lady's portrait.

He hurried straight to the great hall and wolfed down a second, enormous breakfast. He took a load of sausages and wrapped them in a napkin, then emptied several fruit bowls into his bag. Some seventh years watched him, smirking at his eccentricity but he grinned at them and they just laughed a little and looked away again. He went to a bathroom, waited until it was empty, then brushed his teeth and filled his water bottle. He was heading to his classroom when he saw the twins.

"Hey Fred! George!" He yelled and both twins turned.

"Alright, Harry?" said one of them. Harry squinted. He was pretty sure it was Fred; he had an extra freckle cluster over his left eye.

"Yeah, fine! I just wanted to ask... um... How do you sneak into the kitchens?"

The twins laughed. "So Ron's got you onto that too?"

Harry shrugged.

"Sorry, Harry," said George. "We can't just give away our secrets. Not to ickle first years anyway. Ask us in a couple of years."

"OK," Harry sighed and let it go. It was worth a try. Ron had been asking them all year. If worse came to the worst and he ran out of food, he'd just have to figure it out. "See you later," he added with a grin and left them. He had to do an extra loop round so nobody saw him, but finally he came to the second floor. Several groups were walking by so he waited, standing idly in front of a portrait of a white horse chewing some straw. He looked down at his watch a couple of times as though waiting for someone. Luckily this corridor only had two paintings and neither had people (the other one showed clouds and a lapping ocean) so there was no-one who might notice and tell on him. When the last person turned the corner out of sight, he slipped into the classroom, felt for his invisible trunk and gave one last look around. Then, he sat against the wall, pulled the cloak over his head and shuffled under it, holding close to his luggage.

It was a bit of an anti-climax when absolutely nothing happened. His heart was beating in his chest as though he had been doing stunts on his broom. He was sweating a lot and it felt stuffier than usual under the cloak. He was always a little claustrophobic, but he had to just focus and slow his breathing. This wasn't like the cupboard under the stairs; he wasn't locked in. There wasn't a ton of room to move but he could make sure every bit of luggage was covered by the cloak and still have just enough space to sit and read his book. Harry had plenty of experience being still and pretending he didn't exist. It was much better doing it here than at Privet Drive. No-one was going to grab or slap or scream if they found him. Probably.

After a few hours, he ate a couple of the sausages he'd taken earlier. It was tempting to go under the cloak back to the hall at lunch or dinner for more food but he couldn't risk him or the trunk being seen, so he stayed put. He knew how to be patient. Whenever his legs or back got achy he just took a break from reading and slowly stretched them out. He could hear people passing by the corridor but it wasn't a particularly busy area, especially now that most of the classes were done for the year. He had a stack of cold toast triangles for dinner and then, when it got to 11pm, he thought he had better risk sleep. He made sure the cloak was caught tight under his trunk on one side and his bag on the other. He hoped that he wouldn't snore or talk in his sleep too loudly. He thought the cloak might muffle noise a little - no-one ever seemed to hear his footsteps.

It took a while to get to sleep, which wasn't surprising, but he managed to drop off sometime before 1am. He woke confused a couple of times in the night, but it only took a minute or so to figure out that he wasn't in either his cupboard or his four poster bed and then he could snuggle back down into his bunched up jumper and his school cloak, which worked surprisingly well as a blanket. The floor was cold and hard but he didn't care, it was well worth it.

He woke sharply at 7am. Outside, there was a great deal of bustling about: shouts and clattering, yells of goodbye and some running - must be last minute high spirits before the long train journey or people hurrying back for things they'd forgotten. Nobody came into his classroom; he had chosen well. But nevertheless he sat frozen, too scared even to read his book in case someone heard the pages turning over. And then, around 10am Friday morning, it all went quiet.

.....

The sun was beating down. The students were fidgeting, itching to go. There were crowds of them everywhere in more or less orderly lines, a twitching sea of overheating black cloaks. Minerva knew the cloaks and jumpers would be discarded immediately on the train and in all likelihood left behind. The lost property mountain always surged up on the last day. She stabbed at her clipboard with her quill as she hurried to tick names off her list of first years. "Potter?" She called.

"Hagrid took him," Ron yawned.

She paused. Rubeus was down at the station already helping the older ones. He'd know to put Harry on the train. She still tutted, a little annoyed. He could have told her first. But it wasn't a big deal. She'd remind him about the signing off rules another time. And to be honest, it warmed her heart how the three young friends had taken to him. Albus had told her they had weekly visits with tea and desserts. Having tried Rubeus' rock cakes herself she knew they weren't friends with him for his cooking. She knew Harry would miss him over summer. She could let it slide this once. Let them have the last hour together.

She finished her list and waved them off. The first years trotted and skipped towards the carriages, following the prefects. They'd all be bigger and cheekier in September. There would be many a growth spurt, voices would drop. They'd come back a little more cocky now they knew the routines. Second years were not her favourite year group. But all that could wait. Another term complete. She smiled to herself as she strode back into the shade of the entrance hall. She was looking forward to clearing her classroom and getting the hell out of here. Tonight there would be the annual staff party in Hogsmeade, which she would give a look in and then… home. Finally. She had big plans. She was going to have a long lie in tomorrow morning and then do fuck all for the rest of the week, except maybe read, sleep and eat. It was going to be heavenly. 

Chapter Text

Soft light drifted in through the windows, illuminating the dust specks floating over the empty desks. Harry sat very still. Friday morning had drifted into quietness, but he should wait at least another day under the cloak. The students might have gone, but who knew how long the teachers would be prowling about? He still heard occasional footsteps along nearby corridors, the distant slamming of a door, the faint sound of voices. He was stiffer than yesterday and now also had to fight to ignore his need for the bathroom, but he was really getting through his book. If he concentrated hard he could completely forget where he was and what he was doing, for a little while. He stretched out his legs when they got too numb.

When it got dark again, late Friday evening, he thought he might be safe. The train was due to arrive in London in the afternoon, so if the Dursleys had gone and kicked up a fuss at the station, someone here would have been alerted and he'd have heard people searching. But there was only quiet. Still under the cloak, he dragged his luggage into the gloomiest corner of the classroom. The windows were quite large and the moon was bright but there were still plenty of stretching shadows. He backed away, leaving the bags visible but they didn't look too out of place in this old classroom, as long as no-one got too close and saw his name in golden letters on the side of the trunk. He'd have to find somewhere better to hide them eventually.

With the cloak clutched around him, he crept towards the nearest bathroom. He didn't see anyone, which was lucky because he was so desperate at this point, his footsteps were not as silent as they should have been. He pulled the bathroom door open as gently as he could, wincing as the hinge creaked and screeched. It was empty. No one disturbed him. He sighed with relief and then scrubbed his hands with soap as fast as he could. He splashed his face and had a long drink from the tap. He hurried back to his classroom, his heart jolting. He sat on his trunk and waited as he caught his breath… but nothing happened. He had done it! He was alone! Free! He should still be cautious, but he was quivering with joy. There was a whole summer ahead, all to himself, for reading, relaxing and exploring his favourite place. Home, sweet, home, he smiled to himself.

He had been too anxious to eat much earlier but now he felt ravenous. He ate the rest of the sausage and toast from the day before. It probably wouldn't keep well beyond today anyway. He suddenly felt wide awake, even though it was late. He had dozed all day and the food had given him a buzz of energy. Perhaps he could spend the summer nocturnally. He wiped his hands and then had a think about the classroom, keeping an ear out for anyone passing by. It took some time as he didn't want to make any noise but eventually he had manœuvred a few chairs into position. With the invisibility cloak draped on top, it was like a little tent or den. He settled himself in and decided it was very cosy.

Next, he needed to figure out his rations properly. He pulled out a piece of parchment and his old biro. It felt off using the muggle pen on parchment, but whatever, he didn't have any paper and he didn't want to spill any ink. He drew out a grid and counted the days. Today was Friday 3rd July. Technically, it was Saturday, since it was 1am, but that didn't matter. Either way, he had 8 and a half weeks until September 1st. He didn't know if he'd really stay here for that long, in all likelihood he'd be caught and told off and sent back to the Dursleys… but he intended to try. Starting from Saturday, he had 60 days to survive.

He laid out all his food. He had some galleons left over from last year... He had a sudden vision of himself ordering a pizza and coke to the entrance hall. He'd seen others order replacement robes to the castle - Neville had lost three cloaks over the year. But where would the packages go if the owlery was empty and there were no breakfast deliveries? It seemed too obvious a way to advertise his hideout. But perhaps he could figure something out when Hedwig got back. Obviously pizza was out of the question but perhaps he could order groceries somewhere and she could pick them up?

He wondered briefly what he would do if they turned the castle water off over the summer. Drink from the lake? Escape to Hogsmeade? He suspected the magical protections around Hogwarts meant that if he left, he wouldn't be able to get back in. It wasn't worth the risk, he had no idea what such spells involved. But he wished he'd done a little more reading about that. What if the castle just magically stopped existing over the summer? What would happen to him? Or if the castle was flooded with pesticides or something? One time Aunt Petunia had made him spray the garden and he'd had a cough for weeks. What if the ghosts took over during the summer? Or if there were more trolls ready to sneak into the dungeons?

He was over thinking. He forced himself to close his eyes and lie back against the cold floor. It would be OK. He'd face these problems when and if they appeared. The ghosts had, apart from Peeves, always been pretty nice. Peeves he did have to watch out for. And Filch! Did Filch stay over the summer? He didn’t seem the sort for a beach holiday. He amused himself imagining Filch sunbathing on a lilo in a pool somewhere with a drippy ice cream, Mrs Norris clinging on for dear life. His stomach rumbled at the thought of ice cream, so he turned his attention back to what he had managed to scavenge. It wasn't really enough for 60 days so he had the choice - starve himself a little now and know he had enough to get through or eat more reasonably and hope something turned up. He really wanted the second one but he knew that was foolhardy. Best be on the safe side; he could deal with hunger, he'd done it before. And if he managed to find the kitchens or any other food lying around, it would be an extra special bonus.

The more recent stuff he got from the hall was all fresh and he had no fridge or anything. So he could eat pretty well this first week before it expired. He had a block of cheese, three loaves of bread, a couple of packs of yoghurt pots, a bag of fruit and veg - 7 quite bruised apples, 5 oranges and three bananas that already looked extremely mushy. He'd forgotten about them when he was dragging everything around. But it didn't matter, that was plenty to start off with. Once he got onto the dried stuff, that was going to be a bit more grim. But that meant he should search for the kitchens as soon as possible, while he still had energy.

After the fresh stuff, he would have 53 days on the dry goods (assuming he hadn't found anything else). He had 25 little boxes of cereal, 10 packets of dried fruit, 4 packets of chopped nuts, two and a half packets of bertie bots, the Christmas toffee, the sugar free sweets Hermione's parents kept sending her that she was always trying to give away, a handful of chocolate frogs, some kind of dried jerky stuff he'd gotten off the Hogwarts Express trolley, one pumpkin pasty and lots of little plastic tubs of marmite, jam, butter and sugar and salt sachets.

He counted them all out and decided that he'd go with half a packet of cereal, a pinch of dried fruit, two nuts, a fingernail's worth of jerky and one sweet or condiment tub per day. He could add the sugar and salt to his water, maybe. He had also borrowed a bowl, a knife, a fork and a spoon but hadn't wanted to worry about a glass. He could drink from his bowl. He'd have the nuts, cereal and fruit at midday and the jerky and the sweet at sunset. Easy. He'd save the pasty for his birthday. He could drink lots of water and try not to do too much walking. If he tried to make the fresh stuff last as long as he could, perhaps stretching it to ten days or even two weeks, then he might be able to build up a little reserve in case anything went wrong.

He knew from experience he was likely to get terrible headaches the first few days of real starvation when he went onto the dried stuff, but he didn't have any paracetamol or anything. Maybe he'd be able to get into the hospital wing. But even then, medicine here always seemed to be made fresh and it was a bad idea to mess around with stuff he wasn't really qualified to identify. He had at least stopped drinking tea and coffee a few weeks ago, knowing withdrawal from caffeine always hurt most.

He wondered if there was any fruit or vegetables in the forbidden forest or the greenhouses but it probably wasn't worth the risk. Even something that looked as innocuous as an apple might well turn out to be some sort of sneaky devil's pear or whomping melon. He'd check Hagrid's garden and veg patch if he could get in. He knew there were blackberries there that would be seriously underripe this time of year, but might do if he were desperate.

His watch read 2am. He felt oddly exuberant considering he was already quite hungry. He wondered - was this how Ron and Hermione felt about Christmas? He was tingling with joy and excitement for the next day. Plus, he felt oddly moved, almost like he was going to cry. For what felt like the first time in his life, he was in control. He hadn't wanted to go to the Dursleys and so he hadn't gone. He could eat and sleep and read whenever he felt like it. He made another expedition to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before tiptoeing back to his little nest. Tomorrow was going to be beautiful.

He woke up late Saturday morning, which felt very luxurious. He indulged in a couple of slices of bread and some cheese. He hadn't showered or even changed his clothes since Thursday and he was really starting to feel it, getting that prickly sweat rash in uncomfortable places. He wasn't going to be able to get back into the Gryffindor tower bathrooms so he made do with a quick scrub at the sink in the bathroom and a change of clothes, all still under the invisibility cloak. It was very odd not to see his reflection in the mirrors. He kept forgetting and looked for himself, every time.

He was itching to explore. Top of the list of things to find was a better place to hide the trunk. It would be a catastrophe if Peeves got his hands on it while he was out and about. He wandered around slowly enough that he hoped the very gentle pattering of his footsteps might be mistaken for regular, old castle noises. He took the time to note which doors had been left open so he could slip inside without attracting attention. He felt so much like a ghost, he wouldn't have been surprised if he could walk through the walls. After a couple of hours, he still hadn't seen anyone, which was a little strange but overall a relief. Every time he had to creak open a door he cringed, but so far nobody had come to investigate. He tried the hospital wing and found it locked, but the library door was ajar and apparently unguarded. That was handy. He could do his homework in there!

He paused a long while in the entrance hall, before deciding that he was too afraid to go out into the grounds. If the door closed behind him and he couldn't get back in, he'd be stuck. He'd have to seek shelter in the Quidditch pitch or Hagrid's hut instead. He hadn't known Hagrid to lock his door before, but over summer, who knew? He did not fancy camping in the Forbidden Forest if he could help it. If Harry needed fresh air he could just open a window or maybe go up to the astronomy tower.

The only thing moving in the great hall was the sky, which he watched for a little while as white fluffy clouds skittered across the blue. He tapped his fingers lightly on the Gryffindor table and then sat down at all the tables in turn, imagining how life might have been if he had been sorted differently. Would he have been best friends with Crabbe and Goyle? Or Ernie and Justin and Hannah? Padma Patil? He swung his legs idly, daydreaming. Any minute now, the plates of steaming hot food would appear, a sumptuous feast, just for him. He sighed and moved on.

He walked up to the top table and sat in Hagrid's chair and then Dumbledore's. Briefly, he laid his head on the table. He was feeling a little sad but he wasn't sure why exactly. He had done his absolute best to hide from everyone and he was happy that he had succeeded, but… it just felt a little odd that it was so easy. It felt like he'd taken a sharp turning and fallen a little further away from the main road than he had intended. He was starting to feel the quiet. He had the urge to shout for no reason. It was always like this when the Dursleys gave him the silent treatment for a few days. He'd get over it.

There was a sudden movement and Harry froze, but it was just a couple of elderly ghosts in large tudor dresses. He watched them for a little while, but didn't understand any of what they were saying. He thought they were chatting in French, but he knew so little about other languages, it could have been Spanish or Italian. He liked the way they laughed though. If he had to guess, he'd say that the one in the silvery yellow dress was teasing the one in silvery pink. Perhaps they had grown up together. Or had they been lifelong partners? He wondered if they had died together or just made friends as ghosts. He just watched for a little while until they drifted away.

Surely, it made sense for the kitchens to be somewhere near here? Or did it? Magic probably meant they could be anywhere. He groaned to himself. It was probably best to search outwards from the hall systematically. He found some nearby corridors he hadn't seen before but nowhere that looked like it held any fridges or ovens or anything. He wondered if there were any chefs or if it was all done by automatic magic. Maybe the kitchens would be empty outside of term time even if he found them. He hadn't walked for long but suddenly he felt very tired.

He did find a packet of muggle salt and vinegar crisps in an empty classroom and seized it immediately. He didn't think anyone would mind, it had obviously been forgotten. Something more for his stash. Maybe he'd have them on his birthday with the pumpkin pasty. He licked his lips. Feeling happier again he wandered back to the second floor and spent the rest of the afternoon finishing his book.

Chapter Text

Harry was getting used to his new routine under the cloak. He rolled out of his den each morning and had a wash and brushed his teeth in the nearest bathroom. In the mornings, he explored. The castle seemed larger now, somehow, more stately. He liked the corridors with carpet that he could slip along silently. He lingered over paintings, had imaginary conversations with the ones with kind faces, sometimes just stared at the hypnotic brushstrokes and colours until he lost himself. He sometimes picked a ghost to follow, just to see where they wandered, but they were inevitably too quick for him to keep up, for all they appeared to float and linger aimlessly. He had begun to believe he would be the only living soul in the castle all summer, until one early morning he heard clanging noises. He tiptoed closer and spotted Filch wrestling with a particularly dilapidated suit of armour, holding a spanner in his mouth. He presumed Filch was repairing it somehow, though he thought it best not to get too close.

He spent most afternoons and evenings in the library, which had a peaceful, bookish kind of quiet he much preferred to the gloomy passageways and ominously empty classrooms. He was really getting through his homework. He found a little table in a nook by one of the large windows and often set up there, tying his cloak from the window handle so it draped right over him and his little workspace. The first time he dared to pull a book off a shelf, he held his breath, petrified he might set off some kind of alarm, but nothing happened. He avoided the restricted section, just in case. He started reading the second book of spells and a few others he guessed might be on the reading list next year. He also found a cool, old quidditch book of flying tricks. They mostly looked silly and not at all actually useful for the game but it was fun to imagine. Sometimes he had to freeze and wait as a ghost drifted through the bookcases but none of them ever got too close or gave any sign they heard the scratch of his quill.

As the days went by, he started to notice that objects in the castle were rarely entirely still. Things moved, not in a scary, beware Peeves-is-here kind of way, but more like someone was gently dusting or wiping things down and replacing them. Harry paused whenever he noticed this, finding it calming that the castle was rejuvenating itself, getting scrubbed and polished and tidied before his eyes. But then he began to catch glimpses of little beings. They were short and moved in groups; he could hear them talking and laughing to themselves. He wondered if they had been there all year; perhaps it was only now he was so still and so mute that he could see and hear them. He wasn’t sure if the little beings knew he was there, but he liked the idea that he wasn’t the only hidden one. He wanted to thank them for all their hard work - he knew what it felt like to spend all day every day working and never be thanked, never talked with or listened to or treated like he belonged equally. But he was also wary; presumably they would alert someone to his presence if they found him. He thought he might be able to gauge better if he could watch them a little while and get a feel for whether they were friendly or not, but whenever he moved to get nearer to them, they vanished. Perhaps they thought him a particularly nosy ghost.

After a couple of days, he found a small supply room inside another classroom on the third floor, near the transfiguration wing, which would make a much better place to hide his luggage. The supply room wasn't huge but it had bookcases on each side so he could hang the cloak like a tent when he was in there. When he wasn't, he could put his trunk alongside some other crates and boxes; once he made sure the bright lettering of his name was covered, it blended right in. His cage and broom could be tucked behind one of the shelves. He spent another day hauling it all up and then treated himself with an extra lump of cheese to compensate for the additional effort. He lay under the cloak with his things and felt surprisingly settled. This was another new normal. Compared to the universe-tilting revelations of last year, this was a minor change. He felt comfortable. There were no expectations hanging over him. No enforced early starts or impossibly long lists of chores or exams or punishments or mysteries to solve. He had never felt so peaceful before.

He was, however, starting to crave a proper shower and he would also need to do something about laundry soon. Handwashing himself and his underwear at the little bathroom sink was ok, but he would eventually run out of soap. He had one little bar, shrinking fast. He hadn’t found any more. Annoyingly the hand wash and the towels and the toilet paper had all disappeared from the toilet blocks. He supposed they would be replenished next term. There wasn't much he could do other than keep an eye out in case he spotted anything left behind. He made a note to look up cleaning spells in the library. Perhaps he could ask the little cleaner beings. Or even raid Filch's supplies. But that was pretty dangerous, definitely a last resort. His hair was a bit lank and greasy, he didn’t smell his best, he didn’t feel fresh, but it was fine. Keeping clean at the little sink was a lot of effort and if he let it slip a couple of days it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like he was going to spend time with anyone.

Harry was also longing to get outside. The views from the windows were lovely, but it wasn’t the same as being out there in the sun. After about a week, he decided to climb all the way up, staircase after staircase, until he reached the astronomy tower. He barely dared to hope as he reached for the door handle but then he wriggled with glee - it was unlocked! He stepped though and sighed as the brighter light and cold breeze hit him all at once. He felt slightly paranoid about the door slamming shut behind him, so he took some time to prop it open; he didn't fancy starving to death up there or having to try and climb down the tower. When he was sure it was secure he took a few steps forward and then let himself relax: the sky was vivid blue, the wind was lifting and tossing his hair, he kept catching the scent of fresh grass. He could see far across the forest and lake and something about the wide open space was invigorating - it made him want to run or swim or even dance a little.

He didn't get too close to the edge - the wind was pretty strong - but if he angled his head so he only saw sky, no turrets, no battlements and no ground, and then focused on the air rushing past him, he could almost imagine he was flying. The cloak over him spoiled the illusion a bit but he didn't dare take it off. In fact, he was clutching it so hard to stop it being ripped out of his hands by the wind that his knuckles were turning white. It felt surprisingly cold for summer, but it was refreshing. Harry felt himself wake up in a way he hadn't all week. He was sorely, sorely tempted to go get his broom and fly properly for a little bit. But even if it hadn't been so windy, Oliver had always drilled it into them to never fly without a buddy. The idea of falling off and hurting himself, being unable to move, without anyone knowing where he was, still invisible under the cloak so no-one would ever find him… it was a terrible thought. Instead, he lay down for a little while by the wall so he was a bit more sheltered. He imagined the sky was an ocean and stayed there daydreaming until dinner.

He went up there every day after that, and ate while watching the sunset. The fresh food had done him well - he had managed to stretch it out to ten days. On Monday 13th, he had the last of it up there as a kind of goodbye picnic. The bread was quite dry and the cheese had a slightly odd tang to it but he knew he'd be missing it soon enough. He'd just finished the final bite when he felt the first cool droplets of rain on his forehead. He lay back and considered the clouds overhead which were dark grey and bulging. The rain spat in his eye and he wiped it back. Another droplet fell, and another, and then more and more until it became a constant hissing, pattering drizzle. He considered ducking back into the warmth but it made a nice change. If he let himself get wet through… it was almost as good as a shower. The raindrops grew into cold fingers poking at him and although his teeth chattered, he liked the way it beat against him and the sound it made drumming against the stone. His clothes were going to have that soggy, rain smell, but it was ok, he’d find somewhere to hang them dry later. He lay there letting the rain soak him through, until there was a flash and he heard a distant rumble of thunder. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to sit at the top of the tower in a lightning storm so he slid and sloshed his way back to the door, which was thankfully still propped open.

Inside there was a puddle forming on the stone floor, which was steadily soaking into the old carpet in the centre of the corridor. Harry sighed. He didn’t want to attract the attention of the cleaners. He slipped back in and started to pull the door closed, jumping as it slammed shut in his face when the wind gave a sudden gust. He paused and listened, staring anxiously at the drenched rug but nobody came. He could imagine Petunia’s scowl and the back of her hand across his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, half to himself and half to the carpet. “I hope you dry out soon.” He had messed up, he hadn’t even stopped to think, in retrospect it was obvious that the rain would be driving in through the door. He should have known better than to leave it open. He was sloppy and careless and selfish, a nasty child who never thought about the furniture other people had bought. He ruined things and had no way of replacing them and hadn’t people already paid enough to keep him? He was a no good, ungrateful child who always took things for granted. He shivered heavily, his fingers almost numb with the cold. He didn’t have anything to soak up the little flood. He supposed he could fetch all his clothes to mop it up but how would he get down there without dripping everywhere over everything? These carpets were probably ancient and valuable. How much worse could he be punished than when Petunia had caught him muddying her kitchen tiles? He really should have considered this before letting himself get so cold and wet. His shivering was getting out of hand. He was an idiot. A thoughtless, impulsive idiot. He would just have to put up with this mess of his own making.

He paced back and forth, stomping a little to try and get feeling back in his feet without being too noisy. He avoided the dark, squelchy patches on the rug. He was still enjoying the gentle beat of the rain against the windows and the rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning but he wished he were warmer. He missed the bathrooms in Gryffindor Tower. He missed hot showers and sweet smelling soap. He missed freshly shampooed hair and fluffy towels. He thought about bubbles and rubber ducks and hair dryers and hot chocolate. If only he had a real bathroom. A towel and a set of spare clothes. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could get clean. Something to mop up the disastrous mess he had made.

He froze in horror as a tumbling movement caught his eye. This was how he ruined everything? This was how he got caught? Because he couldn’t resist splashing about in the rain like a baby? He jumped back from the wall, nearly stumbling over the edge of his cloak but got his wand out in time to see - not an attacker but a door unfolding itself down like smoke. He eyed it warily thinking of the trap stair on the fourth floor and some of the more aggressive tapestries. But the door didn’t move. He approached it. He was cold and wet and bored and tired of worrying, so he figured, why not? He pulled down on the handle and pushed the door open, bracing for some kind of prank. Instead, he stepped onto shimmering turquoise tiles and found himself in a luxurious pool room. His mouth dropped open. The water was moving softly. There were stain glass windows showing lakes and oceans and one of a rubber duck. There were mermaid shower heads and little shell shaped soaps on golden trays. He inspected a row of pearly white bottles and found they were full of the most gorgeous smelling coconut shampoo. There were stacks of soft, pale blue towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They were warm - on heated towel racks! There was a little pile of cotton t-shirts and trousers and slippers in his size. “I fucking love magic,” he thought.

He locked the door behind him and flung the sodden cloak in the corner without a second thought. He stripped down and threw himself into the pool, reveling in the way the water splashed dramatically over the sides and down the drains. It was so warm and smelled lovely, a little salty and something like Aunt Petunia’s rose bushes. He found several taps which topped up the hot water. He let the warmth sink into his skin, surrounding him until he was no longer shivering. He swam across the pool as though he were racing from edge to edge, diving under and splashing back through the surface. He wasn’t a great swimmer, but it didn’t matter, he was happy enough just crashing through the water. When he tired of that, he washed his hair and himself in one of the showers. He was still hungry enough that he licked a little bit of the coconut shampoo but it definitely was not good to eat. Then, on impulse, he pulled his clothes in too and scrubbed them. He washed and wrung out his t-shirt, jumper, jeans and underwear followed by his cloak, which took the longest. He even threw his trainers in and played a while with them as they sank all the way down to the bottom. Then he hung it all up to dry on the heated towel racks.

Next he dressed in the fresh, cotton pyjamas and took an armful of towels to mop up the puddle outside. It took a lot of towels but they seemed to replace themselves any time his back was turned. When in the corridor, he kept his eye on the door, a little frightened that it might disappear, but it didn’t. When the towels were soaked through and he wondered where to put them, a basket labelled laundry appeared. He dropped them in and they vanished. He worried a little bit about that - were they reappearing somewhere else? Was he burdening the cleaning beings with extra chores? But he didn't see a way around it. After a good while, he decided he had done enough. The rug was still a little damp but it was at least not ruined or in standing water. It would take his clothes some time to dry, but he didn't want to leave his stuff for anyone else to find. The pool room was very warm so he decided to sleep there overnight. It wasn't the most comfortable, but his trunk was well hidden so he didn't feel worried about leaving it. He locked the door again, found a toothbrush and toothpaste and then built himself a little bed from the leftover towels. He could bring the rest of his clothes up tomorrow and have a whole day just swimming and washing.

He smiled to himself, feeling very satisfied with the evening's work. And this room! He couldn't believe his luck. He felt like one of those fake children on the cover of the holiday brochures the Dursleys sometimes left lying around, the ones with big smiles and brightly coloured swimsuits, about to jump into a swimming pool somewhere far away and sunny like Majorca or Crete. Was this what it was like to have a summer holiday? He felt so bubbly that he had to remind himself that humming, singing or whistling was a bad idea - he didn't want to attract attention from ghosts or, worse, Filch. He curled up in his towel bed and fell asleep warm and cosy, watching the gentle way the light danced on the ceiling, reflected by the water.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke to the sound of gently lapping water and with the rough cotton of a towel against his cheek. He stretched and put on his glasses and marvelled again at yesterday's discovery. He swam a couple of laps in the warm water and then dressed and threw on his cloak, which was mostly dry. His trainers were still a bit soggy but it didn't matter, he could go barefoot. He trooped down to his trunk and brought up the rest of his laundry in his rucksack.

He tipped it all in the pool, stripped off again and jumped in after it. He sang quietly to himself as he scrubbed each item with the soap. He was gentle, as each item needed to last. Most of his clothes came from Dudley and they were quite tattered. His school uniform and cloak were much better in comparison, barely any holes at all, but he wanted to save them for September. His quidditch robes were too special to wear unless it was a match day, although he did like looking at them from time to time. They had stayed folded in his trunk. His favourite item of clothing was his jumper from Mrs Weasley. He wore it nearly everyday and it still looked as good as when he had first unwrapped it, although he hadn't managed to break his terrible habit of fiddling with the sleeves and sometimes even chewing them. He wondered if she had put a charm on it to stop it unravelling.

Harry didn’t mind fixing clothes - he had done plenty of sewing at Privet Drive. It was something that could be done even in the gloom of his cupboard if he squinted, and it helped with the boredom, especially during times he was locked in there more or less permanently. Occasionally Dudley had stabbed him with the needles but Petunia had always shouted at him for that: she hated getting blood spots on her linens. Harry couldn't fix how his t-shirts had that faded, old kind of look, nor the raggedy edges of his trousers. Some of his socks and underwear were more holes than material. But he could probably neaten up the moth bites and patch up some of the larger rips, like the one in his pyjamas where the left knee had torn. He would keep the new pyjamas the room had given him, but it still didn’t hurt to have a usable spare pair. He had just started to consider where a sewing kit might be stocked in the castle, when a little pouch appeared next to the sink. Harry grinned as he opened it and saw that there were 10 little spools of thread matching the colours of his pyjamas and various other bits and pieces that needed repairs. There were 7 needles of various sizes, all with large eyes so he could get the thread though easily. They were much better than the one Petunia always gave him, which was very small and kind of blunt.

But before he could start fixing anything, he had to let it dry. When the washing was done, he hung it all up and then spent the rest of the day reading on the astronomy tower, enjoying the cool breeze. He slept another night in the warm, stuffy bathroom and then folded everything which had dried in the morning and took it downstairs to his supply room. The light in there wasn’t bad, so he could spend some afternoons there sewing. He would save it for days he was feeling low on energy as it was slow, quiet work, although he could sing in his head to keep himself focused. He didn’t want to sing out loud, just in case his voice carried.

On days when he had more energy, he headed to the library or continued his search for the kitchens although it was getting harder and harder to summon any motivation for that particular quest. He could do little more than wander the same routes over and over hoping something new would jump out at him. Ruminating on the lost kitchens made it harder to ignore his hunger. Time moved quickest when his eyes were sliding through the pages of a book. Even some of the history of magic ones were fun when it wasn’t Binns recounting the battles.

After a few days, he was thrilled that his sewing fixed pile was larger than his to-do pile. The socks were a bit beyond hope, he was going to feel the untidy stitches on the soles when he wore them, but they would do until he could buy more. He did think about trying to ask the room for more clothes but that was going a bit far, he didn’t want to get greedy. The room had already given him way more than he had hoped for. He didn’t want to waste its power on socks. There must be clothing shops on Diagon Alley. And he had a Gringotts’ vault now. When term started he could ask Ron about how to buy things and get them delivered. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere or needed to impress any neighbours or look presentable for anything until term started.

He was getting headaches near constantly now. He told himself that this was normal: it always took a few days at the beginning of a starve and then it would wear off. His body would adapt, eventually. Until then, his mouth was always dry and he felt a kind of heavy, tired lethargy as though his muscles were turning to sludge. There was nothing to do about it apart from sip his water and keep going, even if he went about everything a little slower and more sluggishly. He was starting to obsess about which sweet he would choose at dinner and which condiment sachet he would pair with the jerky or the dried fruit and nuts. He had enough sugar sachets to treat himself to one every time he sat down to a piece of homework, letting the burst of energy help him for what was always the trickiest part: getting started.

Even so, it was getting harder to focus, like his head was full of soup. He kept drifting away from his reading into daydreams, replaying memories from last year and getting caught up in imaginary conversations and arguments. He liked thinking about all the quidditch matches he had played and watched, imagining how it could have gone differently, redoing the whole tournament over and over, seeing who else might have won if some plays had been different. If Hufflepuff had actually scored that penalty in their match against Ravenclaw would they have been boosted enough to make a comeback? What would change if everyone had been riding ancient Shooting stars? Or brand new Nimbus 2000s?

Sometimes his mind wandered back to his old life and time at primary school, drifting through the old muggle classrooms and concrete playgrounds as though he were a ghost there too. He had liked PE best, even if Dudley and Piers had targeted him with some vicious fouls in football and always tried to hit the ball in his face in rounders or basketball. Now he thought about it, that had probably been pretty good quidditch preparation. If he could change one thing about Hogwarts he would include some muggle lessons like art and music. He had always known full well the fridge in Petunia's kitchen was Dudley's gallery; Harry's work went in the bin. But even if he never took his projects home, he had liked the feeling of paint and clay in his fingers. He had enjoyed geography too - hearing about rainforests and oceans and mountains was almost as good as exploring them himself. His thoughts on primary school and Privet Drive were never as satisfying as quidditch daydreams, however. They inevitably sparked some memory so cringeworthy that he would flinch bodily, which would rouse him enough to try reading again.

One afternoon, Harry had been staring out of the window for some time without really seeing anything, when he suddenly realised that Hagrid was striding across the grounds. He jumped up in excitement, pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and followed Hagrid's journey from window to window until he had gone round edge of the forest and out of sight. He wondered if Hagrid would stay the whole summer or if he was just popping in. He put his hand against the glass, feeling the soft cloak material under his fingertips. He wanted to tell Hagrid he was here. But Hagrid was friends with Dumbledore. And Dumbledore would send Harry back to the Dursleys. Possibly just for the rest of the holidays, which was bad enough, but possibly forever if this misdemeanour was bad enough for Harry to be expelled. The longer Harry stayed, the more anxious he felt about this. Staying hidden here had seemed like a cheeky thing to do at first, but not terribly naughty. It had felt a bit like some sort of adventure camp or sleepover like the ones Dudley always boasted about. But the longer Harry crept around the castle, the more he felt that he had seriously disobeyed Dumbledore. The headmaster might well be livid about such a severe breaking of his rules. Harry didn't see any way around it now though. He'd just have to make absolutely sure he didn't get caught.

On Saturday evening, 18th July, 5 days into the dry food, he finally felt a bit brighter and decided to tackle his potions essay. Despite his hunger, he thought most of his essays had been pretty great so far. Having unlimited access to so many books meant he had time to go through and look for answers rather than just take a best guess at what the teachers wanted or relying heavily on Hermione's hints. He'd found a really great potions book, which had moving photographs and illustrations so he could finally imagine all the bizarre ingredients he had never heard of, where they came from and how they were supposed to be prepared. It was interesting enough that he had read it cover to cover, rather than just skimming through and picking out a couple of good quotes, which is all he ever did in term time. He had even gotten used to writing with the quill under his cloak. He thought it must have some sort of charm on it; his fingers and even his sleeves were speckled with blue ink stains, which didn’t easily scrub off, but the cloak remained flawless.

One evening he was mulling over how best to phrase his conclusion when there was a tapping at one of the tall windows on the other side of the library. He looked out to see Hedwig and ran to her immediately. He wondered how she had known where to find him but it didn't matter; he was so glad to see her, he could almost dance. He glanced to the door and listened for a minute before opening the window. Hegwig immediately hopped up onto one of the bookcases to perch and Harry felt a little giddy imagining what Madam Pince would have to say about that.

Harry didn't fully take off the cloak but he kept his front and arms free by draping it over his head and putting his back to the door so he'd still be invisible to anyone coming in. Hedwig looked very much not amused so Harry quickly pulled out the owl treats he always carried in his jeans pocket and held them out on his palm. She hooted softly at him before picking at them, her beak poking into his skin a little harder than usual. It didn't seem like she had enjoyed her trip to the Dursleys and, well, he knew that feeling. He checked her over but there didn't seem to be any injuries or feathers out of place so perhaps they had just been rude or shouty. She didn't have a letter so he had to assume the Dursleys were fine with his unexpected absence.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” he murmured as he stroked her. “I’m grateful you went there for me. Thank you, Hedwig.”

She seemed to relax into his touch. It was tempting to stay stroking her, focusing on the softness at his fingertips, the tiny details of each feather, the stunning glow of her amber eyes, but he couldn't keep her in the library long. If anything would attract the attention of Filch or the ghosts, surely a snowy owl on the bookcases would. He hadn't really thought this through. She was a very obvious owl. He lifted his cloak over his head. "Do you want to stay with me?" he whispered. "You can sleep in your cage during the day and I'll let you out to fly at night?"

She did not look impressed.

"Ok then," he said quickly before she squawked. "The owlery? But if you stay there with the school owls you have to promise that you'll hide when Hagrid comes around. He'll spot you a mile away."

She seemed to consider it, her head tilting to one side and then she hooted again.

"I can't go out there, I'm sorry, " he apologised. "I might get locked out. So I can't bring you treats, you'll have to come to me." She gave what seemed like an almost human scoff.

"I know," Harry soothed. "You don't need me, you can hunt. But please come anyway. What would I do without you? Can you come back just to say hi? And then when you've had a good rest, I'll have more letters for you."

She clacked her beak and he grinned at her. He hadn't realised until he saw her and she saw him, but being alone with his thoughts so much had made him feel oddly non-existent, as though he were a character in a book no-one had bothered writing. It didn’t matter so much as long as he kept doing stuff, his homework, his sewing, preparing for next term, but in the back of his mind, it was hard to shake the feeling that none of it mattered, that he might stay invisible forever. When that feeling was strong, it was harder to get up and going. Hours could pass with him lying on the bed and dozing, weighing up the guilt of doing nothing with the lack of any reason to do anything. But with the warmth of Hedwig against him, the sharp talons on his arm, her intelligent eyes sounding him out… he was real again.

"And come straight back if the owlery is locked or empty OK?" he said suddenly. He wanted to be sure the school owls were still there. What if Hagrid took them all off site for checks or something? He didn’t want Hedwig to be lonely. She blinked at him, ruffled her feathers, stood on one foot and then the other, then launched forwards and swooped off again through the window.

Harry ran back to his seat and fixed the cloak up then pushed his essay aside. Now he could write to Ron and Hermione! He wanted to hear what they had been up to, had they been on holiday? He wondered if he should tell them where he was. He trusted them not to tell anyone, obviously, but somehow he was still embarrassed. They would surely consider this among the oddest things he had done. He didn't like it when Ron got that funny look on his face like Harry was different, not just because he had been raised by muggles but because those muggles had been… Harry didn’t know the word to describe it. Mean? Unfair? The Dursleys had always treated him far, far worse than Snape and Harry got the feeling Ron thought bad teachers were to be expected, but bad family was not normal. Harry rolled his eyes. Well, there wasn’t anything Harry could do about it, so Ron could keep his opinions to himself.

Harry chewed the end of his quill for a little while as he considered what to write. He was careful not to chew too far down and risk getting ink in his mouth. He had been chewing a lot of things recently: the edge of his T-shirts, his jumper sleeves, even occasionally a little bit of parchment. It was a bit strange, he'd admit, but it was soothing, like having chewing gum. He wrote to Ron first.

Dear Ron,

How are you and your family? How is Scabbers? Have you been playing or watching any quidditch? I miss flying. There's not much to do here so I've just been reading. I've nearly done all my homework - I feel like Hermione.

Oh, by the way, do you think any of your older brothers might know where the Hogwarts kitchens are or is it just Fred and George? Could you write to them? I hope we can sneak in one day. There's not a lot of food here. I miss the treacle tart, haha! I can’t wait for the feast in September.

Please look after Hedwig for a while before sending her back, I'm worried she'll get tired after the long journey and she gets very hungry. There’s a letter for Hermione as well, I’m not sure which she’ll deliver first. I'll pay you back for any food or owl treats when I see you.

Harry x

He thought about outright asking Ron to send him some food but decided it would sound too weird. He read the letter through and decided it would do. It was short, but he didn’t really know what else to say. Hermione's came next.

Dear Hermione,

How are you and your mum and dad? What have you been up to? There's not a lot to do here so I've been doing a lot of reading. I've finished most of my essays and just have potions left.

Do you know if it mentions in Hogwarts: A History, how to get into the kitchens? I can't wait for the feast in September. Food here is rubbish.

Did you get McGonagall's last question? I can't find the answer anywhere.

Speak soon.
Harry x

It was a long shot about the kitchens. Hermione always rolled her eyes when the twins stole food so maybe she wouldn't tell him even if she knew. He shouldn't get his hopes up. He could survive on the food he had already. If he was hungry he could always drink more water. Aunt Petunia always said how greedy Harry was and he had kind of proved her right by the way he had pigged out all year. He didn't want to become obsessed with food. This starvation felt almost worse than it did at the Dursleys, because he had gotten used to eating so much more; he'd forgotten what normal hunger felt like. He didn’t want to become like Dudley, demanding food every hour of the day, making Aunt Petunia run after him, becoming tearful and loud and whiny if he didn’t get enough treats. Harry had always prided himself on being resilient.

He folded the letters into their envelopes ready to copy the addresses on later. Then he pulled his potions essay back towards him and went back to chewing the end of his quill.

Chapter Text

Wednesday evening at the Burrow was pasta night. The smell of garlic and fresh bread filled the kitchen. Molly was pottering about, finishing off the salad. Ron and Ginny had helped cook for a while but then had moved on to playing snap at the table while the pots simmered. The evening noise of crickets came in through the window along with distant shouts and laughter as the twins played some kind of ball game. Ron was reshuffling the cards when Hedwig glided through the window and landed on a shelf.

"Oh," said Ginny softly. "She's beautiful."

"That’s Hedwig, Harry's owl," Ron said, jumping up. While Ginny cleared the cards, he offered Hedwig a few treats and retrieved the letter. Then he let Ginny pet her while he scanned through Harry's note until Molly interrupted to remind them, "no animals at the dinner table!" then stuck her wand to her throat and projected her voice throughout the house and garden. "Dinner is ready! Be here in 5 minutes or get no pudding!"

Ron and Ginny helped Arthur lay the table and the others started clattering in and taking their seats.

"How is Harry?" Ginny asked.

"It's not even August and it sounds like he's bored out of his mind and starving already," Ron laughed.

"Why would he be starving?" tutted Molly, waving her wand so several large trays of pasta plonked themselves down in the middle of the table. "Help yourselves, I'll just get the jug of juice."

"I'll get it," said one of the twins.

"Thanks, dear," as Molly sat. Then she paused and yelled after him, "no more fake spiders!"

The other twin snorted and Molly gave him a long look before turning back to Ron. "Sorry, dear," she said. "Why would Harry be starving?"

Ron shrugged as he took the salad bowl from Arthur and passed Percy the salt. "I don't think the muggles give him much food. He wants to know where the Hogwarts kitchens are." He gave the twins a pointed look down the table as the one with the juice went round and poured. "He knows you two won't tell us, I think he wants me to write to Bill or Charlie."

The twins grinned at each other. "He asked us on the last day as well," said one of them. Ron peered and thought it was probably George. "What's he going to do, break into school during the holidays?" asked Fred.

"Now there's an idea," said George, with a wink.

"He says he misses the treacle tart," Ron snorted.

"He was terribly thin when I saw him last year," Molly mused.

"You think everyone's terribly thin until you've fed them, Mum," Percy sighed.

"Oh don't worry, he eats loads at school," said Ron. "He takes stuff from the table and keeps it in his trunk. And on the Hogwarts Express on the first day, he bought the whole trolley." He giggled at the memory.

"Are you serious?" asked George. "The whole trolley? That's hilarious. I wondered why it hadn’t come round."

“Should have sat with us and you could have had some,” Ron smirked.

"Very expensive," muttered Percy. "And I hope he shared it or that would have been one serious sugar overdose. Just before the feast too."

Ron rolled his eyes.

"Can I sit with you on the train this year?" asked Ginny.

"Course, Gin," Ron grinned. "As long as you don't eat all the cauldron cakes."

"That was one time," Ginny huffed as the twins roared with laughter. She gave George a push, scowling. He smirked and ruffled her hair.

"Harry is still very skinny though," said Fred, after a little while. "He never looks like he eats. Oliver is always lecturing him about protein hoping he'll put a little muscle on."

"We'll send him some snacks," Molly said. "He sent me such a nice letter about the toffee and the jumper at Christmas. Some of you could take a leaf out of his book."

"Will you send me snacks if I write to you?" Ginny asked.

"Of course I’ll send you snacks, dear. If we have any food left after all these growth spurts," Molly sighed, though she was smiling. "Pass that cheese before you take it all, I haven't even had any myself yet."

For a while there was only the sound of eating. Then Arthur asked, "Were you serious that he doesn't get enough food? Do you think maybe the muggles don't have enough kitchen appliances? Muggles need an awful lot of appliances to get by without magic - kettles and microwaves and toasters and all sorts. And they all need plugs."

Ron shrugged, his mouth full. "I dunno… maybe."

"Oh dear," said Molly, frowning. “That won’t do.”

"Poor Hedwig," Fred laughed. "She's going to be carrying so many snacks."

"She's got a letter for Hermione to deliver first though," said Ron.

“We can send something with Errol,” Molly assured him.

"Can we send him a treacle tart?" Ginny asked.

"I don’t think Errol will get off the ground if you tried to strap him to a whole pie," said George.

"Why don't you just invite Harry to stay here? Save the poor owls," said Percy.

"Can I?" asked Ron.

"Of course," said Arthur. "I'd love to ask him about the plug situation. Maybe they've got the wrong voltages."

"I assume he might want to see his family if he's been away all year," said Molly.

"I doubt it," Ron shrugged. "His aunt and uncle didn't write to him once. At Christmas they didn't even send him a present. Just a muggle coin. Can I have seconds?"

Arthur scanned the table. "Who else needs more?" George raised his hand, followed by Ginny and for a while everyone concentrated on dishing out what was left.

"Maybe they thought he could choose himself something nice with the coin," said Ginny thoughtfully. "Maybe they thought he could exchange it and buy something magical they wouldn't think of."

"It was a 50p," Ron shook his head. "I asked Hermione - that's worth less than two sickles."

Ron saw his parents share a glance. Molly opened her mouth and then shut it again.

"I kept trying to ask him about it," Ron went on, warming to the subject now he had finished his plate and everyone was listening to him. "And eventually he said they never really gave him presents, not even when he was little. They don't celebrate his birthday."

"Is that a religious thing?" asked Arthur.

Ron shook his head. "No, they celebrate his cousin's birthday, just not his."

Molly frowned. "I don't think that can be right, Ron."

Ron shrugged. "He said he'd never had a party. Although when he was ten they did give him a pair of his uncle's old socks. And a coat hanger."

"Old socks?" said Molly. "How strange. Do muggles have some special significance around socks that have been previously owned?" She looked at her husband.

"Don't think so," he shrugged. "Were they nice ones?"

Ron thought about it. "Not really. I've seen them. Just plain, kind of yellow. Mind you Harry doesn't really have many socks. He doesn't really have much of anything. Except Hedwig, which Hagrid got him. And his broom, which Dumbledore bought I think. Or McGonagall."

"Maybe his aunt and uncle just aren't big on presents," Percy shrugged.

"But he said they got his cousin a bike and a television and games and loads of stuff," Ron argued. "And I don't think he was making it up, he never does that. Unlike some people." He pulled a face at the twins. "He only told me because I went on and on about it. I tried to get him to tell Hermione but he was too embarrassed. He just said that his aunt and uncle don't really like him."

"Don't be silly, dear," said Mum. "Of course his family likes him."

"No, honestly, they don't." Ron insisted. "He said they don't like magic and they don't like him."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Ron, Harry might have been exaggerating or perhaps his family are a little uncertain about magic… It can be a big shock for muggles to find out about our world. But I'm sure his family loves him. It’s a terrible stereotype about muggles that they’re cruel to muggleborns."

Ron groaned, stabbing at his pasta leftovers with his fork and smushing it all up. "I know Dad, I don't mean all muggles are bad. Hermione's family are fine. I just… I don't know how to explain. I don't think Harry's family are very nice. He said once that before Hogwarts he never knew so many people could be so kind, that it was weird how everyone just talked to him like he was normal. He said his aunt and uncle and cousin told everyone at his muggle school that he was mental and not to talk to him. And in our first week, he kept asking when it was our turn to do the cleaning and the cooking and would they teach us spells for that and he was really surprised when I said we didn’t have to and he said “what are we supposed to do after our homework then?” He didn't have any of his own books or games. Hermione asked him about TV and computer games and he said he wasn't allowed things like that. And one time, when we got detention, he asked if we were still allowed to go the great hall and get food! I told Hermione and she asked him if he got enough food at home, he said “yeah, most of the time. If I’m quiet and finish my chores." ”

There was a little silence. Ron finally looked up and noticed everyone else was staring at him.

"Let me read that letter," said Molly finally.

"Will you send him lots of snacks? Can I help bake them?" Ginny asked as Ron handed the letter to Molly.

"Make him some of that peanut butter tiffin," said Fred. "That must be good on protein."

"Hermes can help carry things," Percy offered as Molly passed the letter to Arthur.

"Can we really actually send him a treacle tart?" Ron asked.

"I'll send him one a week, if the owls can carry it," Molly snorted. "You invite him to stay, as soon as you can."

Chapter Text

Harry hadn't wanted to forget the location of the fancy bathroom he had found, so he started trying to plot a little map of new places he had been. It wasn't particularly neat or accurate but he jotted down several corridors he had never noticed before and a couple more secret shortcuts behind paintings and tapestries. That would be useful next year whenever they were late for class; he couldn’t wait to show Ron and Hermione. He dug around in a few empty classrooms and found that some connected through a little honeycomb of storage space full of odd shaped equipment - spare cauldrons near the dungeons, strange glass mechanisms near charms. He was starting to wonder whether he had been inside every single classroom in the castle by now. Most of them just looked the same: desks and stone floors and chalk boards and dust. Many had a professor's office or even living quarters attached; he had probably peered into most of them by now, not including the dungeons, of course. Some doors he didn't even dare try the handle. He wouldn't put it beyond Snape to have hexed his space while he was away.

But he still hadn't managed to find the kitchens and he was really feeling it. He hardly knew whether to keep looking or just give up and spend more time lying down. Usually when he was this hungry his only task was having to pretend he didn't exist, which was pretty easy. At least whenever he did chores Aunt Petunia usually gave him a sandwich. She always said it was no good if he was just going to pass out on her flowerbeds. He had finished his sewing and kind of wished he had something else similar to do, something brainless that made his body move and let his mind rest, but didn’t use up too many calories. He wouldn’t even have minded a pile of laundry to fold or a day pulling weeds. He might have taken to polishing the suits of armour if he hadn’t been worried they might chase him off.

Harry missed Hedwig, too. He wondered if hearing from Ron and Hermione was actually worth losing her company. Something about Hedwig was very calming even if she was just perched nearby. He didn't have to think of what to say to her or how to keep her happy. She just was. And without her he was drifting again. He let himself have a couple of days off from reading or exploring. It just didn’t seem as important or exciting as it used to and it was getting hard to focus, like his brain was even more jumpy and scattered than usual. But then he felt so wound up doing nothing that he ended up walking round and round the corridors anyway, even though it was probably using too much energy and achieving nothing. He stopped whenever he got too woozy. The hunger would get better, he told himself; he just had to push through. But he had eaten too much in term time. He couldn’t stop thinking about hot potatoes with crispy, greasy skin but fluffy inside. Rich gravy over roast chicken and soft yorkshire puddings. The crunch of fresh bread. Thick, salty melted cheese. Rice pudding, stodgy and sweet. A cold glass of creamy milk. A spicy pot noodle like he sometimes got from the corner shop when the Dursleys were having takeaway.

He still liked watching the ghosts float by. He thought they probably all knew exactly where the kitchens were but he couldn't give himself away by asking. He was sure their gossip would get back to Dumbledore somehow. Earlier in the year he had thought he wouldn’t mind being a ghost, staying on at the school forever. Now he was certain he would never choose that. He loved Hogwarts, but even the best places grew dull when you were alone for too long. Happily, he hadn't seen Peeves once. Harry wondered if he was hibernating, saving all his mischief for term time. It was a pity really. Sometimes Peeves had been known to throw cream buns at people. Harry caught a few more glimpses of Filch and spent a couple of days watching Hagrid from the windows. Once he thought he might have seen Dumbledore in the distance. When he spotted him, he instinctively lifted his hand and waved enthusiastically. He had gotten so used to wearing the cloak, for a moment he had managed to forget he was invisible. The headteacher did not pause for a second, just continued to amble along the corridor and out of sight.

One afternoon, Harry was sitting on the stairs in the entrance hall, just sitting and daydreaming, (loitering, Uncle Vernon might have called it, or lazing about.) And suddenly a ghost in a Victorian maid outfit strode past looking like she had somewhere to be. He yelped and ran after her, thinking that out of all the ghosts, perhaps an old fashioned servant might be most likely to visit a kitchen. But as fast as he ran, she stayed just out of reach, fading in and out sight. He couldn’t tell if this was because she was moving too quickly or if she was just vanishing and reappearing every now and then. But either way, he flung himself after her, pushing himself onwards until his lungs burned and it felt like his legs muscles were twitching and wobbling. After a few heart stopping moments when he thought he had lost her, he started to catch up. He could see the neat folds in her black dress and the stains on her white apron, how her curly hair was tucked into a frilly bonnet. Surely she once worked in a kitchen? Without thinking he reached out to grab her shoulder, lunged forwards and managed to trip over his own feet. He fell right through the big, white bow at the back of her apron, fell right through her completely and it felt like the time Dudley had pushed him into that lake at the park in November - shockingly cold and disorientating. She didn’t notice. Harry shook himself and leapt back to his feet, only to watch her turn around a corner ahead of him. He lurched around it, but there was no-one there. Only a dead end with a statue of some lord with a scowl and a little dog in his arms.

Harry managed not to make a noise, but he shook his fists and kicked at the air. Why, why, couldn’t he sort this out? Was he stupid? Was he blind? Where were the kitchens? Why couldn’t he find them? He had kind of enjoyed the chase, it had been almost like hunting for the golden snitch again, but now it was over he felt sweaty and shaky and like he was going to throw up. And then, all at once, he felt very dizzy and had to hold onto the wall. He let himself sink to the floor and curled up. It felt like the ground was tipping up and down like a seesaw so Harry just closed his eyes, put his hand out to try and steady himself and listened to his racing heartbeat. He swallowed down the sick, acidy taste of vomit; he really could not afford to throw up. He lay there for some time. Part of him wanted to see if the maid ghost would reappear so he could keep following her and part of him just couldn’t make himself move.

After a while, he wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or just zoned out for a bit, but he jolted back to himself and realised that he could hear somebody close by. He listened for a while, trying to recognise the sound and finally realised that they were crying. He probably couldn’t do much to help, but he couldn’t just leave whomever it was, so he pushed himself back up and took some tentative steps towards the noise. It stopped for a while so he paused but then it came again - a half sob, a half kind of scream. Harry was starting to feel a little freaked out but he forced himself forwards and the crying got louder. There was a girls’ bathroom ahead. Harry thought of Hermione and then really, really hoped there wasn’t going to be another troll in there.

The door was open so he slipped inside and found that the bathroom was flooded. He grimaced, realising that this was likely to bring Filch along at some point. He couldn’t stay long and needed to watch where he stepped to avoid leaving footprints. The loud howling was coming from a silvery ghost girl who was sitting underneath the sinks, rocking backwards and forwards. She was wearing a Hogwarts school uniform but it looked different from Harry’s. He peeked a bit closer and saw an eagle on her school crest. It was a slightly different design to the one he knew, the eagle looked a bit more lumpy. So she was a ravenclaw. She looked a bit older than he was. She had glasses too. Before he could help it, he started wondering if a troll had gotten her and if so, why wasn’t she more squished? He then cursed himself for being insensitive.

“Hello?” he said, somewhat as penance. “Are you ok?”

The girl shrieked and scrambled away on her hands and knees and then floated up to the ceiling.

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Harry. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Who’s there? Where are you?” asked the girl. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people while invisible!”

“Sorry!” Harry put his hands up, even though this was pointless under the cloak. “I wanted to see if you were ok!”

The girl looked surprised. Then she scowled. “Obviously I’m not ok. I’m dead,” she pouted.

“Yeah…” said Harry. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

“Where are you? You sound young. Did you die as a child too? Did you die in Hogwarts?”

“No, I’m just invisible,” Harry offered, not sure what to say.

“Why?”

Harry cringed. How to answer without giving himself away?

“I… er… I’m not sure,” he hazarded. “I’m staying here for the summer.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry. What’s yours?”

“Myrtle. It’s horrible dying, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Harry agreed. At least the girl had stopped crying.

“Have you been dead long?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Nope.”

“Oh,” said Myrtle. “You don’t sound very mournful.”

Harry paused. “Well, er… no. I suppose I’m still coming to terms with it all.”

Myrtle nodded. “That makes sense. It’s quite a shock, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Harry nodded. “Definitely a shock.”

“Are you haunting anybody? Did you die here?”

“Er…” said Harry. “ I don’t want to talk about it. Too fresh.”

Myrtle nodded as though that was very understandable. “I died right here in this bathroom”
she said sadly. Then a gleam came into her eyes. “It was horrible.”

“What happened?” Harry hoped upon hope it hadn’t been a really bad case of diarrhoea.

Myrtle gave a long sigh. “No-one ever found out. It’s an unsolved mystery. I just remember a pair of giant, yellow eyes, and that was it.”

What the hell, thought Harry. It was surprising anyone could use the bathrooms in this castle without keeling over in fright. Didn’t wizards have Ofsted? Shouldn’t schools get closed for harbouring trolls and three-headed dogs and mysterious monsters with yellow eyes and letting them loose on poor kids just trying to have a wee?

“I’m sorry,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Thanks, Harry,” said Myrtle. “So why did you stick around?”

Harry scratched his head. “I guess… I just like it here. Feels like home.”

“Aww,” said Myrtle. “That’s a nice reason. I just wanted to creep people out. Particularly Olive Hornby. She used to laugh at my glasses.”

“Is that why you were crying?”

Myrtle sighed heavily. “No, not really. It’s just I’m just stuck here forever, you know? Never got to have any fun. Never even had a first kiss.”

“Oh,” said Harry awkwardly. “That’s very sad. I’m sorry.”

“What do you look like? Can you become visible again?”

“I’ve got black hair,” Harry said. “And green eyes.”

Myrtle was looking up and down and around as though trying to catch a glimpse of him. She was smiling in an odd way. He cleared his throat and then added, “and I’m quite short. A bit scrawny. Loads of scars.”

“Can you show me?”

Harry thought fast. “How old are you?” he asked, to distract her.

“I’m fourteen. How old are you?”

“Eleven,”

“Oh, you really are little,” she sighed. She sounded a bit disappointed.

“Yes,” Harry asserted. “Tragically young, I guess.”

“Do you want to float down to the lake together?”

Harry tried to imagine that. He nearly said that he didn’t know how to swim, but he supposed that hardly mattered to ghosts. “Maybe another time,” he offered. “I should probably head back to one of the classrooms. I don’t want to hang around in case Filch comes.”

Myrtle nodded. “He is awful, isn’t he? Will you come back and visit?”

Harry stared at her hopeful face and felt very sorry for her. He definitely wouldn’t want to spend eternity alone in a toilet.

“Sure! Why not.”

‘Ok, then.” Her cheeks seemed to get deeper silver as though she was blushing. “See you later, Harry.”

“Bye then. Oh, wait! Do you know where the kitchens are?”

Myrtle frowned. “Yes.”

“Do you know how to get to them?” He asked, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Yes!” she huffed, as though a little irritated. “Same as anything, just visualise it and you can reappear there. But you can’t really taste anything you know. Best try and find something really rotten, then you can almost smell it.”

Harry sighed. “What about if I wasn’t dead, what if I were a student?”

Myrtle gave him a long look. “You don’t really believe it yet, do you?” she said gently.

Harry stopped himself from groaning in frustration. “Nevermind. I’ll come back another time.”

“Bye, Harry! Don’t worry about the visualisation, you’ll get it with a bit of practise!”

“I’ll try, thanks Myrtle!” And Harry trudged back to his den. He muttered to himself all the way back and kicked at the carpets. Why was it never just easy? When he got back he lay down and listlessly flicked through his books. At dinner, he dutifully ate his square of jerky and sucked a piece of toffee for as long as he could and then just dozed.

Later that night, when he had done his teeth and gotten into his pyjamas and was starting to drift off, he had a horrible thought, which woke him right back up. He wasn’t really dead, was he? He would have noticed, surely? He still felt hungry so that must mean he was still alive. Right? But what if ghosts that died hungry stayed hungry? That wasn’t a nice thought at all. He had never bothered to ask much about the Hogwarts ghosts. Suddenly he felt very alone. Something creaked in the distance and Harry waited, listening. It was very dark. His torch had a little battery left, but he should save it for an emergency. He was breathing very loudly. Ghosts didn’t breathe. Ghosts didn't have toffee for dinner. There were always creaking sounds in the castle. Nothing was coming. He was being silly.

He had felt very poorly after all the running, but he could pinch himself and it still hurt. So… not dead. Although… what if ghosts felt real to ghosts? The wind whistled at the window and he jumped. He shook his head again. He shouldn’t have watched any of those scary movies Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia liked. They always watched horror stuff on Saturday nights and the noise kept him awake. So sometimes he peeked through the cupboard vent and watched along. He couldn’t even scream at the scary bits, he just sat and shivered. It always gave him nightmares for a while afterwards. Best not to remember.

“I’m not dead,” he said out loud. But he supposed he would have to wait for Hedwig to get back to be absolutely sure. He pushed his head back to the pillow and closed his eyes.

Something was growling. He was running. He was trying to go faster, he needed to swing up into the tree but the dog was behind him, jumping and gnashing. He couldn't turn to look properly but he knew the dog had three heads and he could feel its hot, meaty breath on his legs. Hagrid was laughing. He must have set Fluffy on Harry just like Aunt Marge had done with Ripper. Harry was crying, he had thought Hagrid would help him but he could barely hold onto the tree branch, it was too scratchy and it was bending down too far and just below him Fluffy had a lot of teeth.

And then Professor Snape was staring at him from the stands, he was watching too and his lips were moving, he was saying some kind of curse! But no, he was probably just trying to help and then they were in the dungeons and he was forcing Harry to drink something. It was bottled like a potion but it tasted like when Aunt Petunia had given him that slightly out of date medicine to check if it would be OK for Dudley and his stomach was spiking with pain and he was rolling on the floor and he was going to be sick but he looked up and Snape had turned into Quirrel so he tried to scramble backwards out of reach but Quirrel was still coming, he was right in his face and Harry yelled out and tried to push him away but his hands were too hot and Quirrel's face was burning, his skin was melting off, dripping down like unicorn blood and-

Harry woke with a start and sat bolt upright. He was shaking, he was too scared to move. Something was coming and Harry was dead and nobody would ever know what had happened because he was invisible and he was going to drift into nothing by mistake if he didn’t keep concentrating. Then something creaked and Harry flinched and threw himself back down into his blanket and pillow and lay there quivering. Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. After some time, nothing had happened and he let himself release a shuddering sigh. Still nothing came, nothing got him. He started to sob and let himself cry and the louder he cried the better he felt because nothing was coming to eat him after all. It was fine. He was just being a big baby. He cried until his eyes hurt and he was tired enough to fall asleep again, still gripping his blankets tightly just in case something bit his feet and tried to drag him away. He was such an idiot. He never should have watched those bad movies.

Chapter Text

Harry had lost track of days, though he thought it was roughly three and a half weeks since he’d missed the Hogwarts Express. He was feeling really quite ill. Maybe he was coming down with something? He was aching in a way that felt a bit like flu. He should have the day off school, really, if he was sick, but he lived at school now, so he couldn't. He was very thirsty and knew he should just go to the tap for water; it was only down the corridor. But somehow even that felt like too much effort. He couldn’t even be bothered to get up and close the supply room door. No one ever came into the classroom after all. It was nice to have a view of the windows. He just lay by his trunk the whole day and felt sorry for himself and felt bad because he hadn't finished his homework, he hadn't done any work for ages really, he was so lazy these days and then somehow the whole day had passed again and it was getting dark. His stomach was painfully empty. His brain was nothing. A fog. There was food nearby. Maybe he should eat more if he was really ill? Or was he just telling himself that to cheat on his rations? He didn't want to have to get up and get it all out and then he'd have to do his teeth again and it was better to just go back to sleep and try again tomorrow. He was probably just overtired.

He was drifting off when suddenly there was a commotion and he blinked as two owls flew right through the classroom, right over his head and landed on his trunk. Harry wondered briefly if he was hallucinating. Or having a very vivid daydream? But then he recognised one of the owls, the one hooting particularly proudly, as Errol. They were both shuffling from foot to foot, looking pleased at the enormous bag hanging between them. He thought the other owl might belong to Ron's older brother Percy, though he couldn't remember its name. He laughed at their expressions and forced himself to sit up. They must have found a large, open window somewhere, which was lucky. "You're not helping me keep a low profile," he chided softly, but he didn't really care anymore. He expected them to leave for the owlery straightaway after he undid the bag straps, but they didn't, they just sat quietly with him. He appreciated that. Errol nuzzled his head into his hand and nibbled his finger very gently.

Harry's head was aching and his throat was so dry. But the owls needed water so he got up and filled his bowl for them. While he was there at the tap, he drank for a long time. He let the water pour over his face, though he was already feeling kind of cold. When he came back, he watched them drink. They looked exhausted. He found them an owl treat each, although at this rate he would soon run out of those too. He whispered, "Thanks for coming," and they hooted at him. He missed Hedwig terribly, it felt like an ache in his heart. He tried not to worry about her, though he had never sent her on such long journeys before. She was fierce and could look after herself. She didn't need to be babied. It was fine.

When he looked inside the bag, he burst into tears. There was a letter from Ron and what looked like the most enormous stash of desserts - two large biscuit tins and one giant pie. He prised one tin open to find big, soft cookies that smelt strongly of cinnamon. The other was full of some kind of swirly chocolate square stuffed with peanut butter. He would have to force himself to go slowly and not eat more than a bite or two at a time or he would only throw it back up - that stuff was rich and his stomach felt so weird right now. But he sat breathing in the smell for a while. He hadn't really expected them to send food. It wasn't like the Weasleys were loaded with cash. He also kind of wished he had known how to ask for some bread or meat instead but he didn't want to be ungrateful. He rummaged further and sobbed a little more when he saw that the pie was a kind of treacle tart. It smelt incredible. It was too much. This was ridiculous. He hadn't really meant that he wanted one. They had gone to way too much trouble, no way was he ever hinting at wanting anything else ever again. But it also felt kind of warm to know they cared enough to send something mad like this. He wondered if he'd ever be able to tell them exactly what it meant to him. He licked at the peanut butter for a while and nibbled an edge of pastry and then dozed a little with his arm around the cookie tin.

When he woke the owls were gone. They had probably gone hunting. He paused. Could humans eat mice? He'd probably have to cook them really well. He hadn't seen any mouse traps around. But those might be poisoned anyway. Maybe he could leave some crumbs out as bait and then catch the mice himself somehow. He was invisible and knew how to move pretty quietly. And then, if he ever found those stupid kitchens, he could wash the mice really thoroughly and skin them somehow and cook the meat. Maybe chop it into little bits so he could pretend it was minced chicken. Maybe he should go hunt in the forest too. He amused himself imagining which forest creatures he would grill and which he would deep-fry.

When he was done daydreaming, he peeked in the bag again. Just looking at the desserts made him feel like crying. He was unsure how long the baked goods would last in their tins but decided to treat them the same as fresh. He measured them out and decided he could have a small slice of pie and a cookie or a chocolate nut square every single day for the next two weeks. He had to stop crying; this was a good thing. He was being way too noisy, by far the noisiest he had been since term ended. He just knew it was going to get him caught. But he couldn't stop giving great big lung sobs. This was like getting his first birthday cake from Hagrid all over again. He tried to shush himself and his cries got a little quieter. He put his thumb in his mouth like a baby and hugged himself against his luggage, wrapped up in his cloaks. He kept the desserts safe a little way away so he wouldn't roll over them. But he kept them in eyesight and smiled at them until he fell asleep.

He dreamed of heavy closed doors he couldn't push open. Hedwig was stuck behind them and he was trying to get her out but Uncle Vernon had his foot on her wing. Harry kept trying Wingardium Leviosa until he realised that he didn't have his wand, he'd been trying to use one of Dudley's drumsticks. "Nasty, ungrateful, thieving little - ," snarled Petunia and he woke with a start. The bookshelves loomed over him on either side. The stone floor was cold beneath him. His head felt rough like he'd eaten too much salt and not drank enough water and his neck and back were aching. But he just looked at the bag from the Weasleys and grinned.

He treated himself to a slice of pie as an early breakfast. He still felt a little bit fragile but every bite of that pie melted on his tongue like butter and made him feel like a prince. It left a sticky caramel coating on his tongue and the back of his mouth. He opened and closed his mouth over and over to feel the sensation. The pie was without a doubt the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His heart started to race a little, probably the sugar overload. He had to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from eating all the rest at once. He licked his fingers for a while, then washed his hands carefully, did his teeth and settled in to read through Ron's letter.

Dear Harry,
I hope it's OK with the muggles. Mum wanted to bake you enough to share with them (I think you should hide it and eat it all yourself if you can).

Fred and George say they'll show us where the kitchens are first thing when we're back in September!!! I can't believe it! We are going to pig out! I'm not such a treacle tart guy but Hogwarts fudge cake?! I'm there. It will be Ginny's first year and she says she wants to come too or she'll hex us. I think it's fairer if she has to wait for second year like the rest of us.

Hope Mum's treats will keep you going in the meantime. Fred suggested the nutty things because they've got Quidditch protein or something. They've been practising like mad every day, they say next year is Gryffindor's year. Can you come stay with us? Everyone would love to see you and you could get some practice in. Mum said your family might want to spend time with you after a whole year but I told her you'd rather be here.

Please write back soon and let us know you're OK.

Ron xx

It set Harry off all over again although this time he managed to cry quietly. He didn't know what was wrong with him but he could read the letter in Ron's voice so clearly. He had thought Hogwarts would always be his favourite place, his home, but it was so different without anyone else here. He was worse than a ghost because even ghosts had people to talk to, sometimes. You're being ridiculous, he told himself in Hermione’s voice. You could just let them know you're here and it would all be fine. Stop whinging. They've even invited you to stay with them. Are you going to be ungrateful? It’s not a small thing for someone like you to be invited.

This distracted him briefly as he wondered what Ron's home looked like. He was struggling to imagine anything except Privet Drive. He knew that was ridiculous, but the thought of all the Weasleys crammed around Petunia's little kitchen table was amusing. He wanted to go so badly but he had to be cautious. Mrs Weasley had enough kids to deal with already. It didn’t sound like she was super enthusiastic to have him. He knew the Weasleys weren't very wealthy and Harry ate so much. They had already gone to way too much trouble with the desserts. If he stayed, would they accept money from him? Piers never offered money when he slept over at the Dursleys even though they fed him nearly as much as Dudley. Maybe he could hide some galleons somewhere for them?

And Ron didn't say for how long he was invited. Piers only ever stayed one or two nights, but Aunt Marge usually stayed a week whenever she came. Was it different for family or because she was coming from further away? Either way, the Weasleys would probably want to drop him back off at the Dursleys afterwards. He wouldn't be able to get back to the castle. So he should say no. He paused. Unless… was it rude to ask how long he could stay? If it was a whole week he could ask for it to be right at the end so they could drop him back off at King's Cross in September. Harry sighed. This was exhausting. How did anyone ever organise anything? He was tempted to go straight back to sleep. But instead he pulled out his quill and started to sharpen it. His hand was trembling a little bit (too much sugar?) but he went slowly so he didn’t knock over the ink and managed to keep his handwriting reasonably neat.

Dear Ron,

Please tell your mum and everyone thank you so much for the delicious tart and the cookies and the quidditch chocolates. They’re honestly the tastiest food I've ever had in my life.

I would love to stay with you so much. How long could I stay for, please? Could Hedwig stay too? If I stayed at the end of the holidays, could I be dropped off with you at King's Cross in September? The Dursleys won't mind at all if I'm gone, they won't even notice. Can you send me the address?

Lots of love,
Harry

He read it through a couple of times and thought it was pretty good. Then he lay back again. He didn't yet fancy trekking to the library but he finally felt excited to get back into reading and decided to start a new chapter of the standard spellbook grade 2. He had actually done the vast majority of his homework, he didn't know what he had been worried about last night. Every now and then he took a break to smell the cookie tin. He also crossed a few days off his calendar; he had forgotten to do that for a while. It was Wednesday 29th. Only 34 days left until school started again; he was roughly halfway through. And at this rate, maybe only 26 or so days until he could go stay with the Weasleys. Don't get your hopes up about the Burrow, he warned himself. But the desserts had done him good; it was much harder to feel gloomy. He had his usual lunch but also added a chocolate peanut butter square, eating it very slowly, lick by lick. The peanut butter was salty and crunchy and the chocolate was not too sweet. Mrs Weasley was a genius. Harry wondered if Ron realised how lucky he was.

The owls turned up again mid afternoon, hooting cheerfully. He couldn’t bring himself to shush them. He tied his reply to Errol, but he wasn't sure how much of a break they'd need before heading out so he told them they didn't have to hurry off. He enjoyed stroking each of them in turn for a little while and they seemed happy enough just perching and dozing nearby while he read. He put Ron's letter with his first Hogwarts letter, which he still had treasured in his trunk. He wondered whether Professor McGonagall was going to send another list of things to buy like last time… If so, would it go to Privet Drive or here? How would he get to Diagon Alley? It was a bad thought, but not one he could do anything about now. Hopefully, it wouldn't come until the last week and then, fingers crossed, he'd be at the Burrow and could ask for help.

When he was done reading, he decided to venture out and take himself for a short walk. He was already feeling so much better than yesterday. He didn't go too far this time though, just enough to stretch his legs and have a look out of a couple of the windows. It was a still, grey sort of afternoon, like the sky was thinking about rain but hadn't quite gotten around to it. He passed Filch's door and saw it was closed. He had seen Filch through a window a few days before, trudging across the grounds. He sidled up to the door, tried the handle and then, without thinking, whispered “alohomora.” He then froze, terrified. Had he given everything away? But nothing happened. A new warmth tingled in his wand hand. Maybe nobody would notice if he did magic, after all. He could start practising his charms! The door creaked open. He sneaked in and quickly rooted through the confiscated items drawer, but it was nearly empty, just a packet of cards and a few old quills. Filch must have thrown everything away at the end of the year.

In the evening, the owls were hopping from foot to foot, looking like they were ready to be off. The larger owl was now fluffing himself up while Errol hooted and flapped his wings, with an expression that looked just like when Ron was impatiently waiting for Harry and Hermione to hurry up and come down for dinner. "Oh, you're going to race home, are you?" Harry chuckled. "Fine. Back to the Burrow," he told them. "Give them my love." He fed each of them another treat then took them down the corridor to the nearest window he could open and let them out. He watched the sky for a long while after they had disappeared.

He woke up in the early hours of Thursday morning to soft hooting and wondered why they had come back. But when he opened the door to his little supply closet bedroom, he saw Hedwig in the centre of the classroom, perched on a desk, preening. He felt almost like crying again. He was so emotional these days! "Hello, beautiful! It's lovely to see you. I've missed you so much. So, so much," he told her. She was more beautiful than he had remembered. He marvelled at her soft feathers with the dark curves like brown ink strokes. Every detail was absorbing. He chuckled as she yawned and he saw all the way down her beak. She let him take off the letter and then hopped onto his shoulder. He liked the weight of her, even if the claws did dig a bit into his shoulder. He fed her a couple of treats and then settled in to read Hermione's letter.

Dear Harry,

Are you OK? Do you want to come and stay with me for a while? Mum and Dad would love me to have a friend stay over. We're all fine, thanks. Mum and Dad work most days but I'm quite happy with my books. How are you?

Hogwarts, a history doesn't mention the kitchens, weirdly. You'd have to ask the twins about it.

I found Mcgonagall's answer in chapter 11 of the Waffling book. Read the last couple of pages carefully.

I've done the potions essay as well. I liked the bit about the Wiggenweld potion, although I'm not sure I understood everything about the honey water and flobberworm mucus interaction. Did you find any info on this?

Lots of love,
Hermione

Harry was pleased to see her tip for McGonagall's quiz and he knew what she meant about the Wiggenweld potion. He had found a good paragraph in one of the library books, which explained it better than their textbook. He could copy it out for her. He was a bit nonplussed about her first paragraph. He couldn't remember what he'd written in his letter to her, but she sounded a little worried. It was great she had offered for him to stay though! Perhaps he could also stay a week with her before he went to the Burrow? He replied to her immediately and then shared another slice of pie and a cookie with Hedwig. Maybe that was a bit reckless, but it seemed likely that he'd be able to stay at least some time with his friends. He'd wait to confirm with them before totally replanning the rations. But between this and the food from Mrs Weasley… Everything was going to be just fine.

Dear Hermione,

I'm great, thank you. I would love to stay at your house, thank you so much. What is your address? How long can I stay for? Can Hedwig stay too?

Thanks for the chapter 11 tip, I'll look it up. I've copied a bit about the wiggenweld potion below.

Lots of love,
Harry

He left some space to copy the Wiggenweld bit later in the library. He gave Hedwig a kiss on the top of her head and laughed as she squawked in surprise. "I'll give you the letter later, it's not finished yet," he told her. "Why don't you go rest?" She gave herself a shake and then hooted softly. He let her out of the window and then rocked on his feet with an anticipation he hadn't felt for a while. He was actually excited to go back to the library and look up the text for Hermione. He felt thankful for his friends in a way he hadn’t for a while, like his heart would burst from the joy of them. The rest of the summer would fly by and then he’d see them again and give them both the biggest hug ever.

Chapter Text

Back to full spirits, Harry set off for the library later that afternoon, practically skipping. He copied out the text for Hermione and then studied for a few more hours. He stretched out when he was ready for a break and realised that he felt better than he had done for a long while. He danced a little secret dance under his cloak as he took one of his books back to its shelf. He was pretty much at the halfway point and confident that he’d see at least one of his friends soon. He had had his moody week and he had survived, it could only get better from here. He had plenty of food. And, it was his birthday tomorrow! For the first time ever, he was excited about that. He even had snacks! He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do! No snipes from the Dursleys, no endless chores for no reward. He was tempted to keep Hedwig around for the day so he wouldn’t be totally alone, but in the end he knew it would be better to hear from his friends sooner. She turned up in the library as though she had read his mind. He kissed her head, pressed his cheek against her soft feathers and sent her off with his letter to Hermione.

When he was done with work, he wandered idly through the corridors for a little while, just to stretch his legs. He no longer felt so anxious to find the kitchens. If he stumbled across them, that would be great, but it wasn’t urgent. He was doing fine. He was just passing a long floral tapestry and thinking of nothing in particular, when a delicious smell of something wafted his way. He halted immediately, one foot still in the air as though he had found himself on the edge of a cliff about to step off. He put his foot down and closed his eyes. It was a good smell. He was drawn to its warmth. It was familiar, though he couldn’t place it. It was enticing, fresh and sharp, it smelled like… it smelled like… it clicked into place… coffee! Coffee. He wheeled around, followed his nose and ran down a side corridor. He found himself outside the staff room door. He had passed this way ages ago, even had a cheeky peek inside, but it had been empty like everywhere else. But now… coffee? He paused, pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear any noise from inside. There was no rustle of movement, no soft voices. Just that beautiful smell. He approached the door. He pressed his hand against the cool wood. He pushed. Slowly the door opened. He slipped inside. He held the door on the other side to guide it closed again. It shut with the softest of thumps. He turned to look at the room. His eyes went wide.

There were trays of sandwiches! And a pot of coffee! Little sachets of cream! He couldn't believe it! He quickly crossed the room and stuffed two sandwiches in his mouth without even thinking about it. It was a bit of a mistake as he nearly choked, but he managed to chew it all and swallow eventually. The crusty bread scratched at his throat; his jaw ached with the intense effort. But the bread and the beef and the mustard and the tomato and mayonnaise was like an explosion in his mouth, spicy and good and he was suddenly so, so hungry. Agonisingly desperate. He needed to eat. He bit into another one and jammed four sandwiches up his sleeves. He filled his jeans pockets with sachets of milk, sugar and cream and another sandwich in each one. He considered pushing some into his socks or coming back with a bag but he didn't want to take so many that someone would notice.

There was nobody else here, but his heart rate was spiking. Trays like this could only mean… the staff were coming back? He shouldn't stay long. A large length of parchment pinned to the noticeboard caught his eye and he saw that tomorrow was the beginning of a week-long schedule marked down as staff training. His eyebrows rose. This was good and bad. More chances to be caught… but sandwiches! SANDWICHES! It seemed like everything good came along at once. It was nearly his birthday and the world was dancing with him. It felt like he had just won at quidditch, like he was surrounded by roaring, cheering crowds. He took one more sandwich and this time forced himself to go slowly, sucking each bite as though it were a boiled sweet until all the flavour faded. His stomach rumbled a bit ominously, he felt a little sick, but he didn’t care. SANDWICHES! He looked longingly at the coffee pot but someone might hear it being poured. He just stood next to it and breathed in the scent for as long as he dared.

Then he crept back out and carried on his merry way back to his camp, patting his pockets happily. Then suddenly it hit him. He didn't know which professor used the classroom he was currently camping out in. Who knew if they were one of the ones training tomorrow? The classroom had a lot of furnishings and books… he broke into a sprint. He had to move his stuff, right now. He’d take it back to the first classroom, the empty one with the broken lock. He sighed. Damn. He liked his current room much better. But if teachers were going to be jumping out again, he should seriously consider just sitting under the cloak and not moving for a few days. Not exactly the birthday he had planned. But more in line with tradition, he supposed.

As soon as he reached the supply closet he emptied his pockets and sleeves into the trunk, wrapped the pile of sandwiches in a shirt, threw all the sachets in willie nillie and then grabbed his broom and Hedwig's cage. He ran with them up to the empty classroom and laid them down behind the desks where they would be less obvious. He didn’t pause for breath but dashed back for the trunk. It took a lot longer to move up as he had to stop frequently for breaks, hopping anxiously from one foot to the other, scrunching his hands open and closed as though he was frantically signalling something and wishing away his stitch. But he managed to do it. He slid the trunk against the wall. It looked horribly on show; he had gotten used to the cosy space in the supply room. But he should have considered that earlier and thought of a better back up. He had only himself to blame. The last thing to take up was his bag of desserts. He hadn’t wanted to squish the pie, so he planned to carry it up with both hands. He hared back as fast as he could.

When he reached his corridor, he was so horrified to hear footsteps, a soft shuffling gait, that he nearly fell over. He closed his eyes and tried to get a hold of himself. He was breathing too loudly. Slower. Slower. He opened them again and peered up and down the corridor, but there was no one he could see. Then he heard a voice and realised with horror that it was coming from inside his classroom. The door had been left open. He recognised the soft, cutesy voice floating out of it. It was the voice Filch used for Mrs Norris. Harry hovered just outside, peering in.

"You smelled it, sweetheart? I bet you did,” Filch cooed. He was hunched over something at the entrance to the supply room. Mrs Norris was stretching at his feet. “Look at all this!” Filch sounded reverent. “A pie! Biscuit tins! This must be Peeves. He must have stolen it from one of the teachers. He thinks he’s so smart, hiding it here ready to throw later. He probably planned to disrupt the meetings. Excellent work, my dear."

"No," said Harry out loud, without thinking. "No."

He saw Filch stiffen. Mrs Norris growled. Harry gasped and backed away, walking as softly and quickly as he could before breaking into a run all the way back to the second floor and his trunk. He sat on it, held the cage and the broom to his chest and made sure the cloak was over it all. When he was sure it was secure he leaned back against the wall and then hit his fists against his arms and thighs in frustration. "No, no, no," he said. He kept saying it over and over. “No. No.” For some reason losing the cakes had opened a kind of numb panic in him. It was silly; he knew he was behaving badly, he really was a freak, getting this upset just over some puddings. What kind of a spoiled brat was he? He was as bad as Dudley. But it wasn’t fair. He did want them. He couldn’t help it. He wanted them so badly. He whined a little to himself and then cringed at the noise. He was mortified to feel tears running down his cheeks again. He was pathetic.

“But it’s my birthday tomorrow,” he whispered to himself. He wondered who he thought was listening. “I really wanted them. I didn’t do anything wrong. Please. Please.”

He tried to still his breath, which was juddery. He wasn’t going to cry like a baby. But part of him felt so, so tired. He should just forget it all and try to sleep. Just read and sleep and hope that he never had to get up or see anyone or do anything ever again. It's only cookies, he thought. It doesn't matter.

"At least you took out the letter from Ron so Filch didn't see your name," he told himself firmly. "At least you moved the trunk. The sandwiches are still in there. You're OK. You weren't caught. You're OK." But it still hurt. He should have eaten it all immediately, as soon as he had seen it. How could he have been so stupid? All his stupid cheer had evaporated. He just felt exhausted again. He wished he'd never written to Ron. What had he expected? It was always like this in the end. He got his hopes up and then they were shredded. This first year - he'd gotten so weak. He had forgotten what life was really like. He was on his own and he couldn't get so attached to things. It was shallow and materialistic. He didn’t want to be like Dudley, always desperate, always grasping for more things, things, things, always stuffing his face. What was the point? For Harry, it always ended here. Hungry and cold and lonely and invisible. But Harry was tougher than Dudley. Harry had nothing. No one. He didn’t care. It was fine. He didn’t need silly things like cookies. He didn’t.

"It'll be term time again soon," he insisted. "It doesn’t matter. Just one more month left. Go to sleep. You’ve survived worse."

He focused on taking deep and long breaths. But he couldn’t do it. He was still too upset. He wanted his biscuit tins. He needed them. They had made everything better! It wasn’t fair!

“Then get them back, you idiot!” he hissed. “You're quick. You're the youngest seeker in a century. You can do this. Mrs Weasley baked them for you, not Filch. You know where his office is. Get. Them. Back.”

He could do it. He could fight for his desserts. He deserved to get them back. He hadn't stolen them or done anything bad. He had just left them in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had been coming back for them. This was unlucky, a mistake anyone might have made. And with that, a part of him began to rage. Filch stole his food! Mrs Weasley baked it! She sent two owls across the country to get it to him! She had lent him two beautiful tins and filled them with the tastiest food. And he needed to give them back to her! He couldn't lose them! He couldn't be that thoughtless and careless. He looked after his things. They weren’t for fucking FILCH!

“So go and get them," he groaned to himself.

He stood up and felt wobbly. He would try, at least. He might not have much time. What if Filch started gobbling everything up as soon as he got back? He might even share it all out with the rest of the teachers - it could be all gone in an hour! Or what if Filch had just vanished it all at once, thinking it was leftover rubbish? Harry gasped a little. It might already be too late. He closed his eyes. In that case, he would be an idiot to risk the rest. His trunk, broom and cage felt very exposed now, just against the wall of the classroom, even half hidden behind the desks. The sandwiches and the other rations were inside the trunk. What if Mrs Norris smelt them too? It was a gamble… he could lose everything. He should stay and guard what he had left.

But he didn’t want to. He wanted the treats. They were his. He had hardly any things. It wasn’t fair. He needed them. But whining wasn’t going to help anything. He breathed deeply in and out for a while, puzzling it out. The trunk was still his top priority. Before he started messing around going after the desserts, he should take it somewhere safer - all the way up to the seventh floor, to the fancy bathroom where he had done his laundry. He'd never seen anyone else using it and he had gone back there to wash every few days. It would be odd for staff to go there if they had their own quarters. He could even sleep in the bathroom, like he had done before. He could lock the door and everything. Once his luggage was properly safe, he'd figure out how to get the desserts back. There was no time to lose. He raced to lift the trunk again but it slipped and dropped onto his toe. He hopped around, cursing quietly. He really hated that trunk. His arms were so tired. It bit into his fingers and bashed against his shins. He nearly kicked it but he managed to stop himself.

"This is still better than staying with the Dursleys. Still better than the Dursleys," he muttered under his breath. This brought a grim smile to his face. Even with this pudding catastrophe, staying here really was better than Privet Drive. Each Dursley was worth ten heavy trunks and 5 lost pies, he decided.

His heart finally lifted. Losing the food was a blow but he hadn't even known about it a couple of days ago after all. He could survive without it. This was like a bonus challenge. He did his quidditch warm up stretches and thought through his marathon plan. He would take the trunk, the broom and the cage up to the seventh floor all in one go. It was going to hurt but he wasn't going to lose anything else. Then, he'd get those tins back. He'd show Filch. Get the tins. He murmured this to himself over and over: every time the trunk banged his shins or the sweat dripped into his eyes or he stumbled on the hem of the cloak. I’ll show Filch. I’ll get the tins. I’ll get the pie. Dragging his luggage up five more floors was hell compared to getting it out of the tower. But Harry could focus when he needed to. He whimpered, he groaned, he had weird huffy little breaths, but he kept going, powered by his sudden, surprising fury. He'd show Filch. He’d get the tins.

When he finally managed to reach the top corridor where the door usually appeared, he faltered and dropped everything. He cringed at the crashing noise but he was too tired to care. He was floors and floors up from anybody else, probably. He paced a little, stretching out his back and shoulders by putting his arms in the air towards the ceiling and leaning from side to side. He jumped and tried to shake himself out a bit. One of his calf muscles was twitching and shuddering like mad. But he had done it. He should feel exhilarated. But there was no one cheering him on now. It all seemed like a lot of effort for very little reward. He felt a bit like he might fall over. He wasn’t sure he could get all the way down to Filch’s office and back tonight, never mind rescuing the tins. He needed to sleep a bit before doing anything else. It might already be too late but he’d find out tomorrow. His anger faded into something that tasted like nauseating hopelessness.

I just wish I had somewhere to stay, he thought. Somewhere just for me. Somewhere I could sleep comfortably and hide my things without Filch or Mrs Norris or anyone else finding them. I wish I could have a hot shower with shampoo and soap. I wish I had space for Hedwig. I wish I could see my friends. He opened his eyes to see the door unfurling itself. He sighed and pushed it open. But as he stepped in, he froze. This wasn't the fancy bathroom he had been looking forward to. The white, gold and turquoise tiles were gone. Instead there was a thick, fluffy blue carpet. No, he thought. Had he gotten lost? Was this a teacher's office?

He was about to back away when something caught his eye. It was a photo of him, Ron and Hermione. He recognised it - Seamus had been going round taking pictures at the end of term. His camera had printed it immediately and he'd shown them before sticking it in his scrapbook for them to sign. They'd taken it in one of the courtyards by a tree with white flowers. The three of them had their arms around each other. Ron looked like he had been caught mid snort and Hermione was blinking over and over. Harry had roared with laughter when he first saw it. The photograph version of him looked about as happy as he'd ever seen himself. Harry frowned. Here was that same photo in a golden frame. It was on a little white table with a lamp, next to a bed with a navy blue cover decorated with golden broomsticks. It wasn't the only picture either. There was a pencil crayon drawing of him and Hagrid stuck above the bed next to what looked like a watercolour painting of him and Oliver Wood in their Quidditch gear. There were more drawings of him and the Quidditch team, one of him and the Weasleys, another of him and Hermione, several more of the three of them and a few with Neville, Dean and Seamus.

"Huh?" said Harry.

He dragged his luggage just inside the door and let it shut, then paced around anxiously. There was a Gryffindor red and gold lion tapestry down one wall. Another wall was a bookcase, full of beginner spell books and Quidditch magazines. The last one had a little window, through which he could see Hagrid's hut and a bit of the lake, which didn't make sense at all because he was pretty sure the window was in the wrong direction for that. There was a large owl perch with a black and white drawing of him and Hedwig framed behind it. Next to it was a door labelled bathroom. Inside was a little ensuite decorated just like the fancy showers he had seen before. Harry sat heavily on the floor, feeling so shocked he felt a little lightheaded. He picked absentmindedly at the carpet.

"Huh?" he said again. “What?”

Was this some sort of elaborate prank? Had people known he was here all along just waiting to see how long he'd last? He waited for someone to jump out and "boo!" him but nothing happened. He lay back. The carpet was beautifully soft. It felt like the nice rug Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had in their bedroom. He and Dudley had sneaked in together to stroke it when they were about 5 years old, back when occasionally Dudley had forgotten Harry was a freak and decided he was ok to play with. What do you expect, Harry thought. You live in a magical castle. Sometimes magic happens. Not like this, he thought. Was it a trap? But the longer he waited the less suspicious he felt. Sure, it was kind of creepy that this place was covered in pictures of him, but on the other hand, it was beautiful. Even if he'd had his own house with his own bedroom and an unlimited budget, he still didn't think he could have created something as lovely as this. There were little golden stars and snitches and broomsticks hanging from the ceiling. He took off his invisibility cloak and threw it aside. Nothing happened. I'm staying, he thought.

"Thank you, room," he whispered. For a second it seemed like all the golden decorations sparkled. Harry laughed. He could sleep here. He just knew it. The room was meant for him. Tomorrow, he’d take on Filch’s office. He could prove himself worthy of winning the tins back. It was just another task, another challenge, like the giant chess board or the poison potions. He dragged himself to the shower and let the hot water soothe his aching muscles, his lower back, his stiff neck. He rescued his pyjamas from his trunk and tumbled into his bed. His bed. His bedroom. He hugged his beautiful broomstick duvet around him and wriggled happily.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up Friday morning feeling warm, in his soft bed with the blue and gold broomsticks on the duvet cover, the sun shining gently through his false window. It was his birthday. For once this didn’t send him into a crashing thoughts of hopelessness and disgust. He was… happy? He existed; that was good. Today belonged to him. He was so comfortable; he didn’t even have to get up right away. He yawned and stretched out slowly like a pampered cat. Not even his four poster bed in Gryffindor tower was this cosy. Harry nuzzled his face into the pillow. He could lie here forever, just dreaming. He thought through how the day might unfold as though browsing through a menu at a fancy restaurant. He could chill in the library. He could head out onto the tower to see the view. He could slide around the slippery stone floors in his socks. He could go and see that giant tapestry he liked on the fourth floor, the one of the witch flying her broomstick over the ocean. He liked how the waves rocked through the wool. He could read in bed. He could make a start on figuring out how to get his biscuit tins and the treacle tart back from Filch.

Last year, he had had the best birthday. Meeting Hagrid, finding Diagon Alley. Getting to know Hedwig. Ice cream. His wand. Getting fitted for robes, clothes just for him that were his actual size. Stacks of books. So many things, things he hadn’t even known how to use back then - his quills, his cauldron. He hugged himself with the memory. It had been a big improvement on two years ago. That had involved being stuck in his cupboard for hours listening to Dudley and Piers gobbling party food. They had decided to celebrate after all… only Harry was not invited. Harry had heard them slurping and crunching and licking and his own stomach had been rumbling. His cousin had given an annoyingly long commentary through the cupboard door on every last party ring biscuit, every packet of gummy bears, every chocolate roll. Even now Harry could remember Dudley’s descriptions. It was the closest he had come to actually tasting any of those things. He had put his pillow over his head but nothing had drowned it out. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had rescued Harry briefly, presented him with a pair of socks and a coat hanger, then put him straight back in the cupboard for the rest of the day with a cup of warm water and a slice of brown bread. Dudley and Piers had nearly wet themselves laughing.

He didn’t know why he was thinking about that. He didn’t need to think about that or any of his other birthdays before then. He did not need to remember the embarrassing time when he was six and learned from his primary school teacher that he did actually have a birthday, the Dursleys had just never bothered to tell him. It had been very confusing at that age. He had accidentally said, “Oh I didn’t realise I had a birthday too, just like normal kids,” and she had given him a funny look. No, he didn't have to think about that anymore. Today he was free. Today, he could do his birthday his way.

He had a long shower using a ton of soap and a whole handful of shampoo. He brushed his teeth twice just to enjoy the mintiness. He pottered around a while in his fluffy towel and flicked through one of the quidditch magazines. He dressed in his freshest clothes. He opened a chocolate frog, and chased after it as it bounced around the room like some sort of lumpy, clumsy snitch. He laughed out loud as it knocked into the bookcases, leapt across the ceiling and got tangled in the hanging stars. They all tinkled as they swayed into each other. He wasn’t even worried about ghosts or keeping quiet. It seemed somehow difficult to care about these things on such a sunny day, when he had his own room and his own birthday. As the charm wore off, the frog seemed to tire. When it slowed, Harry pounced. Had muggle chocolate ever tasted this good? He wouldn’t know, but he bet it didn’t. Take that Dudley and Piers. He looked at all his pictures again and then settled in to read a book for a bit. He jumped when there was a tapping at the window - he hadn’t thought it was a real window. But there was Errol again puffing his fluffy chest out. Harry leapt up to let him in and he immediately flew to the perch.

“Hello, hello!” said Harry happily. “I didn’t expect you back so quickly!”

Errol held out his leg and Harry saw two brightly coloured envelopes. He felt his heart stop. These weren’t letters. These were birthday cards! He took them down reverently. The first one was in a bright orange envelope and had Ron’s writing scrawled on it. He opened it to find a hand drawn card. It showed a huge quaffle which filled the page. As he watched, it shrunk away as though it had been thrown and flew through one of the little hoops in the background. A little snitch was flying around the edge. It was beautiful. Harry remembered Ron had gotten a similar one earlier that year - George had drawn it and Fred had charmed it. He’d felt guilty that he’d been so surprised the twins could create something so astonishing. Inside it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATE! and was signed by Ron and then everyone else in Ron’s family. Harry ran his finger over each name. It was funny to think all these people knew it was his birthday.

The second envelope was green and looked muggle. Hermione’s neat writing was on the front. Harry supposed she must have sent it to Ron first to get it to him in time instead of waiting for Hedwig. He opened it and admired the card: it was a photograph of two owls with their heads together. Inside Hermione had written,

Dear Harry,

I hope you have a happy day, as you deserve on your birthday. I miss you and can’t wait to see you soon.

Lots of love,
Hermione

He felt a little giddy so he tried to calm himself down. He put the cards next to his bed and sat and looked at them for a little while humming the birthday tune. He had just stood up when another owl flew in. He didn’t recognise this one at all but it had dark brown feathers and carried a scroll of parchment and a little parcel. It landed elegantly on the perch next to Errol who hopped along a bit, looking put out. Harry fed both owls the last of his treats and thanked them both.

He unfurled the scroll and read:

Dear Harry,

Happy birthday! One year since we met. You’re not just a wizard, you’re a kind, clever and brave wizard. I’m so proud of how hard you worked this year. Sending you a big hug.

Hagrid

Harry felt a lump in his throat. He felt a bit guilty. Hagrid had written such nice things about him. It felt odd, like Harry had tricked him somehow. Would Hagrid be sad when he found out Harry had broken the rules and hidden here? He didn’t want to let Hagrid down. He shouldn’t have lied to Ron and Hermione and said he was leaving early, that hadn’t been kind. Harry sighed and unwrapped the packet. It was a little wood carving of Hedwig. Harry stared at it. He felt suddenly overwhelmingly sad and he wasn’t sure why. The carving was beautiful. It must have taken Hagrid a long time to make. It was too much, this and the card from the twins and everything. He didn’t even know when their birthdays were. Perhaps Harry should have done better to put up with the Dursleys. Then maybe he could have invited Hagrid to meet him in Diagon Alley for a birthday ice cream or something. He put the parchment and the little owl with his other cards then shook himself out. No need to be so ungrateful. This was a lovely birthday. He’d go to Diagon Alley again with Hagrid another time. He’d do better next year and make sure he learned when everyone’s birthdays were and get them cards too.

He was still feeling a bit low so he decided to have his birthday brunch. He put on the cloak and went to the tower, then sat under one of the parapets where he had a clear view of the grounds. The pumpkin pasty and crisps he had saved all this time were a bit squashed but still well before their expiry dates. The pastry was a lot drier than he remembered, but the middle was still very good, a spicy, creamy pumpkin filling that took Harry right back to that first journey laughing with Ron as the Hogwarts Express trundled through the countryside. He tried to take at least five seconds for every bite, chewing slower and slower, savouring every flavour and texture. He probably should have eaten the fresh sandwiches first, but they would keep until dinner and tomorrow he would see if he could sneak more. The pastry was so flaky, that even with his best efforts it crumbled all over him but he picked up any bits that fell, letting them melt away on his tongue. Such a large meal actually made him sleepy, so he had a little nap afterwards under the sky.

He still felt a little melancholy and dozy when he opened his eyes. He had been napping for almost an hour. He didn’t want to waste his whole birthday sleeping. He considered what to do next and decided it needed to be something lively to help him wake up. Perhaps it was time for the real adventure of the day: Operation Rescue-The-Desserts-From-Filch. He stretched and then went through some quidditch warm-up exercises. He was still a bit stiff from carrying all the luggage yesterday. His shoulders were achy and his lower back twinged from time to time. He needed to be ready, extra quick and nimble in case he had to run away. He took his time and warmed up properly like before a match, jogging a little across the tower roof. When he was done, he went back to his bedroom. Back in the corridor he had a flash of fear: the door had disappeared. He cursed his stupidity. He knew the room could change. It had first been a bathroom after all! He had just left everything he needed in there, his trunk, his cards… Please he prayed, I need my bedroom, I need my things, please, please and the door unfurled. Harry’s heart hammered. He pushed it open, feeling sick and then gasped in relief when everything was just as he had left it. He wasn’t entirely sure he could trust the room not to vanish but so far it hadn’t let him down. Whenever he asked, it came back. He went in and out again a few times to check this theory and it all seemed to be ok. He really hoped there wasn’t something unpredictable like it only appeared 12 times or on a certain star alignment or whatever… but there wasn’t much he’d be able to do about it if that were true. He’d have to cross that bridge if it came to it. He realised after a little while that there was something missing after all - the owls had gone! But he assumed they’d just flown out when he had left earlier. He hoped so. He felt a kind of horror at the idea that he might have lost Errol. He didn’t want to think how he’d explain that to Ron or any of the Weasleys. Best not to think about it.

He fetched his rucksack from his bedroom and headed down to Filch’s office. There was no one around so he slid down one of the bannisters on the staircase between the seventh and sixth floor. He giggled to himself: Ron would never believe he did this. He was tempted to go again but it made a bit of a squeaking, sliding noise and some of the portraits were looking perplexed. The staircase thankfully hadn’t moved when he was halfway down, that might have been more adventure than he could handle. There were more people around on the lower floors so he went very slowly and carefully. He saw McGonagall chatting to Dumbledore. Harry sat in a corner and watched them all passing by for a little while. He had gotten very good at being quiet. He had very little fear of being caught any more. Still, it took a while to reach Filch’s office as he tiptoed with extra care.

Filch was sitting at his desk, but he had left the door ajar so Harry could peep in. Harry settled in to sit outside and watch, waiting for an opportunity. It was very boring. Filch was making notes or something, sorting and shuffling papers. Harry thought about quidditch. After a while, he was considering leaving to stretch his legs for a bit, when Filch suddenly stood up. He moved around the desk and then bent down at a side cupboard. Harry almost gasped as he saw his pie and the tins. Filch took the tart out, smirking to himself. Harry almost barged in as Filch cut himself an enormous slice (almost a quarter of the whole thing!) and chomped his way through it. Harry stared, his mouth watering. Filch wrapped the rest of it up and put it back in the cupboard, but it wasn’t locked or anything. Harry considered whether he could sneak in but even with the cloak he’d have to open the cupboard door and Filch would surely notice. Filch went back to his papers and Harry went back to watching.

He had been sitting for another hour or so when it happened. Filch stood up, stretched and then went out, leaving the door wide open. Harry waited until his footsteps had faded, then pulled his rucksack off his shoulders, unzipped it and made a dash for the side cupboard. He opened the door, grabbed the first tin and shoved it inside his bag. Then he took the second tin and struggled a little while to get it to fit but he managed to get it in as well. The zip wouldn’t close but he could wear the bag on his front and hold it to him. Finally he reached out for the pie and… slam! The cupboard door crunched shut on Harry's fingers. It was all he could do not to scream.

"Gotcha!" Filch yelled. "You fall for it every time, Peeves!"

Harry didn’t have time to dodge. The rucksack was still sticking out from under the cloak. Filch grabbed it and pulled so hard that Harry was yanked onto the floor, cracking his head hard as he went down backwards. He gasped but somehow managed to keep his hold on the bag handle. He was still under the cloak but Filch twisted and pulled the bag violently, starting to bend Harry's arm the wrong way. Harry rolled onto his knees, pushed himself up and aimed a kick at Filch's shin. He didn't hold back and as his foot made contact, Filch yelled out in pain. But he didn't let go. Instead Filch lurched forwards so Harry was unbalanced and then wrenched the bag to the left. The foot Harry was standing on caught under him and twisted. He fell heavily into the desk, the sharp corner jabbing into his side. He sprung up immediately, but Filch jerked the bag again pulling Harry forward onto his knees with a crack.

"Got you now, Peeves," Filch laughed. "I really hope poltergeists can feel at least some pain."

Harry looked from him to the cupboard. He waited until Filch braced to pull again and then released the rucksack. Filch obviously hadn’t expected him to let go. He tumbled right over, crashing into the wall, something smashed, but Harry didn’t hesitate. He lunged for the tart. He grabbed it through the cloak and ran out without looking back. He heard Filch screaming and some kind of loud bang - perhaps some more furniture had fallen? Harry skidded around the corner and managed to get the pie under the cloak. But he couldn't pause for long. As soon as the cloak was back in place, he sprinted again, wincing as his ankle screamed pain.

Filch was shrieking "Peeves! Peeves!" and Harry could hear footsteps crashing after him. He turned another corner and ran straight into Mrs Norris who was hissing and spitting. She got tangled between his feet and the cloak and Harry tripped. He tried to avoid falling right on top of the cat and instead smacked down onto his hip. He let himself roll forwards and jumped up again, still clutching the pie to his chest. He fled.

"You're disgusting, Peeves!" yelled Filch. "Disgusting! Pick on someone your own size! Leave Mrs Norris alone!"

Harry looked back to see Filch cradling his cat in his arms. Harry swore and peered back to check what had happened, but a second later Mrs Norris had leaped down from the caretaker's hold and was hissing at Harry again, hobbling after him with her crusty, yellow eyes and clacking claws. Harry yelped and ran, this time not looking back until he was safe several floors up. The footsteps hadn't followed him. Perhaps Filch had decided to tend to Mrs Norris rather than continue the chase. Harry hobbled onwards. He was desperate for the safety of his bedroom and all but collapsed into it as soon as the door appeared. He flung off the cloak and stared at the treacle tart. The pie was smushed on one side, it had cat hairs all over it, but Harry barely cared. He had got it back. He had done it. He lay on the floor catching his breath. He had lost his rucksack and the tins. But he had rescued the treacle tart. He giggled.

“Happy birthday to me,” he whispered. He liked the sound of that. He said it again but this time it came out as “Harry birthday to me!” For some reason he thought this was very, very funny and he laughed a while to himself. Harry birthday. Happy Harry birthday. Harry happy. After a little while, when his hysterical giggles had finally mellowed in a content smile, he thought he should probably inspect the damage.

It did not look good. His right hand was almost as smushed as the pie; the cupboard door had really done a number on it. It was still bleeding, quite a lot really and he couldn't bend his fingers. “Thanks, Filch,” he said sarcastically out loud. “You're such a dork. A doork. A cupboard doork.” He chuckled to himself again. But now he was thinking about his injuries, now he had stopped running, it was really quite painful to laugh. His ribs were stinging with every breath and he was aching all over. It felt like someone had wrung him out like a dishcloth. His hip and left side were definitely the worst, along with his knees and the back of his head. And his ankle. His ankle was bad. Maybe even worse than his hip. And his head. His head really hurt.

He should probably be a bit more worried about all this, he thought. But it was his birthday and he had the treacle tart and he wasn’t going to spend his birthday being sad and anxious just because Filch had decided to try and beat the crap out of Peeves and had accidentally nearly killed Harry. That would be weird. Imagine if he died here and nobody knew. Would Filch be in trouble? Would Ron speak at his funeral? Did wizards even have funerals? But he was being silly. He wasn’t dying. He’d had worse at the Dursleys. Like when Dudley had sat on him and dislocated his shoulder. That had felt way worse. And the time Harry hadn’t been paying attention and he had twisted the wrong way into Aunt Petunia’s frying pan when she swung it threateningly at him. That had knocked him out cold and he’d felt sick for days. It was fine. Harry was the boy who lived. He giggled. Being the boy who died would be rubbish.

He staggered to his feet and then to the bathroom, suddenly feeling stiff all over. He ran his hand under the cold tap for a while. He wasn't really sure what else to do, so he just sat on the edge of the bathtub, letting the water run and run into the sink, focusing on the nice cold sensation. After a while he realised that he was basically pouring quite a lot of blood down the sink and the wound was probably clean by now so he should just wrap his hand up and stop the bleeding. He cradled it in the t-shirt he was wearing and then stumbled to his trunk to find a fresher one. He wrapped his hand up as best he could and then rested his hot head on his trunk. After some more time, Harry realised that this might be more comfortable under the shower. He didn't have the energy to undress or stand for long so he just eased off his trainers, then sat in the tub fully clothed in his now bloody t-shirt with the cold shower water running over him.

After a bit, he realised that one of his ankles was swelling up: it was warm and puffy when he poked it. He put a towel in the cold water then draped it over the ankle which he tried to elevate by resting it on the side of the bath. After about thirty seconds he couldn't take the pain this position created in his hip and back so instead he put the plug in and let the bath fill up with cold water. He lay down a bit lower and tried to let his ankle float up. None of this was very comfortable. His head was aching badly enough that the light was starting to hurt his eyes. He turned the water off. He lay there until his shivering was getting too much and then he managed to clamber back out. He pulled himself out of his wet clothes and tried to find his pyjamas, but gave up after a few minutes when he couldn’t remember where he’d put them.

He decided to warm up under the bedcovers. He smiled at the treacle tart as he passed it on the way. It felt like the room was spinning quite a lot, so in the end he didn’t quite make it all the way back to the bed, he just curled up on the carpet. The invisibility cloak was right there so he could use it as a blanket. He’d wash the blood out later. It was ok. He closed his eyes. He’d have another little nap and then he could have one of the sandwiches he found yesterday and a slice of tart. His treacle tart. For his birthday. It was his birthday, he smiled to himself. Harry birthday. Treacle tart was his favourite. He drifted off, cuddled up in his cloak and hoping his head would stop hurting soon.

Chapter Text

Dobby was confused. Draco had been complaining to him all summer about Harry Potter, but it was the kind of wistful complaining Dobby recognised as just a smile away from painfully heartfelt adoration. Draco whispered long lists of Harry's successes against the odds and rebellion against the status quo with a bitterness so fervent it was near indistinguishable from desperate longing. He would hiss about how Harry had saved the wizarding world as a mere baby and then give a little sigh. If Draco wasn't so loyal to his father, Dobby was sure Draco himself might have realised how he felt.

But nevertheless when Dobby accidentally overheard Lucius muttering to himself about the end of Mudbloods and traitors and a new era for Hogwarts, Dobby knew he understood what Draco would truly want. Draco would want Dobby to protect Harry Potter. It was not unusual for house elves to be torn between the conflicting desires of different household members… they did the best they could in such situations. Dobby knew he would have to be punished for disobeying Lucius, but it always gave him a little glee when he saw any opening to rebel against him. And at heart, Draco was so very different from his father.

Dobby found Harry Potter's address in Draco's journal under the heading: "To Prank," next to several, heavily crossed out love letters. He didn't know how the boy had gotten it, but he confirmed the address in Lucius' notes in a list labelled, "Known Mudbloods and their Allies." After that he spent every free moment watching the house on Privet Drive. But after a couple of weeks, he had still seen no glimpse of the boy. He had been looking forward to seeing the real life version of the emerald eyes and tousled hair Draco had doodled in his journal on those precious pages, which he had later torn out and burned.

But Harry Potter simply wasn't there. It was starting to worry Dobby. Perhaps he was too late and Lucius had already done something dastardly. But Dobby thought not. Harry Potter was famous. There had been nothing in the news. More to the point, if Lucius had succeeded in kidnapping Harry, he had absolutely no doubt they would never have heard the end of it. Dobby wondered if he should alert someone. Professor Dumbledore perhaps? Anyone that high up on Lucius' hate list was probably a good candidate. But he had no idea where to find him. It wasn't until Draco's godfather came to visit that he had an idea.

….

Severus sighed; dinner was dragging on. Draco was telling another very long quidditch story punctuated with obscure Nimbus 2001 trivia. He had not yet learnt the subtle art of the hint. Severus wasn't sure why Draco even bothered, he could ask outright for the new broom and Lucius and Narcissa would undoubtedly purchase it within the week without question. Draco was well on the way towards being terribly spoiled as well as attention starved. It was a bad combination. Lucius' eyes had glazed over some time ago and Draco was shutting down any attempt to channel the conversation away from broomsticks. And that wasn't even the most uncomfortable thing about dinner.

"Why does your house elf keep staring at me?" said Severus coldly as Narcissa poured him another glass of red.

"Does he?" she murmured. "How odd. Perhaps he thinks you need cleaning."

Severus rolled his eyes. Narcissa’s lips were crinkled in the faintest of smiles as she sat back down next to her husband.

“Look!” Severus insisted. And they waited. And sure enough, when Dobby reappeared with the salt shaker, his eyes were fixed on Severus. No matter which side of the table he stood on, no matter whose food he seasoned, his neck was twisted awkwardly so his face peered up at the potions master. It made Severus feel like he was the sun, shining down on one very ugly sunflower.

"Dobby, get out of here!" Lucius spat. "Now!"

Dobby squeaked and hid, but every time Lucius looked away he peeped back, from the ceiling, from behind curtains, from under chairs. It was odd behaviour from an elf and it was unnerving. Severus wiped his sweaty palms on his robes. He should have stayed home. No chateaubriand was worth this.

……

Come on, Dobby groaned internally, trying to make his eyes as big and enticing as possible. Look at me. He knew the big bat was one of the few humans who had actually managed to get the hang of legilimency. Not as well as a house elf, but not bad, considering. Obviously he had never learned to take a hint though. Finally, Snape frowned and then gently probed Dobby's mind.

"It's about time, you dingus!" Dobby projected at him with the mental equivalent of a yell. "I have a message for Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter is missing. Repeat: Harry Potter is missing."

"Are you alright, Severus?" asked Lucius. Dobby went back to refilling Draco’s pumpkin juice. He kept an innocent expression steady on his face as he stared at the potions master from the corner of his eye. Snape's mouth was wide open, his chin had practically hit the table. Dobby had never seen the man look so out of sorts. Even Draco was now looking up at him, frowning a little. Dobby vanished the leftover juice and slid away from the table.

"Of course, Lucius," said Snape smoothly. But the minute Lucius had turned away again, he whipped around again to stare at Dobby, who was now half hiding under the rug.

"What?" was written all over Snape's brain. "What?"

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOOD AT THIS," Dobby mind-screamed. "HARRY POTTER HAS BEEN MISSING FOR WEEKS. HE IS NOT WITH THE MUGGLES. TELL DUMBLEDORE."

Snape knocked over his wine and seemed in a daze before suddenly jumping up and apologising profusely. "I'm so sorry," he said to his confused hosts. "I must leave at once. Sorry Draco, I'll see you soon." And he fled in a whirl of black cloak.

Excellent, mused Dobby, bringing out the peach cheesecake from the kitchen. Excellent.

….

Severus wondered if he was having some sort of medical emergency. He had been completely floored to learn that the Malfoy house elf was proficient at legilimency, a skill he prided himself on for its rarity. And then the house elf had very clearly used this skill to plant a message in his brain, one about Harry Potter, no less. Severus didn't think he'd been so rattled in around a decade. If this was some prank cooked up by the damn boy, or his godson, he would have their skin. He considered his options. He could alert Albus and risk having to tell this sorry tale for no good reason or he could quietly check out the story himself. He immediately apparated to Privet Drive. He knew the address of old, though he had never been near the place. Merlin knew catching up with Terrible Tuney was not exactly high on his to-do list.

He couldn't glean much information from the outside. He recognised Lily’s sister through the front window, looking gormless as she sat next to her husband and son on the sofa and they all stared at the television. There was no sign of Harry, but he could simply be in another room or staying with a friend overnight. He shot a number of vigilance spells at the muggle house and learned that there were three humans at the residence. There hadn't been a fourth since last year. He did various security checks but everything seemed in order. Apart from Harry's absence. Snape groaned and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. Was Albus aware of the situation? If so, what was the plot? He supposed there was a chance that the headmaster had removed the boy and not told him. But it seemed unlikely. Severus had heard all about the bond of blood. Snape was one of the wixen on standby to cast protective spells on the address if the bond ever failed.

And if Albus wasn’t aware… how had he let this slip through his fingers? Severus would have thought he'd have a million alarms on his golden child ready to buzz if he as much as scraped his knee. How could Potter… Harry Potter… have disappeared? Why wasn't the entire wizarding community in uproar? He'd have to go in and ask questions. Just his luck. One minute he was looking forward to a chilled evening of toxic gossip with old friends, getting slightly tipsy and excited about dessert and the next... he sighed. Then he jabbed his wand over himself and a brutal sobrius charm woke him up by making him sweat all the alcohol out of his blood at once. It was grim. It was a good job he'd only had a couple of glasses. He groaned and then forced himself to straighten up. He had done plenty of house checks for a child's welfare before. God knew there were enough real, serious domestic situations out there, not that Harry Potter the wunderkind had any such worries. But protocol demanded he went in a pair. He should contact Madam Pomfrey, really. On the other hand, he was here now and it was best to figure out what was happening as soon as possible. There was no way he was dragging someone else into this potential nonsense unless he had to. He rang the bell.

There was a shuffling and then Petunia answered. "You!" she exclaimed, grimacing. "What are you doing here? Oh god, what's the boy done now?"

"Hmmph," sighed Severus. "Well, exactly. Where is he?"

"Come in, don't stand on the step," Petunia peered down the street before bustling him indoors. "Tea?" she offered as he followed her through the floral hallway. “Beer?”

It seemed like Petunia was struggling to temper her intense dislike of him with her need to be a perfect hostess. Severus wondered how it had come to this. He hadn't thought he'd ever have to see this woman again. She was nothing like Lily. He could tell from the fussy, frilly furniture. He recognised the china cabinet and the sofas, which had once belonged to Mrs Evans. He felt a strange sense of time folding in on itself. He and Lily had been best friends, for a little while. She had been his first kiss before he realised that he preferred boys. They had sat together on that same sofa eating popcorn and watching tv together. He had even slept there a couple of times when he had run away from Tobias. It made him feel sick. He did not like thinking about these things. He had grieved Lily and he was done. That chapter of his life was over. Petunia and her horrible sofa belonged with the bad days. Not the worst days, but days bad enough that he shouldn’t be forced to remember them.

"Did you want tea?" Petunia said again impatiently. "Or whatever you lot drink? Pumpkin juice? Eye of newt?" she laughed.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "No, thank you," he said curtly. He waited, drumming his fingers on the table while she rummaged around with the kettle anyway. He heard the tv change to adverts and Petunia's husband shuffled in.

"This is my husband, Vernon," said Petunia. "Vernon, this is one of Lily's lot."

The man's face darkened. "What do you want?" he said.

Severus sneered. "I want to know where your delinquent nephew is hiding and what trouble he's getting up to."

Vernon's face lit up and he even chortled. Petunia's laugh tinkled too. Snape found himself completely wrong footed for the second time that evening. He had been expecting them to leap to Potter's defence.

"Don't know, don't care," said Vernon. "Haven't seen him since September. He wrote us a note, by bleeding owl I might add, saying he was spending the summer with some of his freaky little friends."

Severus recovered quickly. "Do you know which ones?"

Vernon shrugged. "Some of your lot."

Severus felt his stomach sink. He had expected more from Petunia. Not that he liked Potter, but to be so cavalier with the boy's safety… that rankled a little. Potter was probably completely fine, probably having the time of his life at the Weasleys or somewhere, but Dumbledore wouldn't have authorised that casually. Severus was pretty surprised - he was sure Petunia knew about the blood bond too. He'd have to follow this up. Goddamn Potter. He sighed deeply.

Vernon patted him on the arm. "The boy's a handful, believe me, we know. Hasn’t improved at this so-called school of yours then? I suppose that was too much to ask for. Run away, has he? I hope you won't hold back on the punishment."

"Oh no," Severus smiled. "You needn't worry about that. I've never been afraid to discipline children who deserve it. I’ve kept my eye on Potter."

"Jolly good, jolly good," Vernon's laugh rumbled. "The child is a lunatic, worse than his deadbeat father. That defiance. He’ll be in prison before he’s twenty, I’ve no doubt."

"Mmmm," Severus murmured vaguely. Petunia coughed a little awkwardly but Vernon didn't seem to notice.

"Punishment rolls right off him," Vernon continued. "He just bounces back, not like a normal child. Absolutely uncontrollable. I wouldn’t fancy being a teacher there if they’re all like that!"

"Indeed," said Severus.

"Do you have dungeons there? I suppose you lock them up? Nothing else seems to make a difference with the boy. He’s been causing trouble since before he could walk. God knows what we did to deserve such a fate," Vernon sighed. "But I suppose we should have known. His parents were scum after all. What can you expect? Leaving honest folk to deal with the mess they left behind."

"Vernon," said Petunia warningly.

"No, no," Severus reassured her. "I fully understand. It must have been… challenging for you two to have to deal with having a child like him in the house. When you had your own son to think of."

"That's exactly right!" said Vernon. "Exactly right! But don't you worry, we handled it. Kept Dudley safe. I shudder to think what might have happened if we hadn’t been so careful. I don’t know how your lot expected us to keep him in line, no dungeons round here. We had to keep the boy in the cupboard. How were we supposed to teach good values, bring him up like a normal child, if he doesn't even feel pain normally? Where's the deterrent? Broken bones mending overnight, bruises gone like that."

Severus raised his eyebrows. “Potter does need a very firm hand,” he said. “A very rough and tumble kind of child.”

"Exactly, hopelessly clumsy,” Petunia said scornfully.

Vernon nodded although Severus did not miss the way he was scrunching his hands into fists, seemingly unconsciously.

“It’s not the rough and tumble that’s the problem," Vernon snorted. "Any child can have a bit of rough and tumble, builds character. Look at our Dudley. But Harry’s different. Sneaky. Always has that queer, dark look in his eyes. No doubt that he could turn us all into frogs if we didn’t keep our wits together. But he doesn't scare us. We've shown him a thing or too. Kept him on his toes.” He went to the fridge and pulled out a beer. He offered one to Severus, who shook his head. “I can’t. Still on duty, unfortunately.”

“Poor sod,” Vernon laughed, patting him on the back with all the strength of a bodybuilder. Severus felt himself jolted forwards. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to nod back as Vernon continued: “you must spend your life rounding up the rascals. If you’ve managed to lose him, magic and all, how were us normal folk supposed to keep him here? The number of times he tried to run away. Nightmare. I could beat him until he couldn’t walk and the next day he’d be sneaking out again. No sense of self preservation. Makes it very difficult for us to look after him."

Severus wondered if Vernon had told himself this story so often he no longer really heard it. “You'd have thought something would get through his thick skull,” he sneered.

Vernon shrugged. “We did our best, didn’t we, Pet? Not that we ever got any thanks for it. Thank God for that cupboard, that's all I'll say."

Severus turned his head slowly towards the cupboard under the stairs, which Vernon had waved vaguely towards.

"May I?" He asked. Vernon nodded. Severus bent down and unlocked it. Inside was a little mattress, none too clean, a few dead spiders and an old grey t-shirt that smelled musky, but nothing else. Severus was disturbed to see that a lot of the paint on the wall had been chipped away in one corner and there were a number of scratches in regular neat lines. The bolt on the wall was dented and all scuffed up as though it had been used frequently, with force.

"You lock him in here as punishment?" Severus asked. "How often?"

"No, no.” Vernon waved his hand again. “Dangerous child like him, he spent most of his time in there. Couldn't have him threatening poor Dudders. You know what the boy’s like - vicious. I can’t imagine you’ve managed to teach him anything."

“Now, love, don't get carried away, you're making it sound like he was disciplined night and day,” Petunia laughed airily. “He’s a handful but we didn’t punish him unduly. We’ve given him food, clothing, a roof over his head.”

“Of course, love, I don’t mean to belittle all your hard work for him," said Vernon. "Petunia has a very generous soul. She took him in from the goodness of her heart even though he came from her sister, who was a nasty piece of work. A drunk, you know. And her husband was worse! Good-for-nothing waste of space. Like father, like son, really.”

Petunia must have seen something cold in Severus’ face because she coughed loudly again. “Of course, you knew Lily when she was a child. I'm sure you saw through her little Princess act. She was very charming when she wanted something. But she had a terrible temper. Spoiled, you know, by my parents. She couldn't do a thing wrong in their eyes. Her son is the same. Ungrateful. Entitled."

Severus stared at Petunia. He had never enjoyed her company. He remembered her petty quarrels with him and Lily, her claims that he had stolen her sister, her jealousy of Lily's magic. But Severus was shocked to find the same childish, vindictive spirit had never grown up, for all Petunia now looked middle aged. He hadn’t thought about her in years. But now he wondered at Potter living here. What was Dumbledore thinking? Surely there were alternatives. He also felt an uncomfortable stab of something else. Ungrateful. Entitled. The Potter Brat. He had believed so too. "Did the boy leave anything here you want me to pass to him?" he asked.

"No, he took everything with him in September," said Vernon. "Anything he left we threw out. Might have been contaminated. We never could stamp the magic out of him."

"No, I imagine not," said Severus. “Thanks for your help. I had best be going. You don’t remember where Potter said he was staying?”

Petunia just shrugged.

"You can take the cane if you like," Vernon chortled as he saw Severus to the door. "If the boy’s up to his old tricks. He needs to be taken firmly in hand. That's all he understands, you know. Can't get through otherwise. Horrible child. Good luck catching him. Rather you than me."

"That won't be necessary," said Severus drily. As he passed the living room he saw the child that must be Potter's cousin sat on the floor bathed in the bright colours of the television light. Severus let himself get shown out in a daze. He had a whole lot more to say to Petunia and Vernon but he felt oddly unreal. He was struggling to get his thoughts in order.

Outside in the cold once more, he lent against the garden wall. What on earth had Albus been thinking? He knew the headmaster was in his own little world, sometimes. Time seemed to pass differently for him as he got sucked into his projects and schemes and academic rabbit holes… the man had lived through two wars, which was enough to make anyone a little odd and a little paranoid. Albus was brilliant. Sometimes too brilliant. For all he was well admired, he was very alone. Few people dared contradict him, even about the most banal day to day affairs, never mind the more bizarre decisions he took into his head. Being employed by him meant being subjected to any number of convoluted plots. Take this year and Quirrel and the ridiculous third floor obstacle course.

Severus knew the end of the war had been messy, the ministry had been in pieces. The ministry of family hadn’t even existed during those years, how could it? Everyone had probably just assumed Albus knew best, as always. But had no one ever checked? Severus had not considered it his responsibility, not even as he wept over Lily’s body and the child had screamed in its cot. There were plenty of people in the Order close to the Potters. And he knew that Albus had felt responsible for the young people who had served him. Severus had been jealous of the way Albus had always doted on Lily and James and the other Gryffindors. They had only been 21 years old. He had assumed Albus would have it in hand, as always. He had assumed the child would be cherished. Pampered.

But to leave Potter here? With Terrible Tuney, Petunia the petty? Severus knew the blood wards were important; the Dark Lord would return, Severus was convinced of this as much as Albus. But there were other protections. Blood wards were a neat option, sure, but had Albus really forgotten how much more was important when considering a safe home for a child? Did Albus have no understanding of the incredible damage done by living in such a place, a place devoid of love and care and even the most basic necessities? Severus realised suddenly that he had very little idea of Albus’ family and home life growing up. For someone who played the role of kindly grandfather to literally hundreds of people… Albus didn’t have anyone close. What kind of childhood had Albus had? Was it simply so long ago, he had completely forgotten what it felt like?

Something about this whole affair was leaving a very bad taste in Severus’ mouth. He couldn't reconcile what he had just seen and heard with Harry Potter, quidditch champion, Dumbledore's pet, darling of Gryffindor. Why hadn't Potter told anyone? Why hadn't anyone noticed? Severus knew all too well that kids from these situations often knew how to hide it, but he hadn’t thought Potter like that. The kid wore his heart on his sleeve… didn’t he? The boy was arrogant, defensive, scruffy. He was his father in miniature. Spoiled. Oblivious. Mediocre and proud of it. But he was only a first year after all. And it had been a whole month since term had ended and no one had raised any alarm that he was gone. He honestly felt a little ill. Good for Potter for not going back, he supposed.

But where did the Malfoy elf come into all this? He felt a lurching horror. Had Lucius said something? Lucius was dangerous, sure, but there had been no signs he had any imminent plans to exact his old master’s revenge on the boy. Sure, he seemed to be amassing a number of dark artefacts… but he’d been at that for years. Severus had been reporting on him to Albus for a long time. It was an easy job. Narcissa had a brilliant, dark sense of humour and Lucius, though slimy, was still everything Severus had once admired and longed to be. Severus had even grown fond of Draco, brat that he was. It was so easy to live as though the war was done and those times would never return, just take each day as it came, enjoy their wine and their company. But now... was this the beginning? Potter was missing. It could be another bad sign. Quirrel's alarming actions this year were certainly an ominous omen, the most worrying in years. Had the elf heard something? One of the old crowd, finally poised to strike? Severus shuddered.

Should he report in? He hesitated. No need to jump to the worst case scenario just yet. He would unravel this systematically. And honestly, he didn’t want to face Dumbledore’s bumbling joviality until he had more information. He would reassure himself first. He knew the Weasley address from background checks when Molly had volunteered as a parent brewer in the hospital wing. She was unforgivably Gryffindor, but her handle on pediatric healing potions was exceptional. He supposed it would have to be, knowing her spawn. She would be smart enough to know abuse and neglect when she saw it. Perhaps she was even brave enough to hide Potter from Albus. He disapparated immediately.

Chapter Text

It was past bedtime, but Ron was still finishing off his hot chocolate at the kitchen table. The others had already gone to bed, the fire was dying and soon it would be chilly, but he was too comfy to move and had just three more pages of his Chudley Cannon fan magazine to go.

"Ron," called Molly. There was a slight edge to her voice that meant he probably had about two minutes to finish and then she'd come and chase him out.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he called back. Then he half stood and turned one more page. The doorbell rang and he startled. Still reading the magazine, he shuffled to the door, glad for his fluffy slippers on the stone floor. He pulled the door open and was hit with a cool, night breeze. He got to the end of his sentence and finally looked up. Nothing could have prepared him for Professor Snape on his doorstep, looming down over him, sneering at him and his pyjamas. He gaped up at the professor. Snape’s eyes were very cold and black. Empty holes with a sheen like oil. Ron had never been this close to Snape before. He could see all the pores on his nose. Every hair in his eyebrows.

"May I come in?" Snape asked with his terrible, silky voice.

"No?" said Ron, in shock. Snape's face contorted.

"I mean, sorry! Yes! Please may you come in, Professor," Ron babbled.

Snape pushed past him into the kitchen as though looking for something. Ron stared after him, then back out of the front door. Where had Snape come from? The night air was cold on Ron's face. Was this a weird nightmare? He shut the door and shook himself then yelled upstairs. "Mum? Dad? Professor Snape's here."

Arthur jogged in with a laugh, which froze immediately the second he entered the kitchen. His face fell from confusion to panic in less than half a second. "Can I help you?" he began but Snape cut across him.

"Sorry for the intrusion. Is Harry Potter here?"

"No," said Arthur. Ron didn't think he had ever seen his dad's eyes boggle like that. "Is there a problem?"

"Have you seen him this summer?" asked Snape. "Have you been in contact with him? Do you know where he is?"

This last question was directed at Ron. Snape's eyes stared into him with all the malice and hatred Ron recognised from Potions lessons. He felt oddly faint. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Had he? He should have gone to bed when he was told but -

Snape coughed and repeated his question. “Mr Weasley. Do you know the whereabouts of Mr Potter?”

"He's at the Dursleys," said Ron, once he found his voice. "We invited him here but we haven't picked him up yet. He sent me a couple of owls."

"Let me see," demanded Snape. Ron looked at his father and Arthur nodded.

"I don't know if I kept them," said Ron. "I'll check my room." As he bolted up the stairs he saw Fred and George hopping down to see what the fuss was about. As he crossed the first landing, he saw them poke their heads briefly inside the kitchen door and then jump and back away hastily a moment later.

Ron found one of the letters on his desk and the other still in his waste paper basket. He left his magazine on his bed with a sigh. Without thinking he had twisted and scrunched it all up and the picture he had been planning on cutting out was ruined. He hurried back down and found Snape muttering quietly with his parents. They turned as he came back in. Ron couldn't exactly read their expressions but everyone looked serious.

"The last one was delivered a couple of days ago," Ron said nervously as he handed the letters over. "I hadn't written back yet. Mum was going to bake some more snacks for him."

"Snacks?" spat Snape.

Ron felt bemused. Did he have to explain snacks to Snape? "You know," he said. "Like cookies."

"Ronald Weasley, I know what a snack is. Why is your mother sending them to Potter?"

"Oh!" Ron blushed. He looked at Molly who smiled at him encouragingly. "I don't know. Harry's always so quiet about the Dursleys but I got the feeling they don't feed him a lot. Mum tends to worry and he's always so thin and they never send him any owls or Christmas presents or- "

"I get the picture," snapped Snape. "Did you report any of this? To McGonagall? Or Dumbledore? To the ministry?"

Ron's eyes widened. "No. Should I? Is Harry OK?"

"Professor, please," said Arthur sharply. "What's going on?"

"Did either of you see Harry at King's Cross when the muggles picked him up?"

All three shook their heads.

"No," said Ron. "No." He thought for a moment. "He didn't even get the train. He said Hagrid was going to drop him off with the muggles."

"He did?" Snape stared hard at Ron.

"Yeah. He left a day early. He never got the train."

Severus sighed. "Thank you, Mr Weasley. Molly. Arthur. That will be all. May I use your fireplace?" He swept into it without waiting for an answer.

"Wait!" yelled Ron. "What's going on? Where's Harry?"

But Snape disappeared in a burst of floo flame. Ron didn't catch where he was going. He groaned, then turned to his parents. "What's going on?" He pleaded.

"We're not sure," said Molly. "We had better contact Dumbledore."

…..

Severus got out at the Hog's Head and then immediately apparated as close as he could to Hogwarts. He sprinted through the entrance gates and then, as soon as he was within the grounds, he sent two patronuses, one to Albus and one to Minerva. He hurried to Rubeus’ hut and immediately rapped on the door.

There was a shuffling around inside for some time. "Come on, come on," Severus hissed.

Finally Rubeus appeared. "Professor?" he said blankly. He was wearing an enormous black, woollen dressing gown with a green, embroidered dragon over one of the pockets. The dragon had a ludicrous smiley face. Severus tore his eyes away from it.

"Rubeus, may I have a word?" he asked.

The gameskeeper nodded, looking a little dazed. "At this time of night? Is there a problem?”

“Potentially, yes.” Severus did not want to explain on the doorstep. But Rubeus just gawped. He was almost as bad as the youngest Weasley. Severus cleared his throat.

Rubeus started. “I mean… oh course, you can come in. Tea? Something stronger?”

"No, thank you."

Nobody moved. Severus took a step forward and had to push Rubeus gently out of the way so he could get in far enough to close the door. Rubeus gestured to the table and then headed to the kettle. Severus sat down and waited until he had put it on the fire, trying not to tap his leg in impatience. Once Rubeus was seated opposite him, he asked, "Do you remember the last two days of term?"

Rubeus blinked at him. "Yeah," he said, sounding insulted. "Why?"

"Did Albus give you any particular errands?"

Rubeus was staring at him, eyes narrowed. "I had the usual jobs to do clearing up,” he said eventually. “I got the kids on the train. I saw Albus at the party, of course, but nothing else springs to mind." He got up again and started making two cups of tea, seemingly forgetting Severus’ answer. When he brought them over, Severus nodded at him in thanks.

"Did you get all of the kids onto the train?" he asked.

Rubeus spluttered, outraged. "Course I did, what kind of question is that?"

"You were not asked by Albus to take any students directly home?"

"No," Rubeus scoffed. "I've never done that."

He held out a little jug of milk. Severus sighed and shook his head at it. Rubeus added it to his own, followed by seven lumps of sugar. Seven! Severus repressed a shudder; he could almost taste Rubeus’ tea on his teeth. He sighed and tried to focus. When he looked up, he realised the gameskeeper was frowning at him as though sensing his judgement. Severus realised he was sneering and tried to smooth his face back to neutral. But he still wasn’t sure what he should ask next.

"What's going on?" Rubeus pressed, still sipping his disgusting mug of sugar.

Severus assessed him carefully. "When was the last time you saw Harry Potter?" he asked.

Rubeus leaned away from him, crossing his arms. "Why?"

"Please, answer the question, I'll explain in a minute."

Rubeus put his mug down, suddenly looking intensely anxious. They stared at one another. Then Rubeus gave his shoulders a little shake as though throwing off tension and said, "let me think… a few days before the end of term, I think. They came for tea."

"They?"

"You know, the trio. Harry, Ron, Hermione."

"How were they?"

Rubeus scratched his chin. "Chatty, excited. They'd had their exam results and all done better than expected. You know what the kids are like in the summer, all hyped up, ready for the holidays."

"Even Harry?"

Rubeus considered. "Harry was a little quiet. Preoccupied. I mean, it was right after that disaster with that piece of shit Quirrel-"

"Quite," Severus almost snorted.

"- and Harry had not long been out of the hospital wing. But he was smiley enough whenever I spoke to him, he just seemed tired."

Severus nodded. "Thank you, Rubeus. Do you know if Albus is at the school tonight? Is Minerva?"

"No problem, Professor. Yes, they both are. What's going on? Please-"

Severus sighed. "Harry is missing," he said sadly. "I'm sorry. I checked at the Dursleys - he's not there."

"What?" yelped Rubeus. "He's not - he's missing? What?"

"I'm heading to Albus now, I'll keep you informed," Severus stood up.

"Are you kidding?" Rubeus scoffed, standing up so quickly the whole table was knocked forwards. Severus had to jump back to avoid being scalded by the tea. "I'm ruddy well coming. You go ahead, I'll meet you there as soon as I'm dressed."

Rubeus pointed to the floo powder and then hurried to his bedroom, knocking various furniture items out of the way in his haste. Severus stepped into the grate, shouted for the headmaster’s office and spun away in the flames.

….

When Severus stepped out, he saw the alarm had been raised. Minerva was already there as well as Molly and Arthur Weasley. Minvera had her cloak over a red woollen nightgown. Albus was in pinstripe pyjamas. They all looked frightened.

"Severus," said Albus immediately. "You think Harry is missing?"

"Harry is missing. He's not at the Dursleys. He hasn't been there all summer."

"How did you -"

"I had a tip-off from a house elf. It's a long story. But I verified, he's not at the address. His relatives haven't seen him. Potter apparently wrote to them and told them he was staying with the Weasleys instead but they haven't seen him either. Ronald Weasley said Rubeus took Potter away a day early at the end of term but I just spoke to him and he didn't know anything about it. He's on his way."

"That's right," said Molly and Arthur also nodded as Albus looked at them for confirmation. “Ron said Harry told him Hagrid was going to explain about Quirrel to the Dursleys in person. He said Harry left a day before everyone else.”

Minerva looked stern but her voice wobbled. “I didn’t sign him out. Ron told me he was with Hagrid and… I assumed Rubeus was putting him on the train. I meant to follow up but - I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It didn't seem important. I just forgot. I'm sorry.”

Severus hadn't seen her so agitated in years. Albus put a hand on her arm and she released a shaky breath.

"Harry's been kidnapped, then?" Albus turned to Severus once more. "They've got him?"

"I haven't ruled it out," Severus replied. "But I don't think so. I haven't heard anything to suggest that. Rather it seems that Harry preferred running away to spending any more time with his abusive relatives and frankly I do not blame him."

Minerva gasped. "His abusive relatives?" she repeated. Albus queried Severus with a slight tilt of his head.

"Vernon and Petunia Dursley treated Harry with abominable neglect and violence for the first decade of his life and they didn't even have the sense to hide it from me when I visited tonight," said Severus. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. It had a crackle of anger in it that he had not intended. He took a moment to calm his breathing and strengthen his occlumency. No need for dramatics. "Right now is not the time, but I would very much like to hear how Harry fucking Potter, the boy who lived, has managed to fall through the cracks. There has been some serious mishandling here. I am concerned for the child; he must be found at once."

“Severus. That is a very serious accusation,” Albus frowned at him. “I have regular reports on Harry from a number of sources and nothing to suggest anything of the kind.”

“I am happy to share my memory of the conversation with his uncle and aunt. They all but boasted of their mistreatment of him.”

Albus sighed. “Thank you, I’ll review it later. First things first - Harry must be found.”

Severus resisted the urge to argue. Albus was correct; finding Harry was the most pressing issue. But still, Albus’ reaction had surprised him. He had expected shock and grief, not such a cold dismissal.

"Ron said Harry never got on the train," Molly stammered. "Could he still be hiding here?”

"It’s possible," agreed Albus. "Any suggestions?”

Minerva swallowed. "Ask the ghosts. Ask the house elves. Mr Filch knows every hiding place in the castle. Or Hogsmeade, could he have gone to Hogsmeade?"

"In the weeks since term ended, he could have gone anywhere, with anyone," said Severus icily.

“Hermione Granger?” suggested Arthur. “She has also been writing to Harry. Perhaps he told her something.”

"We can't tell anyone else just yet," sighed Albus. "We can't risk alerting those who would be highly motivated to find Harry while he is alone and vulnerable. Please, this remains secret unless we have no other choice."

"We don't need to tell them everything," Minerva snapped. "But we can ask if they've seen anything odd. Food going missing or… Oh god, how has he been getting food? Do you think he knows where the kitchens are?"

Molly shook her head. She was gripping Arthur tightly. "He doesn't know. He wrote to my boys asking them to tell him and they said they'd show him in September. They didn't know! They didn't know!" Arthur put his arm around her and she took deep breaths. She looked on the verge of tears.

There was a sudden clattering and the door flew open. "Albus!" Rubeus stumbled in. "Have you found Harry? Is he OK?"

"Not yet," said Albus. "We’re working on it. Have you seen Hedwig at all?"

Rubeus shook his head. "Could we send Harry a school owl? And then follow the owl?" he asked hopefully.

"We should tell him he’s not in trouble," said Arthur. "Write that if he comes to us he can have as much food as he needs, he won't have to go back to the Dursleys."

"What makes you think he'll believe or trust any of us?" said Severus. "He obviously didn't think he could come to us earlier.”

“We asked him to stay with us and he agreed,” argued Molly. “He asked for the address. He’ll come to us. We just hadn’t realised the urgency.”

“Very well,” Albus agreed. “Send an owl. If we still haven’t found him or gotten a response by the morning, I will alert the aurors. If he has been taken off the grounds, perhaps they will find the trail." He took several devices off his shelves and set them across his desk. Some ticked, some swung forwards and backwards and one puffed out blue smoke. He leant in close and frowned at them.

"Please, Professor Snape," Arthur stammered. "You said you had a tip off from a house elf. Was it a Hogwarts elf? The fact Harry asked about the kitchens suggests he is here, or at least he was two weeks ago."

"No," said Severus. "It was the Malfoy elf."

Albus sat up straight. "The Malfoy elf? Narcissa and Lucius' elf?"

Severus nodded. "I don't think they have him, Albus. I've been there, Lucius would have been different."

"But the elf might have overheard some plot… We must rule it out as soon as possible," said Albus, with a grim smile. "It makes a lot of sense. Perhaps the Dursleys were confunded, it might have been a cover…"

Severus tutted. "Albus, by all means investigate the Malfoys but you'll have to think of a good excuse if you want the ministry involved. I can talk with the elf in question if you like, but there’s no guarantee the elf won’t talk to Lucius. If he realises Potter is missing… he’s an opportunist, after all. If he found the boy first…"

"What do you suggest?" Albus sighed.

"Send Potter the Weasley owl. Minerva should also sit somewhere obvious, ideally with food. Create the opportunity for Potter to either try and steal the food or reach out to her."

"Perhaps Severus should sneak around and act suspiciously. That's most likely to bring Potter out ready to jump out and catch him," said Minerva dryly.

Albus snorted and then tried to turn it into a cough. "Ahem. That's not funny," he said as Severus looked at him in disbelief.

"Honestly Albus, she might be right," said Rubeus. "Harry spent the whole year obsessed with the idea Professor Snape was trying to kill him and steal the stone."

Severus glowered at them all. Idiots.

"And if he doesn’t answer the letter? Should I bring my kids here?" Molly asked. "Have them think it's some kind of Quidditch camp or something, see if Harry comes out?"

"I don't know, Molly," said Arthur quietly. "What if Harry isn't hiding? What if he's…" Arthur trailed off.

"What?" gasped Molly. "Starved to death? Gotten injured, all on his own in a castle full of ghosts and boggarts and Merlin knows what else? Fallen off a moving staircase?”

Arthur shrugged, looking appalled. "I don't know, I don't know."

"Let's try not to think the worst," said Albus. “Harry is a very capable child.”

“But how could he hide for so long?” Arthur said. “The castle is never empty, is it? Wouldn’t the elves have seen him?”

Albus sighed. “This is unfortunately complicated by a certain item Harry has in his possession. He owns an invisibility cloak.”

Severus had to bite his tongue before he groaned out loud. Of course, Potter had an invisibility cloak. Of all the stupid… Of course, he did. “And you know this because…?” He asked calmly.

“It belonged to James,” said Minerva.

Severus felt his heart start to race. That explained so much. He forced himself to unclench his fists and exhaled slowly. “And Potter inherited this cloak?”

“I gave it back to him,” Albus agreed. “At Christmas. Of course, if I had foreseen that he would undertake something of this magnitude…”

“You gave a child an invisibility cloak?” Molly repeated. Severus was pleased to hear the disapproval in her voice. What kind of headmaster had so little understanding of children? What possible good could come of giving the boy such a powerful, dangerous object?

“The cloak belongs to Potter,” said Albus mildly. “I was merely returning it.”

"He's barely twelve years old," said Molly. "It was his birthday the day before yesterday, according to Ron. Anything could have happened. What if he's hurt and is now lying somewhere invisible, too ill to move? We’ll never find him!"

"No need to panic," said Albus. "He’s probably just curled up in Gryffindor tower as we speak. I'll talk to the ghosts and the house elves. Molly and Arthur, please bring Ron and his owl here to write to Harry. Hagrid can watch where it goes. Minerva - as Severus suggested. Severus, talk to Argus and the portraits. We all need to be smart here, watch how much you give away. We can all be in touch via Patronus but don't mention Harry's name - we're looking for Hagrid's lost coat. All clear?"

There were nods all round and the group dispersed. Severus scowled at Albus before he left, but Albus gave no sign he’d noticed.

Chapter Text

Ron was still yawning. It was so early. It was supposed to be the summer holidays. But no. He’d been pulled out of bed at stupid o’clock before even Percy was up. And then his mum had insisted he write to Harry right away, even before breakfast! She’d told him barely anything about their meeting with Dumbledore, only that everyone was looking for Harry, who was apparently hiding somewhere at Hogwarts. Harry hadn’t gone with Hagrid at all. He just hadn’t wanted to go home! Ron wouldn’t have believed her… except, well, Harry did have that cloak. And he knew better than most that Harry didn’t mind sneaking around out of bounds. But this was different! He couldn’t believe Harry hadn’t told him. He had a lot of things to say, but Molly wasn’t letting him write any of them. She hadn’t let him send a howler either, even though he knew that if he had hidden at Hogwarts all summer, he would have absolutely gotten the loudest, screechiest one she could charm.

He had never spent so much time over one stupid letter. For some reason, Molly kept freaking out about his handwriting and insisting it had to be neat and clear. This was the third rewrite. She had ended up dictating almost every word to him. His letter. To Harry. His friend. Even Arthur kept butting in. He was at the other end of the table, supposedly fixing an old clock, but was clearly listening and kept making approving noises or uncertain little coughs. Ron finished the draft and handed it to Molly, who practically snatched it out of his hands. He stood as she took his seat at the table, pushing him out of the way absentmindedly. Ron pulled a face but nobody noticed so he just sighed and then stretched out his shoulders as he waited. Molly was reading very slowly with a frown scrunching up her face. She had never looked so serious about anything he had written before. She looked like Hermione after he’d done a particularly lazy essay. It wasn’t that bad, was it? He leaned in to read it again over her shoulder as his dad came to stand next to him and did the same thing.

Dear Harry,

You're welcome for the whole rest of the holidays, you don't need to go back to the Dursleys. The address is The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole. If you can get to a magical fireplace (like any of the ones at Hogwarts or any wizarding household) there should be a little pot of grey floo powder nearby. If you take a pinch of this, throw it into the fire, stand in the fireplace and say “The Burrow,” loudly and clearly, it will take you straight to our kitchen.

Otherwise, mum or dad are happy to pick you up. They can apparate so they'd just appear wherever you are and then you could side apparate back with them. You'd just have to let them know your location. You can send word by Errol.

Can't wait to see you. Everyone is glad you liked the snacks. We're sending some belated birthday food, sorry we couldn't get it to you sooner. There's a present for you when you get here.

Ron xxx

Ps I asked Dad and he told me how to get into the kitchens at Hogwarts! He said that you need to find a portrait of a fruit bowl in the right hand corridor below the hall. If you tickle the pear you get in and you can ask the house elves for anything you want to eat! I can't wait to try!

"That's good," Molly said finally. "Arthur, do you think we missed anything? Is it clear about the floo? For a muggleborn?"

Arthur shrugged. "It looks fine to me. Minerva said she'll put the powder out tonight. Good job, Ron."

"Why don’t I just tell him we know he’s at Hogwarts and he needs to stop messing around?” Ron moaned.

“We’re not sure he is,” said Molly slowly. “And if someone intercepts this, we don’t want them to realise he’s on his own.”

“Why would someone intercept?”

Arthur looked vague. “Well, stranger danger. You know.”

Ron huffed. “You mean someone like Quirrel… or You-Know-Who…?”

“No, no,” said Arthur cheerfully. “Very unlikely. We just want to be on the safe side.”

“And Quirrel died,” said Molly softly. “Remember?”

“Of course, I remember,” said Ron hotly. “But You-Know-Who died and that didn’t stop him going after Harry. And I had nightmares about Quirrel just hearing about it. Harry was there when he died and practically killed him with his hands, sounded like, and then he’s been on his own ever since - “

“I know, Ron,” said Molly softly. “It’s ok, we’re going to find him. It’s ok.” She dropped the letter and pulled him into a hug. She was very warm but her jumper was awfully scratchy on his face. He pushed her back.

“But how did Dumbledore not even realise?" he shook his head, still floored by the thought.

"It’s been a big mix up, I think. But we’ll find him. And you're not to tell anyone, not even Ginny or the twins. I'm serious, Ron." Molly looked tired.

"I won't. I just… I can’t believe he didn’t tell me."

"No, I know. I know," sighed Molly. She and Arthur gave each other a long look. Then Molly tapped the parchment to make sure all the ink was dry and rolled it up. She gave Ron a big smile. A big, fake smile. Ron stared at her until she looked away. Did she think he was a baby? None of this made sense.

"Why didn't the muggles even report him missing?" he asked, with a scowl.

"Harry told them he was staying with us,” said Molly matter of factly.

"Oh," said Ron, fiddling with his quill. He bent it so far back it was close to snapping. Molly usually told him off for that. "And they didn't even check? Why didn’t Harry just ask to come here in the first place? I don't get it."

"I don't know, dear. I suspect it's complicated," she sighed again, her head in her hand. Arthur gently took the quill away from Ron and laid it on the table.

Ron considered this and then snorted. He didn’t think it was complicated. Harry was just being an arse. After all they went through together last term? After he and Hermione specifically told him he didn’t have to do everything on his own? Harry lied to them both! And then he’d gone off and had another adventure without them. Ron wouldn’t have told anyone. And what if there had been another troll? Or if ghost You-know-who was still floating around in the forbidden forest? Great strategy, Harry. Git.

"Are you giving the letter to Errol now?" Ron asked.

"Not yet," said Arthur. "We'll have a bit of breakfast and then apparate to Hogsmeade. We’ll send him from there. Hagrid is going to try and watch where he goes."

Ron nodded and then snorted. "Has Errol ever apparated before?"

"No," said Molly with a slightly frightened smile. "Please hold on to him tight. I hope he doesn't die of shock."

Ron sighed. The things he did for Harry.

…

Severus hadn't slept all night. He had begun work as soon as he left Albus’ office, starting in the dungeons and working his way up, interviewing every single portrait along every single corridor. It was very frustrating work. At dawn he stopped for a coffee break and considered all he had heard. He had only reached the second floor, but he had spoken with hundreds of paintees, ranging from the dull to the ecstatically irritating. He gleaned no information of any use, but a lot of information all the same. It seemed that plenty of portraits were not spoken to very often and all very much enjoyed telling their stories. It didn't help that Severus couldn't be explicit about what he was asking. What an abominably inefficient way to search.

Usually at this time in the morning, Snape enjoyed a peaceful forage. His ingredients were complex but ultimately predictable. Over many years he had learned to read the forest, he knew the herbs which flourished in the shade, which spices required sunlit borders. He knew the fungi that popped up after a rainfall, the flowers which bloomed only with a full moon. He did not enjoy foraging for scraggly, idiotic children who followed no logic whatsoever. He fished a piece of salix from his pocket and chewed it as he trudged on, but his headache was persistent. He cricked his neck and thought about exactly how he would like to punish Potter for putting them all through this nonsense. Perhaps having him wipe down every portrait in the castle would be fitting. Dursleys or no Dursleys, the child was a menace. His capacity for chaos was unparalleled. Invisibility cloaks. Of all the nonsense. Like father, like son.

And yet, with irritation, Snape couldn’t help feeling this was his own fault. Somewhere, somehow, James Potter was probably crying laughing at him. The boy had annoyed him all year. The boy had no subtlety. He was loud and showy and drew every eye without effort, the centre of attention wherever he went. His annoyingly recognisable giggle burst out at odd times in the great hall, disturbing the gentle chatter at mealtimes, grating on Severus with its consistent unpredictability. Potter was always whispering at the back of class, a little irrepressible hissing like a leaky bottle of garrotting gas. Even in the refuge of the staff room, Snape hadn’t been able to escape “Harry this,” “Harry that,” this year’s top gossip. Severus had felt surrounded all year, he had felt trapped, at times he had been so tempted to cloud the child in a nice, little, permanent muffliato. But now, here Severus was, desperately searching for any trace of the boy, just like any other of his insufferable fan club. And the boy had disappeared as thoroughly as any diricawl. He could be anywhere. He was nowhere. Not one portrait had seen or heard a peep out of him. Infuriating.

It took him until noon to get through the third and fourth floors. Severus endured one last monologue from a knight with an impossibly slow, languorous drawl, but then had to admit, he was starting to lose focus. He was aching all over. He decided to have a sandwich and another coffee, then head to Argus’ office before going further. The staff room was empty. He chomped through a sandwich fiercely. As soon as he was done, he rubbed his eyes. He stifled a yawn. His heart sank. He longed to sleep. This was what Potter had driven him to? Napping? He shuddered and decided to forgo the drink, instead simply crunching a handful of raw coffee beans from his pocket as he carried on his way. When he reached Argus’ office, he rested his head briefly on the door frame and then knocked.

"Come in," growled the old caretaker.

Severus pulled the door open and was about to speak when he stopped short. He gaped at the bizarre sight of Mrs Norris wrapped in so many bandages that she looked to be twice her usual size. She was sitting in a large basket stuffed full of blankets and pillows, which had pride of place on Argus' desk. He was currently dangling a mouse toy at her and she was batting it away, with jerky movements hindered by the ludicrous trailing dressings.

“What happened here?” asked Severus.

"Peeves," said Argus with a look. "Ought to have been exorcised years ago. Stomped on my cat's tail. She’s very upset."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Severus said. There was a little silence. Mrs Norris appeared to be purring. She seemed surprisingly unconcerned with the atrocious mountain of coverings. Perhaps this wasn’t unusual. He watched Mrs Norris swat and bite at the toy for a little while, before remembering why he came.

"I wanted to ask if you've seen anything out of the ordinary," he asked.

Argus leaned against his wall. "Here? No," he said sarcastically.

"Apart from Peeves," said Severus.

Argus scratched his head. "Like what?"

Severus sighed. "Can I check lost property?"

Filch waved him over to a drawer. Severus rifled through but there wasn’t much there and he didn't recognise anything that might have been Potter's.

"Any break-ins to your office? Any signs that someone has been moving things around in classrooms? Anyone trying doors or sneaking into the kitchens?"

Filch raised his eyebrows. "Like students? Not since the term ended. Why?" He reached across to a biscuit tin and offered a cookie. Severus shook his head impatiently, trying to think of anything else he could ask. What might Filch have noticed? Footprints? Odd noises at night? Filch shrugged and grunted as Severus questioned him further but there was nothing of note in his responses. Severus tapped his tongue against his teeth as he watched Filch put the biscuit tin back in the cupboard. Then, he paused. One of the cupboard doors was nearly broken off its hinge.

"What happened there?" he asked.

"Peeves, like I said," Filch huffed. "Haven't got round to fixing it yet."

"Peeves was stealing cookies?"

Filch scowled. "I found a whole bag of desserts he was planning to throw. I got these two tins away from him, but he still has a pie. I'm expecting it to reappear in my face any day now."

Snape stared. Then, he cleared his throat. "When was this?"

"Three days ago. I had to fight him!" Filch exclaimed. "I found the cakes hidden in a deserted classroom, on the second floor. I knew it was Peeves, always ready for mischief - he threw a trifle once. Got all the jelly in my hair. So I took the bag here and left the door open to trap him. I've done it before. One time I lured him in and then let the Bloody Baron have at him." Filch sighed fondly at the memory.

"And Peeves came for the desserts?" asked Severus.

Filch snorted. "Of course he did. That's when he got Mrs Norris. He was invisible of course, but I'm used to his tricks by now. Oh ho ho, he thinks he's so clever. I swear when it's my time, I'm going to come back and haunt him!"

"And what happened?" Severus insisted.

Filch smirked. "I slammed the cupboard door on him. He got past but I held on as long as I could to the bag, he was twisting and pulling, the desk was knocked all over the place. But then he grabbed the pie and was gone. Still, I kept hold of the tins." He held up a torn rucksack with pride.

Severus flinched. "That bag's got blood on it," he said.

"Well, you know Peeves and his jump scares,” Filch shrugged. “Thinks he can intimidate me. Pah. Losing his touch."

"But that's not a poltergeist trick, that's real blood," Severus said.

Filch yawned. Severus tutted and bent down to inspect the cupboard and the two tins more closely. They were beautiful tins, if quite dented and battered. One was dark green with silver stars and the other was purple, with a white owl.

"Peeves wouldn't have put desserts into tins to throw them," said Severus.

"Why not?" snorted Filch. "He chucks all the furniture. I've had to rescue sofas from chandeliers before. Do you know how long it takes to get a sofa down from a chandelier? Probably could take the good Professor Dumbledore about three seconds but no, me and my bloody stepladder…"

"He must have stolen them,” Severus cut in. “I'll ask around in the staff room."

Filch groaned but waved Severus off as if to allow it. Severus took the tins and placed them gingerly into the ripped rucksack. He turned to leave.

"Wait!" said Filch. He reached for the bag and pulled out the owl tin back out, opened it and grabbed a handful of chocolate squares. I'm sure nobody would mind," he grinned. "For my troubles."

Severus could feel his teeth grinding but he restrained himself. "Let me know if you find that pie, or any other lost forgotten food or tins or trunks," he said tightly.

"If you say so, Professor," Filch scowled.

Severus shut the door behind him and sprinted up to Albus' office. If he could confirm the tins with Molly, then they'd know for certain Potter had still been here three days ago. That was the good news. He hadn't liked Filch's description of the fight or the blood on the bag. There was a good chance Potter was quite seriously injured. He knocked at Albus’ door, immediately opened it without waiting and rushed in only to find the office crammed full of people. He could just about make out Albus sat at his desk.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he murmured. Albus nodded at him. Severus shuffled and rearranged his cloak so the bag was hidden from view from the unknown crowd. He then bit his lip, hoping that Albus would realise from his demeanour that it was urgent. Who were all these people? He looked around to assess and he realised that the Minister of Magic himself was standing right in front of him. He sucked in a surprised breath. Perhaps he should have waited before barging right in.

"Professor Snape," Minister Fudge cried, turning to him. "Exactly the person we were looking for."

Severus tilted his head in confusion but Albus’ expression was inscrutable. Minister Fudge moved aside and Severus that realised there was a young boy stood in the middle of the ministry officers. For a second he thought they’d found Potter. But no. It wasn’t Potter. It was Draco. The boy's face was frozen somewhere between a sneer and a grimace. He looked up briefly at Severus, who saw that his eyes were puffy and red, and his jaw was locked with tension. Then he stared back at his boots.

"I'm afraid this young man's parents have been taken for questioning regarding some rather curious items we found last night hidden around their manor after an anonymous tip off," said Fudge jovially, as though he had announced they were just popping out for afternoon tea. "I believe you are the boy's godfather."

"Yes," said Severus, his mind whirling with the new information. He stared at Dumbledore who looked a little too pleased with himself. "Of course, I can take him. Draco, is that OK with you?"

Draco didn't look at him. After a few moments of silence, he shrugged his shoulders with a jerk and a slight toss of his head.

"Excellent," said Fudge. "If you'll just sign here, Severus…"

A parchment appeared in midair. Severus scanned the custody document feeling dazed, then signed with his finger. The document vanished with a crackle of sparks.

"Then we'll be off," Fudge beamed. "Thanks for the sherbet lemons, Headmaster. I'll be in touch."

Albus nodded. The ministers started manoeuvring themselves out.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," Severus whispered, kneeling down to him. Draco shrugged and continued to stare at the floor.

"Let's go down to my quarters and get you settled in. Do you have luggage? Your broom?"

Draco just shrugged again. Severus thought it had been a long time since he had been in Draco’s presence for more than a minute without hearing his voice.

"I'll make sure it gets there," said Albus. "I'm sorry, Draco. This has been quite a shock. Take your time and let me know if you need anything. I'll give you any updates on your parents as soon as I can, but you should be prepared for the eventuality that you'll be staying with Severus until school reopens. He'll help you with any homework, I'm sure and maybe take you out flying on the quidditch pitch at some point."

There was a little silence and then finally Draco nodded.

"Of course," said Severus. "But first, Albus, I must tell you. Argus had a dramatic fight with an invisible Peeves three days ago. He took this from him, but the poltergeist slipped his clutches. I believe it once belonged to Molly Weasley. Could you please check with her?"

He held out the bag. Albus' enormous smile faded as soon as he saw the state of it.

"I'll do that immediately," he said.

"The desserts were originally found in a second floor classroom; Argus might know more," Severus added as he shepherded Draco out. "Please keep me updated."

"Will do,” Albus sighed. “Thank you, Severus. Goodbye Draco, I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Text

Errol looked about as ragged as Ron felt. The owl had not enjoyed apparating. He was hunched up in his cage, still squawking softly as though in shock. Ron tried to make soothing noises at him, but it was difficult while he ran to keep up with his dad. They were hurrying through Hogsmeade towards Hogwarts and barely had time to see any of it. Ron had never been to the village before, though he had heard all about it. He looked longingly at the legendary Honeydukes before they passed right on by. He caught his breath at the school gates while Arthur sent a patronus to the others to let them know they were ready. McGonagall was watching Hogsmeade, Hagrid and Dumbledore the castle. Once they got a silvery cat and phoenix in response, Arthur gave Ron the thumbs up.

“If you get an answer, come straight back to us, even if it says the Burrow, ok Errol?” Ron said for the hundredth time. He had no idea if Errol understood. Ron had the feeling he wasn’t the brightest owl. He sighed and released the cage door. Errol hooted happily and shot into the air. Arthur called him back and then attached the food package and letter. This time Errol huffed as he took off. Ron smiled; he wasn’t flying very fast at all. Surely Hagrid would be able to follow. Arthur put his arm around Ron as they watched him disappear.

“Definitely towards school,” said Ron.

“Looks like it,” agreed Arthur.

They followed towards the castle, Ron’s sprint just about keeping up with Arthur’s jog.

"Any luck, Rubeus?" Arthur called as Hagrid came to meet them. They paused to catch their breath, Arthur nursing a stitch and Ron bent right over. But Hagrid shook his head. "Sorry Arthur. Errol just vanished into nowhere." He looked back at the skies. "He wasn't heading to the owlery. He looked like he was going to go smack into the astronomy tower and I thought maybe he’d crashed. But I checked and he wasn’t anywhere outside. No open windows either. Albus went up to have a look at the tower but he already messaged and there’s nothing. No owl. No Harry."

"Oh dear," said Arthur as Ron sighed heavily. Arthur gave him a one armed hug and Hagrid gave him a light punch to the shoulder that made his knees buckle. "We should head to Albus’ office. Perhaps he has another idea." Arthur continued. "At least we can hope the letter and the food was delivered."

"I really hope so," Ron said quietly.

"Me too," said Arthur. "Me too."

….

Harry was dozing. He wasn't feeling too well. He hadn't felt well for a while. He had tried to eat some of the pie, but even after all the effort he'd gone through to get it back, he hadn't managed more than a bite before feeling nauseous. Probably the stress, he thought dreamily. It'll keep. For another day. Which day was it? It was all smudging together. Hazy. It wasn’t great that he hadn’t eaten, but that was ok. It meant when he finally felt better he could have a little feast. He had managed to drink from the tap a few times. He suspected he had a bit of a fever; his nightmares had been very vivid recently. There were people calling for him; their voices seemed to echo in his head. They were copying his thoughts, repeating everything after him like Dudley used to do to tease him. Harry was trying to reach them but he was stuck in the mirror of Erised. He couldn’t get out. He banged his fist on the silver glass and tried to shout but he had forgotten how to speak. It was too hot. Much too hot. And then it was very, very cold.

His hand looked bad. Deep reds and purples and blacks and yellows through the tan brown, like he had spilled paints and they’d soaked into him. Aunt Petunia would go mad if he had spilled anything. He would wash it all off when he felt a bit better. His ankle was the same. His side looked the worst of all. All Gryffindor colours, gone a bit wrong. Actually quite a lot of him looked a bit wrong. No injury in itself was that bad. He’d had worse. But it was unlucky that it had all come together at the same time. Filch must really hate Peeves, he thought.

He was a bit confused as to where he was. Sometimes he thought he was in that nice room he had found with the bed and the golden snitches. But other times it seemed like he was floating on a lake. The water beneath him was smooth black; so was the sky above him. And there were stars in both. The water was very cold. So cold it felt like burning. But he was getting used to it. The water was very deep. As deep as the sky. And he was in the middle. Floating on the line between them. Burning cold at his back; freezing emptiness ahead. And he wasn’t alone.

He knew someone else was with him, but it was hard to look at them. He couldn’t turn his head, but they were there in that space just beyond where he could see. He didn’t mind them. They seemed to glow a little. He felt like he knew them. As he floated, the cold seemed to sink through him and he thought they were becoming clearer. Sharper. They were lying together, side by side. Harry was very cold. But they were warm. They had done this before, but it was taking him a while to remember. Did it always take this long? He managed to lift his head a little. Their face was very pretty. Their eyes were bright, like the stars. He couldn’t tell if they were a boy or a girl. They looked about the same age as him, roughly the same height and build. They looked a little like him. But instead of black hair, theirs was silver.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” they echoed.

Everything about them radiated. They were very lovely to look at. And something about them was very familiar. Harry felt like he was their shadow. He was an empty space where they should be. Harry reached out his hand. It was like the other being was a reflection; their hand moved too. The two of them entwined their fingers together.

“I’ve met you before,” Harry murmured. But where did he know them from?

“Yes,” they said. “Well met, child of Peverell,”

“My dad was called James,” corrected Harry.

They sighed. “You say this every time.”

“I do?” Harry felt something like surprise but very gentle, as though a part of him already knew all of this.

“Yes, it’s very annoying.”

Harry laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

“I know,” they said.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“This is the place where we meet.”

“Yes,” Harry said. He felt a faint urge to roll his eyes; that was such a typically unhelpful answer. But he wasn’t awake enough yet. And everything was so peaceful here. The black water-sky and the stars. He knew them. “Ok, but where is that?” he said with a smile.

“We are in between. We are not really here to stay yet. But time loops round for us.”

Harry considered this. “I hit my head again, didn’t I?” he said.

“Probably. You do that a lot.”

Harry giggled. “You know me?”

“Not like I will.”

“Why don’t I know you?”

“You do.”

“Do I?” Harry thought about this.

“You are straddling the between. Floating over an edge.”

“Hmmmm,” said Harry.

“You are close to death again, son of Peverell.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” And then he did remember. “We’ve met before! I’ve been here loads!”

“That’s true.”

“This is the second time this year!”

“Correct.”

“Almost as many as last year!”

“Correct.”

“Why do I keep forgetting?”

“Probably because you hit your head a lot.”

“Really?”

“No,” smiled the being. “You are straddling. You are not fully here, yet. Nor I.”

“Hmmm,” said Harry. “You’re not one for clarity, are you?”

The being laughed, “Oh how untrue that truly is.”

“Hmmmm,” said Harry. It was nice to stare into their eyes. So silvery. Like something melted. But light in them. And not just silver. Many colours swirling together. They moved slowly. It was hard to look away.

“So I’m dying?” Harry asked. The water around him felt very, very cold. It was starting to drag at him, like he might be pulled under. It had done this before, he remembered now. But he always forgot.

“Yes,” said the being. “You are dying.”

“That sucks. Stupid Filch.”

The being laughed. “Argus Filch will not kill you. You are straddling.”

Harry thought about this. “Sounds a bit rude, really. Filch and I are straddling?”

“No,” the being giggled. “You are straddling. You and I.”

“You’re dying too?”

“Not like you. But yes, in a way.”

“It’s always like this,” Harry moaned. “You never make any sense. When do I wake up?”

“You are awake,” whispered the being and kissed him on the cheek.

There was an enormous crack and Harry yelled out in shock as Errol crashed through the false window. He was on the floor next to his bed in his little bedroom. His head ached. Everything ached. He really still felt very sick and he was tired. So tired of it all. What had he been dreaming? Something about a bright star? He couldn't remember. Errol circled the room fluttering and squawking with excitement then came to perch proudly on the stand by Hedwig's picture, wobbling precariously under the weight of another large bag. Harry managed to smile. "Hello, beautiful," he croaked. "What are you doing here again?"

He still felt a bit light-headed so he didn’t want to try hobbling all the way over to the perch but Errol got the idea and hopped over to him. It took a while for Harry to get the bag untied with just his left hand. When he did, he couldn’t hold the weight; he immediately dropped it and it tipped upside down. He winced at the noise and rested his head in his good hand for a little bit. When he finally looked up, he saw to his astonishment that an assortment of things had tumbled out: a bottle of pumpkin juice, a few loaves of bread, some sausages, a tin labelled pasta and another treacle tart.

Haugh laughed weakly. "What?" he asked. "Errol, what's all this?" The owl looked like he was beaming, if an owl had been capable of such an expression. Harry lay back against the wall. His right hand was one enormous purple-black bruise and it was burning hot but the wall was nice and cool. If he was gentle about it, it felt nice to press it against the cold. He lay his head back against it as well. There was a rushing noise in his ears for a while. He had to focus. They’d sent him food again. Why had they done that? He was too tired to figure it out. He lunged for the tub of pasta but failed to open it with one hand. He got the lid off the bottle though. He sipped the pumpkin juice slowly, feeling it trickle like a cold stream all the down. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was. It was all gone in no time. He cradled the nice, cool bottle as he slumped back on the carpet.

Errol was hooting. There was a letter he hadn't noticed. Harry shuffled himself over and opened it, but read it several times and still struggled to make any sense of it. "What is he going on about?" he groaned and put his head on his arms again. Errol seemed to be blurring. Harry really did feel quite sick. He concentrated on breathing until his heart stopped fluttering. The light was hurting his eyes. He pressed the cold, empty bottle against them and tried to think through the options. He read it one more time and thought he just about had it.

It was cool to know about the kitchens, but there was no way he could make that journey all the way downstairs right now. Apparition sounded handy but he’d have to tell them where he was hiding, which would surely lead to a lot of questions. Floo powder and a fireplace. The Burrow. He could do that. There were plenty of fireplaces around. Was there the slight danger he would mess it up and set himself on fire? Probably. But the Weasleys would probably just laugh and hose him off. It had to be better than staying here. They probably knew headache charms and had bandages or whatever like Madam Pomfrey.

Errol was nudging him gently. "You want a reply?" Harry asked and sighed. He couldn't remember where his pen or parchment was. Errol fluffed up and hovered for a moment. He swooped to a bookcase and Harry grinned in surprise. "You're a smart one, aren't you!" Errol had spotted a pot of ink and a stash of quills. Harry pulled them onto the floor. He ripped the bottom off Ron's letter and turned it over to write. His reply wasn't very neat. In fact, it was abominable. Having to use his left hand meant it looked like a child's scribble. There were blotches of ink everywhere and he'd accidentally left a bloodstain on one corner where he'd try to lay it flat. But he couldn't bear to start over.

He gave the piece of paper to Errol who immediately shot back out of the window. Harry started, a little surprised and disappointed. He had hoped Errol would stay a while. He had been planning on giving him a bit of bread. But he supposed Errol wanted to get home. Then Harry smiled. He would see him there. At the Burrow. Harry grinned. He might even get there first - which was fastest, floo or owl? He didn’t even know where Ottery St Catchpole was. Harry Pottery at Ottery St Catchpole, he giggled. He lay his head on the carpet. He'd have a little more sleep and then figure out how to get to the nearest fireplace.

….

Ron trudged up to Dumbledore's office behind Arthur, scuffing his feet along the floors. The castle was weirdly quiet and empty. Ron had half a mind to just yell out “Harry! Where are you?” But Arthur had shaken his head when he suggested it. When Ron had taken a big breath to try anyway, Arthur had shouted, “Ron! I said no!” Arthur never shouted. Ron literally couldn’t remember a single time he’d ever raised his voice, not even when Fred and George had filled the bath with frogspawn. What had gotten into everybody? Why were they all being so cagey about everything?

At least he was going to get to see Dumblefore’s office. Not even Percy had seen that, he didn’t think. He enjoyed the spiral staircase and the password, "ice mice" and the office itself, which was huge and full of weird spinny things, worse than dad’s garage. He even got a peek at Fawkes, Dumbledore’s famous phoenix, who was perched behind. He couldn’t wait to tell Gin. If he was finally allowed to tell her. When they were all in and seated in front of the desk, Dumbledore looked ready to launch into a speech. But they were all immediately distracted by a crash on the balcony.

"Errol!" said Ron, wondering wildly for a second if Harry had actually been hiding in Dumbledore's office all along, before realising that Errol must be carrying Harry's reply. The owl swooped straight down towards him and dropped a scrap of paper in his hands. Ron's jubilation turned to horror when he saw it. In a scrawl that looked very little like Harry's usual handwriting, he had only written:

I'll try to floo. H

He passed it to Dumbledore, feeling shocked at his sudden desire to cry.

"Why isn't he saying where he is?" he complained as Dumbledore read it and then held it out for the other two.

"I know," said Arthur. "It's very frustrating. But this is good, it confirms he's here, he's OK."

"Does it?" said Ron. He thought about pointing out the bloodstain but then decided he didn't want to think about it.

"It won't be long now," Arthur smiled. He looked tired. "Hopefully we'll see him as soon as we get back."

"And then we can ask him what the hell he's been playing at," Ron said moodily.

"Maybe," said Arthur.

Ron kicked one of the legs of Dumbledore's desk a couple of times. Then he remembered where he was and looked up at the headmaster in horror. Dumbledore merely gave the other side of the desk a little kick and then threw Ron an odd, squishy ball, which was shimmering with colours.

"Squeeze that, it's what I do. Kicking the desk only goes so far."

Ron nodded, a lump in his throat. He squeezed it as tight as he could, half hoping it would burst.

Chapter Text

Harry hadn't meant to sleep so long, but when he woke up it was evening again, if the false window could be trusted. He staggered to the sink and drank from the tap again. He felt very nauseous, but he managed to keep the water down. When he was done, he stared at the mirror, then rested his head against it. He had said he was going to try and get to the floo, but had that been a mistake? What would they say if he turned up like this? He looked… well, he looked pretty bad, honestly. There was no way he would be able to hide it.

His skin was a lighter brown than usual - he hadn’t been getting a lot of sun, after all. But worse than that, it now had a grey tinge to it. There were dark circles under his eyes, which was odd, because he had been sleeping an awful lot. He pulled up his t-shirt and stared at the heavy bruising along his left side. It had spread further across his ribs and he did not like the mottled colours of it at all. It hurt no matter his position, especially since every movement had to be a little jerky - he couldn’t put any weight on his ankle. His hip ached terribly. And his hand was still swollen enough it kind of looked like he’d blown up a glove.

The Weasleys would probably have a lot of questions if he showed up like this. He supposed he could say he had been mugged. Or that he had fallen down the stairs. But then, wouldn’t they wonder why he hadn’t gone to hospital first? And in this state, there was no way he could carry his rucksack, nevermind his trunk. He had been so excited at the idea of seeing Ron, he'd written his reply automatically. But he was comfortable here. He had his own room. All his belongings were here, he couldn’t just leave them all behind. And he'd done all that homework. What if the room disappeared and never came back? It had taken him weeks. He was really proud of some of it.

And what about all the food they'd just sent? He couldn’t just waste it all. He pulled himself from the sink to the door and slumped carefully down to the carpet again. The room had really looked after him. He was safe here. It would be a shame to leave before he'd even properly started to enjoy it; he had barely even started on the quidditch magazines, never mind all the books. He stroked the carpet absentmindedly with his good hand. It was so soft on his fingers. He watched the snitches and stars hanging from the ceiling. There was a very faint breeze so sometimes they swayed a little and the gold flashed at him. He sighed.

His eyes fell on the drawing of the Gryffindor team and the watercolour of him and Oliver Wood. He imagined for a moment that Oliver could see him. He would be tearing his hair out. Harry couldn’t play quidditch in this state. He should get to the hospital wing immediately, no arguments! Oliver wouldn’t have stood for him eating so little. He was always telling Harry that a seeker had to be strong and healthy; they needed immense stamina so that they could keep focused and survive terrible weather and bludger attacks for hours and hours and still be ready to race for the snitch at the end. Harry sighed again. He’d done his best, but looking after himself was hard sometimes. Perhaps he should have written to Oliver and asked for help. Oliver had been shocked enough when Harry said he wouldn’t be able to fly over the summer. If Harry had said he couldn’t eat much either, he’d have gone spare. Wood could be a really strict Captain. Harry hoped he wouldn’t be dropped from the team because of his injuries. He didn’t think he could have possibly foreseen what had happened with Filch, so he hoped he wouldn’t be punished for it. But that wasn't really how things worked, was it?

His eyes dropped to the pictures of him and Hagrid, him and Ron and Hermione, him and the other Gryffindors. He could imagine any of them giving him a snack without a second's hesitation, if he said he was hungry. Hagrid would probably have drowned him in rock cakes and tea. They were all such good friends. On days he felt low, one of Ron or Hermione always seemed to notice. Ron had never hesitated to lend him a quill or share sweets. Harry blushed. Had he been stupid? Friends helped friends. If Ron had been injured like Harry was, Harry would have carried him to hospital wing without a second of hesitation. He couldn’t imagine telling Hermione that she should survive summer without three good meals a day. Still, he cringed at the idea of telling them the mess he had made of everything.

But it wasn’t too late. He wished he didn’t have to choose between his room with all his belongings and seeing his friends, but he could admit it, he did need help. He needed more food and he probably needed to get to a hospital. This realisation bloomed like warmth in his chest. His friends might not really understand, they might be embarrassed for him, they might think Harry was odder than ever, but he had no doubt that they would want him to ask them for help. He sighed. He’d much rather just forget about everything and sleep until term started again. But perhaps he could just get some help and ask them not to ask questions. Aunt Petunia's voice rang in his head, "don't ask questions." He just didn't want everyone talking about him. That was fair enough, wasn't it?

He forced himself back up. He would focus on getting to the Burrow and seeing Ron, he could worry about all this later. The nice room had always reappeared before. He would just have to hope that it would come back in September. None of his stuff was really essential. Ron had loads of clothes, he wouldn’t mind lending Harry some spares. Speaking of which… he still had to finish getting dressed. Yesterday he had managed to put on a t-shirt and some underwear. He thought about getting out fresh ones, but the last time he had tried to lift his arm above his shoulder he had more or less passed out, so he thought he could live with the ones he had, even if they were a bit sweaty. The Weasleys would just have to take him as he was. He didn’t really feel up to a shower or even a wash. He found his jeans and pulled them up, taking little breaks every few minutes or whenever he felt too much like he might throw up. Happily, they were super loose, so he managed. But there was no way his trainer was going over his swollen ankle. It didn’t matter, really. He could go barefoot, it wasn’t that cold in summer.

He paused one last time as he looked at Hedwig’s cage and her perfect little perch. He hoped Hedwig would know where to find him. He imagined her getting 90% of the way to Hogwarts from wherever Hermione was and having to turn back around. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He’d just have to apologise to her and hope he could get some owl treats at Ron’s to make it up to her. He ran his eyes over his broom, his trunk, his room. This place was everything he had ever wanted. But he could do without it; he didn’t need things. What he really missed was his friends. This year had changed him. He never thought he would have so many people in his life that he would actually want to keep seeing. He smiled at the thought as he pulled the cloak over his head. Then he left and pulled the door closed behind him.

He couldn't remember seeing any fireplaces on this floor. He remembered there was one all the way down in Filch's office and snorted in disgust. The staff room might have one, he wasn’t sure. He thought there might be one at a little common seating area on the third floor - that would be fine. If he passed one before that, he could go for it. It was going to take him a long time to get all the way down there. He hoped the Weasleys wouldn’t mind even if he arrived very late. "I got mugged," he practised out loud. His voice seemed a little slow and slurry. "I fell down the stairs," he tried, over enunciating. Would he really lie like that? He was too tired to think about it. He’d decide when he saw Ron. Perhaps Ron wouldn’t even ask.

It was the first time he’d gone out since the disaster with Filch on his birthday. He breathed in slowly, smelling the fresher air of the breezy corridor. He brightened just at being somewhere else for a change. He hadn’t realised until he left, but it felt like he had been getting a little crazy seeing the same walls for days, even if they had been very nice walls. He took a moment to stare at the night sky from the windows. Then he leant against the wall and pushed himself forward. It was slow going as he limped along, steadying himself with his good hand. "Who goes there?" several portraits called as he passed. He wasn’t really able to hide his footsteps any more. Everything felt like such effort when he was achey, even the cloak felt heavier than it used to. It was strange to think that after this he might not wear it for some time. Possibly only if he needed to have a bit of quiet. Ron had a lot of family. He paused, feeling a little overwhelmed at the thought of them all. But he liked the twins and Percy was ok. He only had to meet Ron’s parents and sister; his two oldest brothers had already moved out. It was ok. He could do this.

He had to sit and have a break at the top of the first staircase. He leant his head against the bannister, his heart thundering, his ears ringing. Then he shuffled down on his butt, one step at a time. He pulled himself back up when he reached the next level and kept going. The next corridor had a long rug, which was nice, his feet had been getting a little chilly on the stone steps. He sat again at the top of the next staircase and this time he must have dozed for a little while against the wall because he woke suddenly, disorientated. As he got his bearings, he realised he could hear someone crying.

The noise was coming from the corridor, back the way he had just walked. He frowned, wondering briefly if he had imagined it. The crying lulled. He waited, listening, before sighing and pushing against the wall to stand himself up again. He took one step down and paused to breathe but then… there it was again. This wasn't just gentle crying; this was near hysterical bawling. Someone was in serious distress. Myrtle perhaps? She sounded awful. That was an understatement. Harry paused. Don't do it, part of him begged. Just go to the goddamn Burrow. Keep going. You’re nearly there. They’re probably waiting for you.

But he couldn't help it. He hobbled back. The sobbing got louder as he walked westwards. It was coming from a bathroom ahead. Harry hesitated and then pushed open the door with a grunt. He slipped inside and looked around. He was astonished to see Draco Malfoy, of all people, sitting on the floor under one of the sinks, crying his eyes out. He was sobbing so hard, he hadn’t even noticed the door opening. Harry felt incredibly awkward and had half turned back to go away again when Malfoy's wailing reached a near hysterical pitch. Harry cleared his throat and Malfoy jumped, looking frightened.

"It's OK," said Harry sheepishly. "It's OK. Er… I mean… I don't know what's happened, but er… crying helps. Sometimes. It makes me feel better when… when things are bad. Er… don’t worry. I'm here." He cringed. What the hell was he saying?

Malfoy hiccuped and sniffed, but mostly managed to control his crying. He seemed to swallow a whimper as he stared around the room in confusion. "Potter?" he said. "Harry Potter? Are… are you a ghost?"

Harry laughed and after a moment, Malfoy sniggered too, a little nervously. He started rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. "Potter? What are you doing? Are you spying on me?"

"No," said Harry. "I, er… I have an invisibility cloak. I’ve been wearing it…" He trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Why?” asked Malfoy. “Why are you here?" He was still rubbing his face. His eyes were very red and his nose was streaming. His entire face was blotchy.

Harry sighed and moved forward a little. "It's a really long story. A really, really long story," he said. "Why are you here?"

"Same," Malfoy coughed. “I wasn’t crying.”

It was such a stupid lie, Harry nearly laughed, but he managed not to. He couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy. He looked completely different, all pink and watery. Harry wondered what on earth had happened to crack Malfoy’s cold, snobby manner. He was still breathing at a bit of an odd rhythm, as though he was trying to choke back his tears. Harry slid down to sit next to Malfoy on the floor.

“It’s ok. I cried like two days ago.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry sighed. “I’m sorry your eyes just exploded with water for no reason. Must be painful.”

There was a little silence and then Malfoy snorted. “Shut up, Potter.”

Harry grinned. He was sitting so close, he could have touched Malfoy if he had reached out. A real person. It was weird but even though it was only Malfoy, Harry was so glad to be talking to him. It had just been so long since he’d talked to anyone properly. His voice felt a bit weak and gravelly. He tried to clear it. There was a little silence. One of the taps was dripping. Malfoy was still sniffing. Harry watched in amusement as he pulled out an actual embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

"I won't tell anyone," said Harry suddenly, his voice cracking. "Crying really does help. A little bit anyway."

"Yeah?" said Malfoy, blushing. Then, more angrily, he said, "why are you still under the cloak? Why can't I see you?" and before Harry could say anything, he reached forwards as if to grab it and pull it off. Harry flinched back and gasped in pain.

"Harry?" said Malfoy.

Harry tried to focus as the room swam. He was going to be sick. He flailed out his arm trying to steady himself on the wall and accidentally hit Malfoy instead, knocking his bad hand as he tried to balance. He yelled out with the pain and twitched back in confusion, groaning as the nausea spiked through him. Malfoy jumped to one side.

"Harry?" he said again. "Harry! Where are you?"

"I'm here," he managed. “I’m here.” He tried to reach out to Malfoy or a wall, anything stable, but he missed and crumpled forward. Malfoy was looking round alarmed but he was moving in the wrong direction. Harry couldn’t catch his breath to explain. He just needed the floor to stop tilting for a minute. But the ringing in his ears was so loud. He couldn’t catch his breath. Everything was weirdly slow and dark. He slumped to one side as he blacked out.

….

It was Ron who first heard the yelling. They had just passed a staircase on the sixth floor. They were wandering up and down, hoping to spot Harry on his way to a fireplace. Arthur had been pretty sure there was a fireplace near the trophy room up here, though Ron suspected he was just trying to give them something to do to take their minds off things.

He paused as soon as he heard the yell, straining to hear more clearly, hoping he'd recognise Harry's voice. He couldn't quite make it out but it didn’t sound like Harry. If anything it sounded like… Malfoy? He snorted in disgust but then shook himself. Someone was screaming for help. It didn’t matter who it was.

"Dad!" he said immediately. "Do you hear that?"

Arthur looked zoned out. "No? What?"

"Someone's yelling!"

"Where? I don't hear," Arthur frowned.

"Er… this way," said Ron. "No. This way."

He broke into a run and the yelling got louder.

"I hear it," said Arthur. "Quickly. Down there. That door, I think."

They burst into a bathroom. Malfoy was kneeling over Harry’s body.

"Morgana and Merlin," swore Arthur. He muttered something Ron didn't catch and a silver weasel shot out of his wand and scampered out through the wall. He then ran to Malfoy.

"Did you kill him?" yelled Ron.

"No!" said Malfoy. "Are you crazy?"

Arthur tutted. "Ron! This lad found Harry. Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm so glad we've got him. I'm so glad. Harry, can you hear me? Harry?"

"Should I go for Severus?" asked Malfoy.

"Yes," said Arthur immediately. "I've sent a message to Dumbledore. Ron, see if you can find McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey."

Ron hesitated for a moment, he couldn’t just leave, what if Harry died and he never got to say goodbye? Then he shook himself and ran, following Malfoy out of the door. They both clattered down the stairs together but then Ron turned off towards the hospital wing while Malfoy pressed on, presumably towards the dungeons. As Ron approached the hospital double doors, he saw they were locked, the whole place seemed empty. Ron rattled the door handle and banged with his fist just in case, then turned back, thinking he would try the transfiguration department next. He had reached the end of the corridor when suddenly he heard the doors slam open; Snape had appeared carrying Harry. Arthur and Draco were following just behind. Ron sprinted back and gaped at Harry. He looked grim. Ron tried not to shudder.

"Ronald, fetch me the essence of dittany," said Snape as though it was perfectly normal that Ron would be here. "On the shelf in the office." Ron jumped to it. The office was locked but alohomora worked. Ron scanned the shelves and drawers, then pulled a chair across to reach the higher ones. Dittany was clearly labelled. He realised his hands were shaking a little as he pulled it down. He ran back.

"Thank you," said Snape. “Give it to your dad.” Ron did and Arthur began applying the mixture in the bottle immediately, causing a greenish smoke to rise wherever he pasted it. There was a bubble over Harry’s mouth - Ron wondered if it was helping him breathe. Snape had cut away Harry's t-shirt and was doing some sort of examination. There was a quill making notes dashing across an ever growing length of parchment. Ron glanced at Draco and they both backed away leaving Professor Snape and Arthur space to work.

"What were you thinking, Potter?" Snape grumbled. Ron opened his mouth to defend Harry but then shut it again. He had no idea what Harry had been thinking.

"Left this late, it won’t heal too neatly," Snape continued under his breath. "But you'll live. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking Petunia. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Ron was pretty sure Snape had forgotten he and Draco were there. He pulled himself up to sit on a window sill and Draco stood awkwardly next to him. Ron wasn't sure where to look. No matter where he turned his head, he saw Harry, his bruised, gaunt face, his injuries. He was so angry that Harry had lied to him. He had been lying for weeks, right since those last couple of days of term. Why hadn't he just told him? How had it gotten this bad so fast? He really hoped he would be ok. He was scared to ask.

It wasn't long before McGonagall, Hagrid and Dumbledore arrived. Dumbledore immediately went to Snape, who seemed to give him some sort of update in a low voice. Then it looked like they were working together on a charm, their wands moving forwards and back above Harry, sometimes shooting little beams of light into him.

At this point Arthur pulled Ron away. "Let's leave them to it. Harry's in good hands." Ron nodded and tore his eyes away from the hospital bed. “Draco, Hagrid. Let’s get some tea,” Arthur added. Neither of them looked like they wanted to move, but Arthur steered them all out firmly. Ron saw Madam Pomfrey hurry in as he left, along with a couple of people in mediwix uniforms.

It was very surreal having a cup of tea in Hagrid's hut with his dad and Malfoy. Hagrid bustled around fetching rock cake and topping up everyone's tea faster than they could drink it. Malfoy was surprisingly quiet. Everyone was. Fang was breathing heavily and the kettle kept whistling.

"I'm sorry," said Ron suddenly into the silence. "I didn't really think you'd killed Harry. I was upset."

Malfoy snorted. After a while he added, "I'm actually glad you came. I thought he might… I thought he was dying."

"You did brilliantly," said Arthur. "Both of you. Brilliant. I'm so proud."

Malfoy looked astonished. Ron grinned and then offered him his hand to fistbump. Malfoy just stared, then cautiously tried to shake it with his own hand. Ron burst out laughing. "You idiot," he grinned. He scrunched Malfoy's hand into a fist and bumped it, just like he always did with Charlie. "Thanks for rescuing Harry."

"I didn't!" Malfoy said quickly. "I didn't do anything."

"You did enough," said Hagrid, piling another three cakes onto his plate. "You saved his life. None of us could find him. But you did."

Malfoy looked scandalised. Ron resisted the urge to tease him further. "How did you find him?" he asked instead.

Malfoy blushed for some reason and then looked thoughtful. Finally, he shrugged. "I was upset and I’d gone to the bathroom to er… wash my face,” he said. “I don't know if you heard but… er… my… er… it doesn't matter. But I was upset and I think Potter heard me. He said something and I kind of freaked out because he was invisible and I thought he was a ghost."

"This is crazy," said Ron, shaking his head. "Go on?"

Malfoy gave them all a frightened look as he realised everyone was listening, but then he continued. "So Harry laughed and said it was him and that he wasn't a ghost and that he was wearing an invisibility cloak. But it was weird that I couldn't see him, so I told him to take it off and then I tried to grab it and I didn't even touch him, I swear, but then Harry made this weird noise like it sounded like he was getting strangled or something, but I couldn't see, and I called his name and he answered once but then he stopped responding and I didn't know what to do but I kind of felt around and pulled the cloak off and then I saw all his injuries." Malfoy paused. “So then, er… I thought about trying to move him but I thought I’d try shouting, in case anyone else could help. I didn’t want to leave him all on his… I thought he might… I was going to try sending a message by portrait next.”

"Like I said," Arthur smiled. "You were brilliant. Very quick thinking under a terrible amount of pressure and a - let's face it - completely bizarre situation."

Malfoy stared at him uncertainly and then gave a shy smile. "It was rather odd, wasn’t it?"

"Completely bananas," Hagrid agreed.

"Can I give you a hug?" Arthur asked. Malfoy paused and then kind of shrugged and nodded at the same time.

"Oh, get in here," said Hagrid, scooping all three of them together.

Ron laughed. "Hagrid get off, you're crushing my rock cakes!"

Malfoy giggled. He started to say something but paused. Then, he went ahead in a rush. "Why? Why was Potter - why was Harry - what happened to him?"

Hagrid put them all down with a sigh.

"We're not entirely sure," said Arthur, rubbing his head like he had a headache. "I suppose we'll find out when he wakes up."

"But why are you two here?"

Arthur frowned at him. "Can I trust this won't leave this room?" he asked.

Again, Malfoy looked shocked. "Yes," he said finally. "But, I mean… you don't have to tell me," he mumbled.

"We don’t really know anything for sure yet,” said Arthur. “But we came to try and find him; we think he ran away from home and had been hiding here for some time. We've been very worried. We don't think he really had enough to eat and we're not sure how he got so badly hurt. But Harry is tough. A survivor. They’ll do everything they can to fix him up."

“He was hiding at Hogwarts?” Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “But why would he hide at school over the holidays?”

Arthur sighed and shrugged.

"He lied," said Ron, staring at the rug. "He sent me owls, but he was lying all this time."

"I know," said Arthur. "He made some bad choices. It’s ok to be angry about that. But I also suspect that Harry has had a hard time. It might take a while for him to learn how to do better. So. He'll need excellent people around him, good friends like the two of you. He'd be very lucky to have either of you."

"Of course, we'll still be friends." Ron rolled his eyes. He looked at Malfoy and smirked. “Or frenemies, I guess.”

Malfoy gave him a shove. Arthur smiled at them. Then suddenly he jumped up and swore loudly.

Ron looked up. "You OK, Dad?"

"I forgot to let your poor mother know, she's probably still pacing by the fireplace hoping Harry will turn up." He swore again and dashed out. Ron met Malfoy's eye and they both giggled.

"Your dad," said Malfoy. "He's…"

Ron froze.

"He's very kind," Malfoy finished.

Ron thought about it. "Yeah, he is. He's funny sometimes… he does daft things, I mean. But yeah. He's also kind."

Malfoy nodded and Ron realised his face looked weird. Sad. Like he'd been crying.

"I'm sorry about…" Ron paused. "Whatever you were upset about. Before Harry came in."

Malfoy looked stony. Then suddenly he shrugged. "Thanks. But it doesn't matter,” he said quietly. “When you find out… it doesn't matter."

"It matters if you're upset about it." Ron argued.

Malfoy shrugged again. But then he nodded. "Thanks for all this, Mr Hagrid," he mumbled. Hagrid cuffed him on the shoulder and he nearly lost his plate.

"You're very welcome, Draco,” he smiled down at him. “Please come down any time and say hi, in term time or whenever. There will always be tea and cake here with your name on it."

If Draco's eyes filled with tears and his breathing wobbled a bit, neither of the other two mentioned it.

"Shall we play snap while we wait?" Ron suggested. "I've got my cards."

"Great idea," Hagrid beamed.

Chapter Text

Harry woke slowly. He could hear voices and movement. He wasn't sure where he was, but he didn't want anyone to see him. He pulled his blanket up high over his nose and then opened his eyes the tiniest amount and quickly closed them again. The hospital wing. He'd been found. This was mortifying; he hoped no-one had noticed him waking up. With his eyes still shut tight, he ran his hands over his chest to check for his cloak, but was horrified to find he was no longer wearing it. Someone had put him in one of those awful hospital gowns. It didn't even have a back.

He clenched his fists and tried to think through his escape. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want to be expelled or sent back to the Dursleys. He had to get out. But he needed the cloak. He didn't know where it was. He was trapped. Everything was a bit hazy but he remembered trying to get to a fireplace. But he couldn't go, not like this. The Weasleys couldn't see him like this. There was some kind of bell ringing louder and louder, an alarm going off. Harry pulled the covers fully over his head and scrunched himself as small as possible. He didn't want to see anyone. They shouldn’t have taken his cloak.

"Harry, it’s ok," someone was saying. "You're safe here. It's OK. Try to breathe."

They were too close. Their voice was too loud. Harry jerked away from it. He was trembling, his heart was aching, everything hurt. Why couldn't they leave him alone?

"I'm just going to sit over here," said the voice. "Take your time. You’ve got space. Just breathe. It's OK."

It wasn't OK. Nothing was OK. He couldn't go back. He needed the cloak. Who had taken it? Who had put him here? Why couldn't they leave him alone? He was feeling fine now. He had that nice room now on the seventh floor and he had proven that he was fine on his own. They could just leave him alone. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t, his body wasn’t listening to him. It felt like the bed was swaying. He was so dizzy.

"Slow down," the voice said. "There's no rush. Try to breathe out slowly, like you’re blowing out a candle."

He tried but every breath shook. The air was sucked back in too quickly, his chest clenched tight. He was trapped, too hot under the blanket but he clung on to it, his only protection. He couldn't move. His chest hurt, sharp pains. Was he having a heart attack?

"Professor Snape," the voice was calling softly. It had moved away a little. "He's awake but panicking, he needs a calming draught."

Professor Snape? Professor Snape? Snape was going to kill him. Snape knew how to brew poison; he couldn't drink anything from Snape. Where was his cloak?

"Potter. Calm down." It was Snape's bitter, silky voice. The other voice must have been Madam Pomfrey, Harry realised. Why couldn't they leave him alone? How had they captured him? Was he going to be expelled? Where was the Cloak? Why was Snape here?

"Can you hear me, Potter?"

"I think you'll have to spell it in, Professor."

"No," Harry found his voice. He was shaking so hard the covers must be wobbling. He must look like an idiot. He was so embarrassed but he couldn’t stop. He tried to hold the blanket still a little above himself so they wouldn’t see. "Leave me alone."

"Potter, the draught will make you feel better.”

There was a little pause. Harry didn’t move. Then he heard the footsteps start up again, getting closer and he flinched away and pulled the blanket tighter.

Snape sighed. “You don’t have to have it, if you can prove you can slow down your breathing by yourself."

Harry breathed. "I don't want a potion," he said. He breathed out slowly. “I don’t need it,” he breathed. He tried to breathe out as long as he could. His heart was still aching. Everything ached. He needed to get out of here. He was still gasping a little, but his breath was getting smoother. He felt a little less dizzy. The blanket was soft grey, fuzzy. The same grey as the underside of Hedwig’s feathers. He imagined himself counting each one, stroking along her wings. Gentle. Calm. He breathed.

"Fine," said Snape. "That's fine. I’ll leave the potion here on your bedside table for later, in case you change your mind. Good job on the breathing."

Good job? Was he being sarcastic? Harry knew how to breathe. He pressed his head into the mattress. Hopefully they’d leave him alone soon. He breathed. And breathed. And breathed.

"Feeling better?" Madam Pomfrey asked after a minute or so, her voice stiff as starch. Harry jumped, jerking clumsily and almost dropped the blanket. He swore under his breath.

"Please," he whispered. "Please go away. Please leave me alone."

There was a little silence. Harry gasped and then put his hand over his mouth and scrunched his eyes shut. He shouldn't have said that. Madam Pomfrey was just trying to help. He was so ungrateful, always taking more than others could give. He was a selfish, nasty little child. He hadn’t meant to make such a fuss.

"Potter, it’s ok," said Madam Pomfrey. "We're not going to force you to do anything until you're ready. But Professor Snape and I need to stay close. We're just going to sit here at the end of your bed, OK?"

It wasn't OK. "No," said Harry. "No. I'm fine. Please, where is my cloak? I just want to… you don't have to - I don't need-"

"Slow down. It's OK. You’re doing really well, Harry," Madam Pomfrey pulled back the blanket a little. Harry put his arms over his head to hide his face. The air was so cold.

"It's not OK," he said. "It's not."

"You have been through a lot," she agreed.

"Not really," said Harry. He twitched back, sitting up and shuffling back against the headboard, pulling his legs out of the tangle of blankets. "I'm fine. I need to go-"

"Go where?" asked Snape dryly.

Harry gasped a little. They were trying to trap him. He had to get out. He looked around but he couldn't see his cloak or even his clothes anywhere. He couldn’t look at Madam Pomfrey or Snape directly, but out of the corner of his eye he could see them lurking, he knew they were hovering by the curtain, like the shadows that sometimes stood over him in his nightmares. He couldn’t look at their faces. He focused on the pale, grey blanket. His hands were still shaking.

"I don't want - where's my cloak?” he said again.

"It's safe,” Snape answered. “Dumbledore has it for now, with your clothes."

"Will I get them back?"

"I believe they are being washed. When you are ready to leave you can have your clothes back. When we are confident that we are not going to lose you again, you will get your cloak back."

"You can't - it's mine - "

"Potter!" Snape raised his voice. "Stop. You need to rest if you are going to heal. You need to stop."

Harry flinched away. "I'm fine," he said.

Snape snorted. "You're stubborn. You're a survivor. But you are not fine."

"I can look after myself," said Harry.

"I know."

"I have looked after myself. For weeks."

"I know, Potter. I know.”

“Everyone needs help sometimes," tutted Madam Pomfrey. “If you’re injured, you rest.”

"I rested loads already," Harry insisted. "I just want my cloak back. Please."

Snape sighed and didn't say anything. Harry risked a glance up. He was sitting in a chair by the end of the bed, tapping his fingers on the armrest in a little fidgety movement Harry had never seen him do before. It seemed like he was considering Harry’s plea, but he wasn’t looking at Harry at all, just staring at the window. Maybe Harry could convince him. He was about to ask again when Snape cut him off. He kept his head turned, like he was speaking to the sky.

"I want to apologise, Potter,” Snape spat out. “I've been… well… I've been shit to you all year."

Harry went still. He had not been expecting - what? It was very odd to hear Snape of all people swear. Teachers never swore.

"You don't have to accept my apology," Snape continued. "But I am sorry. It was too much. I'm a grumpy old git sometimes and I took it out on you."

Harry had no idea what to say. He risked a glance up and studied the way Snape sat in the little hospital chair as though it were a throne, draped in his usual black robes, his face and hair shining with grease. He looked tired, Harry thought suddenly. Harry had just about gotten used to Snape’s routines in lessons. The ways he glared and swooped and laughed sarcastically. The way he spoke more softly the angrier he got. The way he stared at Potter as though willing him to make mistakes or speak out of turn. But he didn’t know hospital wing Snape. On second inspection, hospital wing Snape looked a little crumpled, like he had folded himself up like a bat. Harry had no idea what Snape would do or say, when he would decide to pounce. Harry leaned a bit further back in bed and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

“I’m particularly sorry that I never thought to ask about your home situation. If I had known…” Snape trailed off.

"What are you talking about?" said Harry, genuinely flummoxed. What home situation? Had something happened to the Dursleys? He hoped for a second their house had burned down and they'd all died and then he gasped, feeling terribly guilty. "I don't… I…"

"It's OK, Potter. You don't have to explain anything. You just need to rest. I have some magazines here, Ron thought you might like them-"

"Ron? He’s here? I don't want to see him," said Harry quickly.

Snape paused. "And why not?"

"I just don't. Please. I just want everyone to leave me alone. I don't want to be here, I want… please, just go away."

"Very well," said Snape. He flicked his wand and the curtain shuffled along until it was around three sides of Harry's bed, leaving just one side open where he could see the window. "You don't have to see anyone until you are ready. I'm going to sit at the end of the bed and Madam Pomfrey will be checking in. But that's it. I'll leave the magazines here.”

He put them down on the table next to the calming draught Harry had rejected. And then, he retreated to his chair. Harry watched him as he pulled a book from the air and started reading. Harry lay back. His heart was still thumping as though he had been running. Madam Pomfrey bustled away somewhere. Harry sat still and quietly. Minutes passed. Snape didn’t do much. He occasionally turned a page of his book. It was like he had forgotten Harry. Harry sighed and finally looked around his room. The curtains didn’t move. He could hear Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps in the distance. The creak of a cupboard opening. But nothing else. From the window he could see a little patch of cloudy sky.

He still felt a little sick but honestly, a lot better than he had felt in weeks. He mostly just felt tired. He wondered what Madam Pomfrey had done to heal him. He had felt terrible trying to get down the stairs on that last day before… He didn't want to think about that. It was so embarrassing. He must have passed out right in front of Malfoy. Harry cringed just remembering and felt a jolt of pain through his side. He moved as slow as he could so he didn’t make any noise, shuffling into a better position to pull his gown to one side. The bruising looked a lot better than the last time he’d seen it. He looked at his hand and saw that the swelling was mostly gone and it was no longer that dark black and purple. It was now blue and green mixed with some yellow around the edges. Someone had taped his fingers together. It was achey, but not throbbing. He wondered how long he had slept here. His ankle was also burning but again the swelling was down and someone had wrapped it up in something that felt nicely cold. His legs looked very thin. He hadn't really been thinking about it, but he guessed it wasn't surprising - he should prioritise more protein next time he had to collect food. He wondered if he'd still be any good at quidditch. He must be so out of shape. It would be so awful if they had to drop him from the team. He squirmed at the idea. Wood would be so mad.

Another page turned. Harry froze and forced himself to stop fidgeting. But it was ok, Snape hadn’t looked up, he was still just reading quietly. Harry lay back down and rested his head on the pillow. It was warm. He would have liked to turn it over to the cool side but he also didn’t want to move and rustle too much. There was a faint smell of something he vaguely recognised. Rose, perhaps? He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He was glad he didn't have to see anyone else yet. He had been afraid the Weasleys were all going to traipse in at once. They must be so disappointed. They'd made him all those cakes. They'd invited him to stay. And now they knew he was just a horrible little liar. Hermione too. And what would Hagrid say when he found out? Harry could have gotten Hagrid in trouble. What if someone had thought Hagrid had kidnapped him?

He felt hot tears leaking down his nose. He'd ruined everything. Hogwarts was never going to be the same again. He'd lied to all his friends. Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, but he'd just run away. What if they told him he had to change houses? Or said it would be better for him to go to muggle school again? What if they took Hedwig away because he had been so irresponsible? He'd tried to look after her, he had really tried.

“Potter,” said Snape. “The calming draught will help. You should take it.”

Harry ignored that. He wiped his eyes with the blanket and waited until his voice was under control, then sat up and snapped, “why is Ron here anyway?” His voice still cracked a little and Harry blushed. Snape was suddenly staring right at him.

“His mum and dad have been bringing him in to check on you,” said Snape slowly. It looked like he was almost smiling. It was weird. “You’ve been very poorly, Potter. They’ll be very relieved you’re awake. At one point we were going to move you to St Mungos. But you are doing very well. As long as you rest and eat and sleep, you’ll be making an excellent recovery. It will take some time, and we’ll have to speak about nutrition plans for next term, at some point. But you don’t need to worry about that just yet.”

"What is St Mungo's? Like a church? You mean you were going to take me to the cemetary?"

Snape looked confused. "It's a hospital."

Oh. That made a lot more sense.

“What day is it?” Harry asked. Perhaps he had slept through the rest of the summer. That would be handy.

“It has been just under a week since you were found. It’s the 9th August.”

Harry sighed heavily.

“Ron has come and sat by your bedside for an hour every day in the afternoon,” Snape continued. “Hagrid and Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore have popped in several times too. And Draco Malfoy,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

“Malfoy?” Harry shuddered a little as he remembered Malfoy’s wide, red eyes in the bathroom. The way he had reached towards him with his pale hand. “But… why?”

“He is my godson and currently staying with me. I have been here prepping potions. He and Weasley have been spending the afternoons together. It’s remarkable that they haven’t killed each other yet, but I suppose there’s still time before term starts,” Snape drawled. “I believe they are currently playing quidditch with Arthur. Once you’re a little better, you can join them.”

Harry chewed this over, eyes still on the blanket. He wasn’t sure who Arthur was, but thought it might be Ron’s dad. It had been one of the names on his birthday card. The three of them playing quidditch together was very difficult to imagine. He’d never seen an adult on a broom, apart from Madam Hooch. Didn’t adults grow out of wanting to do things like that? Unless they were professionals? Quidditch was fun. All adults ever did was teach and eat and watch tv and sometimes read, apparently. Although now he thought about it, some of the dads at primary school had been in some sort of football league, hadn’t they? He was drifting off into a daydream trying to imagine all the adults he knew playing quidditch. He couldn’t imagine any of them would be any good. He briefly imagined Uncle Vernon as a beater and shuddered.

“What will happen to me?” he whispered. He hadn’t really meant to say it out loud, but when he realised he had, he looked up at Professor Snape, who was tilting his head to one side.

“What do you mean?” Snape asked.

“Will I… “ Harry took a deep breath to control himself. Then he glared at Snape. “Will I be expelled?”

“No, Potter. The Headmaster wants to speak to you, but just to ask you a few questions.”

Harry shivered. Snape hadn’t sounded very certain. “Killed or worse, expelled,” echoed through his mind in Hermione's voice. Now he thought she actually had her priorities exactly right. How could he go back to Privet Drive now he knew about the world of magic? How had he been so stupid to jeopardise his place here? He could tolerate a few weeks of the Dursleys each summer. Better than never returning to Hogwarts.

“It will be OK, Potter,” Snape said sharply. “The Headmaster won't hurt you.”

But expulsion was so much worse than any painful punishment the Dursleys could dream up. At Privet Drive he could just close his eyes and wait for it to be over. He could take it. But never having Hogwarts again to look forward to and keep him going? Better he had never known. He should have realised earlier what was at stake. He had taken it all for granted. It was no good. He’d ruined everything. He clenched his fists, letting his nails dig into his palms.

“Potter, please,” Snape insisted. “The calming draught.”

Harry forced himself to breathe out. “What does it do?” he whispered.

Snape sighed. “It will slow down your heart and your breathing and your thoughts. Give you a bit more space to think.”

“What’s it made of?” Harry asked. He bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to ask another question. This was a habit he thought he’d grown out of already. But Snape only seemed mildly surprised. He actually closed his book, taking care to mark his place before he looked up at Harry.

“This one is peppermint, lavender and dragon heart-string,” he said.

Harry snorted.

“What?” asked Snape.

“Can't have been very calming for the dragon when someone cut its heart out.”

Snape raised his eyebrow. “No, I suppose not.”

“And the wiggenweld is worse. You kill ten different animals just for a potion to heal some minor injuries. Even unicorn. I thought you were supposed to get cursed for drinking their blood. Like Voldemort.”

Snape had an odd look on his face. Harry couldn’t tell how angry he was. He leaned back again and studied his fingernails. They were very clean. Cleaner than they’d been in weeks. He wondered how that had happened.

“The Wiggenweld potion has unicorn horn in it,” said Snape finally. “It's keratin. Like toenails. The horns shed them every few years and they are collected.”

“But the salamanders don't shed their blood, do they? And I think the sloth would much rather have its brain mucus still in its skull.”

Snape opened his mouth and then closed it. “You raise a fair point. If you are going to refuse on ethical grounds, you won't be the first. You could have a sleeping draught instead.”

“It's still got flobberworm in it, whatever that is.” Harry reminded him.

Snape’s eyes gleamed and Harry wondered if he’d gone too far. “You did do your homework, didn’t you, Potter?" Snape sniffed. "Well if you remember, it contains flobberworm mucus, Potter. You can extract it without killing it.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you extract it or do you just kill the flobberworms?”

Snape sighed. “I do kill flobberworms. They are useful in a great many potions. But I can assure you that they are not intelligent. Potter, is there a reason for all this?”

Harry couldn’t help it. Something was bubbling out of him. He either had to say it or burst into tears and there was no way he could cry in front of Snape. “I'm not taking any more potions,” he announced. “I'm not doing any more magic. Even wands have dead things in them. Hairs and heartstrings and feathers. Nobody cares. It's cruel. Even if they are only flobberworms. Nobody ever cares. I hate it. I hate everything. I just want you all to leave me alone. I’m not going back and you can’t make me. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere anymore, I'm too tired. Please just go away.”

Snape didn't say anything for a long time. Harry wasn't sure why but it suddenly seemed very important not to take the nasty potion on the bedside table. He didn’t have to take it. He wouldn’t. They couldn’t make him. It was all stupid. He just wanted to sleep. He could look after himself; they didn’t have to keep torturing him. He stared at the curtain and tried to imagine he was far away. He could run away, once he got his cloak back. He could live anywhere. He had been stupid to stay here. He had money. He could turn it into muggle money and buy his own house and he knew how to cook and then everyone could just leave him alone.

Then finally, Snape said, “I can replace the dragon heartstring with wormwood, if you like - for the calming draught. It will make you drowsy though. It's closer to a potion for dreamless sleep.”

Harry shrugged. He heard Snape get up and go to whisper with Madam Pomfrey for a while. When he came back, he felt Snape press a cold, glass bottle into his hand.

“Not too much,” said Snape. “You'll likely doze for a while.”

Harry sat himself up and considered it. The bottle was purple with a gold stopper. It popped open when he pulled it. He smelled it and got a hint of lavender. He hadn’t expected Snape to take him seriously. He had just been whinging like Dudley always did. He was just overtired. Snape had changed something, just for Harry. Just because he had asked for it. Harry felt his lip wobble and he bit down on it. No need for any more tears. He just hadn’t been expecting it. He was just tired.

“Just a mouthful,” said Snape. “You can have the rest later.”

Harry took a sip. It tasted like flowers and toothpaste. Harry lay back again. Finally his heart was slowing. He hadn’t realised he was so tense until his muscles started relaxing. It felt like they were melting away. His jaw wasn’t hurting any more. He breathed in and it was like he had remembered how to use his full lungs. He yawned. Maybe he could sleep again. He remembered something vaguely. "Wormwood is in the draught of the living death, isn’t it?" he said. "And powdered asphodel. Can you teach me how to make it?"

Snape didn't reply. Harry hadn't really expected him to. He turned his pillow to the cool side and lay down on it, closing his eyes.

Chapter Text

"How is he doing? How is he doing?" Severus was seething. In the last few hours since Harry had fallen back asleep, he had already had to block Albus from barging into Harry's space several times. "You need to leave him alone until he is ready to talk to you."

"You can't be serious -"

"The boy is highly anxious, highly depressed, refusing to see his friends and fixated on his disappointment that the wizarding world has turned out to be just as cruel and neglectful as the muggle one," Severus hissed.

"I know you're angry," Albus began, holding his hand up. Severus ignored it.

"Angry doesn't cover it, Albus. I want to know what steps you are taking to protect him."

He risked a glance up; Albus sighed. His mouth was downturned, like he was frustrated. His eyes were so very piercing; clear blue with a slight sheen, like veritaseum. Severus couldn’t maintain eye contact. He stared instead at the deep purples and golds of Albus’ embroidered robes, which fell to the stone floor in elegant folds. Severus forced himself to keep breathing. Albus had the power to send him away. Albus had kept him from Azkaban. Albus had been a better, kinder mentor than any he had had before. But Albus did not always get things right.

“Severus. Calm down,” said Albus kindly. “You know I must speak with him. I’m sure Petunia will want to take him home as soon as possible. Now, if he is awake…"

Severus was so angry he couldn't even get the words out. Dumbledore raised a hand again and this time reached out to pat Severus’ arm. Severus flinched back. Dumbledore sighed softly as though deep in grief, as though he alone were mired in noble melancholy, as though he alone understood the complexities of love and death and war. Severus scowled.

“You cannot give him back to them,” he muttered. He could hear his own heartbeat drumming into the silence.

Albus paused. "I agree, his aunt and uncle have shown remarkably poor judgement not checking in with their nephew over the summer, but you know that owl post is difficult for them. And of course, young Harry was going to do anything he could to stay. Of course, he wouldn't want to just go back to normal muggle life. I understand that. I admit that I am rather to blame, I did spoil him at the end of term… I was so very impressed with the way he handled Quirrel-"

"Albus, no! You can’t send him back to them. They-"

"I can’t? Think about what you are saying, Severus. I know your own experiences have made you sensitive, but you are seeing great evil where there may only be misunderstanding. We cannot overreact. We have all had a scare, but Harry is alright. He’s safe now."

Severus' hands were shaking. Potter was not the first neglected, abused child to be overlooked at Hogwarts. Severus was going to make it his personal mission that Potter was the last.

"Don't worry, dear boy," Albus twinkled at him. "I will talk with Harry. I will talk with the Dursleys. I will keep an eye out."

“Albus, no, to return him there is unconscionable.”

“Then what exactly are you suggesting? Remove Harry from his last remaining family just on your word? Because you took a dislike to some muggles?”

“So you are attributing this to my prejudices?”

“Can you really blame me?”

Severus staggered back as though he had been slapped. All this time, he had thought Albus trusted his judgement. All this time, he had believed that Albus' strategising was sound, if a little batty and unorthodox.

Albus sighed. “I'm sorry, Severus. I know you loved Lily. I believe you might be overcompensating for treating the boy a little harshly this year. For the shock of nearly losing him to Quirrel. But Harry is determined and brave and, I have to admit, a lot more mischievous than I anticipated. Indeed, he is quite the prankster. I never conceived he would use the cloak for a ploy of this magnitude. Almost makes me wonder if he wouldn't have done better in your house. Still, now the cloak has been confiscated I see no great danger. He will get it back when he has shown a little more maturity.”

“Albus, no. This wasn’t merely a prank.”

“Severus. I understand your concerns. They will be investigated and if mistreatment comes to light… it will be addressed. I must speak with Harry.”

Severus groaned. “You can’t just ask him… he won’t… you have to use veritaserum on them. Or legilimency.”

“Severus, please!” Albus’ eyes flashed. “Harry is a child. They are muggles. This is becoming obsessive. I strongly suggest you speak to someone. You have been through so much… there are some wounds that never fully heal. And until then-”

“Professor, are you trying to insinuate that because we disagree, I am mentally unstable?”

“Of course not, of course not. But let me reassure you once more: the child will not be sent anywhere unsafe.”

Severus breathed out slowly. “And what do you think of the memory I showed you?”

Albus waved his hand as though swatting it away. “Vernon Dursley is not a particularly kind or good man. He is boastful and uncouth. He was trying to intimidate a threat to his home, one whom he was utterly defenceless against. I find it highly unlikely that he has done half the things he was insinuating -”

“Have you asked them? Will you ask Harry?”

“Of course, I will.”

“With veritaseum.”

“No, Severus,” Albus’ voice was sharp. Firm. “We are no longer at war. I will not invade their privacy merely to sate your curiosity. I will keep you updated. I must speak with Harry. Now, Severus.”

He growled, but let the headmaster through. Albus was so sure. Had Severus misread the situation? It had been a long time since he had spent any time with muggles. His father had been… And Petunia… admittedly he did have a strong bias against her. And Merlin knew his impressions of Harry were confused. His grief for Lily was ever present. But like a deep pond, it had been still for years. Now it was churning. Ice cold. For the first time in years, Severus was tasting the bitter, cruel bite of indecision and uncertainty. He had been here before. And how it had cost him. How it had cost Harry. Severus was made of mistakes. They were woven through him with needles years long. And what had saved him? Last time, he had trusted Albus. Albus had given him a chance, protected him, defended him. Albus had seen clearly when thousands of others were swayed, seduced by the Dark Lord, himself included. Severus was never very good at trusting. But he had learned to trust Albus. Hadn’t he? Severus was overreacting. None of this was his business. Not really. He needed to let go.

He hovered a little while longer outside Potter’s curtain but evidently the headmaster had performed a silencing charm; Severus could hear nothing. He unclenched his fists, cricked his neck and started to pace.

…

The potion from Snape had actually helped; Harry was feeling a little dreamy but he was no longer fizzy anxious. He was no longer clinging to an edge, desperate to run. He was very warm, dozing in and out of sleep. There were muffled voices behind the curtain, but he couldn’t make anything out for sure. He was starting to push himself up, blinking rapidly to try and clear the soggy sleepiness from his brain when all at once Professor Dumbledore was looming over him. Harry gasped and sat bolt upright. This was it. He wasn’t prepared. Now he’d get what he deserved.

Dumbledore beamed down at him. Harry struggled not to lean far back. He focused on sitting still and when he was sure he wouldn’t cry, he looked up. The headmaster was so tall. Taller than Uncle Vernon. A bit mad, he remembered Percy Weasley saying. And a genius. Whatever was bad about Uncle Vernon, at least nobody would ever call him a genius. Harry had occasionally managed to outsmart him. He kept quiet, kept his head down and sometimes Uncle Vernon just forgot he was even there. But he had no chance of outsmarting Dumbledore.

“How are you doing, Harry?” Dumbledore started. His hands were very long and very wrinkled. Harry wondered how old he was. Dumbledore was probably the oldest person he had ever met.

“I'm fine,” said Harry.

“You gave us quite a scare.” His voice was kind and a little wavering, like a scratchy recording. Harry couldn’t look at him. He tried to flatten his hands on his blanket.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Do you understand how serious this was?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He resisted the urge to fidget or flick his fingers. “I shouldn't have broken the rules. I won't do it again.”

Dumbledore chortled. “Ah Harry, don't be so quick to make promises you can't keep.”

Harry clenched his fists again. That was it then? No second chance? He had to look up. Dumbledore was smiling a strange smile. Harry didn’t understand that look. Was he happy or angry?

“You’re human,” Dumbledore continued gently. “And on some occasions, dare I say it, breaking the rules may actually be the right thing to do. After all, if you hadn’t sneaked down to the third floor corridor earlier this year, we might have been in some trouble!”

Dumbledore was staring intently at him. Harry didn’t know what to say. He had broken the rules then, but it wasn’t like he’d had a choice. He had been convinced Snape and Voldemort were stealing the stone. But this summer was different. He had been greedy and selfish and he had lied, for no good reason.

Dumbledore’s glasses glinted. They were gold, with intricate little swirls like stars. Harry wondered where he got them from. Everything Dumbledore wore was beautiful, like Hogwarts. Like a painting or something from a theatre show. Had he made his things with magic? Would they get to clothes in lessons one day, or were they something you had to buy at Diagon Alley? He’d never seen anyone dress quite like Dumbledore. Suddenly Harry shivered as he realised he had stopped listening. He fixed his eyes back on Dumbledore’s face. He was frowning.

“Harry, are you listening? When I wrote “use it well,” I little suspected you would undertake rule breaking of this magnitude.”

“The cloak,” Harry nodded. “I’m sorry.” He scrunched his knees to himself. He missed it desperately. It was one of his first ever proper Christmas presents. The only thing he owned that had belonged to his dad. And he’d ruined it. It was the softest thing he had ever touched. Like swimming in the ocean, or lying in flowers, Harry assumed. He wouldn’t know. Perhaps if things had been different, he and his Dad would have worn it together for adventures. They would have snuck out of their house to buy a birthday present for his mum. They would have crept upstairs in it to put Christmas presents in stockings for his younger brothers and sisters.

“Harry? The cloak will remain in my keeping for now.”

Harry nodded. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand the danger of staying here on your own?”

Harry nodded. He wasn't entirely sure which danger Dumbledore was referring to, but he knew better than to ask questions. And perhaps he had been lucky not to run into any monsters worse than Filch. He thought of Myrtle and the yellow eyes and smiled grimly.

“It's very serious, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry looked up again. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“I should hope not.”

Dumbledore was still staring at him as though trying to come to a decision. Harry wondered if he was still deciding about punishments. He let out a shaky breath into the silence. “What's going to happen to me?” he asked.

“Well, that depends.”

Harry couldn't help it, his breathing sped up and he reached instinctively for the cloak, which wasn’t there. He forced himself to sit still and stared up at the headmaster. His eyes were watery blue behind those glasses. Harry was drowning.

“It's OK, Harry, no need to be scared.” He reached out to pat Harry on the shoulder. Harry froze to stop himself flinching away.

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back into his armchair. “Sherbet lemon, Harry?”

Harry didn't understand the idiom so he just nodded. Then he was surprised when Dumbledore pressed something into his hand. It was a bright, yellow, boiled sweet.

“For me?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore just grinned. Percy was right; he was completely mad. Harry watched him pop an identical one into his mouth and cautiously mirrored him. It was tangy and very sweet. He didn’t want to make a loud cracking sound when he bit into it, so he let it just it lie on his tongue. None of this made sense.

“I would like to hear what happened from the beginning, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Why didn’t you go home?”

Harry nearly choked. He couldn’t speak with his mouth full, but Dumbledore was waiting. He had been asked a question. He chewed quickly and managed to bite his own tongue, hard. Such a clumsy, stupid… Dumbledore was still waiting… hurry up, freak. “I’m sorry, sir,” he managed, coughing.

“Can you tell me what you were thinking?” Dumbledore pressed.

Harry was caught in his eyeline. “I don’t know.”

Dumbledore waited. The silence stretched between them. Harry shuddered. “It was stupid. I just wanted to stay and it didn’t feel like a big deal. I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok, Harry. You’ve apologised plenty. Why did you want to stay?”

Harry shrugged.

“Is it so bad there? With your aunt and uncle?”

Harry shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

Dumbledore frowned. “It must have been lonely here on your own.”

Harry shrugged again.

“Didn’t you miss your family?”

Harry didn’t want to keep shrugging but he had no idea what Dumbledore wanted him to say. “I had Hedwig to keep me company,” he said finally. “And I wrote to Ron and Hermione.” He blushed. Some friend he had been, not even telling them. Using them in his lie. Dumbledore seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“Why did you tell the Dursleys you were staying with Ron?” asked the Headmaster.

Harry shrugged. He hadn’t had any other option.

“That wasn’t very kind of you, Harry. You must have known about your aunt and uncle’s fear of owls.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Your aunt and uncle and your cousin will not understand many things about our world. You have to be gentle when teaching them.”

Harry bit his lip. What could he say to that?

“You are famous in the wizarding world. People admire and look up to you. You must be mindful of that. It’s a lot to cope with; it could go to anyone’s head. But I have every confidence you will do better next time.”

Harry nodded along. “Can I stay, then?” he asked. “In this world? At school?”

Dumbledore frowned at him. “You are a part of both worlds, Harry. You can’t just hope to abandon the other just because it is less fun and less interesting to you.”

Harry nodded. “I know. I understand. But you’re not kicking me out?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I do believe you now understand the gravity of the situation. If you try this again, we will have to consider seriously about punishment. But, since the incredibly unfortunate misunderstanding you had with Mr Filch, I think you have been punished enough for the present.”

Harry nodded. He had already had his beating then. He had gotten off lightly in fact, since Filch hadn’t even used magic.

“I’m not expelled?”

“You’re not expelled.”

Harry let himself breathe. “I can’t believe Filch thought I was Peeves,” he shook his head in wonder.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Well, try not to make it your aim to cause as much mischief as our poltergeist. One is enough, I assure you.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry sir.”

Dumbledore was still looking at him speculatively. Harry tried to smile at him, though his hands were still trembling a little. Uncle Vernon hated Harry smirking. But most of the people here seemed to expect it. If he went too long without smiling, Hermione always started asking if he was feeling ok.

Dumbledore sighed. “Alright, Harry. I think I’ve heard enough for now. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

Harry shook his head.

“I will be speaking with your aunt and uncle again. They were very relieved to hear you’d been found and were on the mend.”

Harry kept his face neutral.

“Ok, my dear boy. Rest well. Oh and one more thing.”

Harry glanced up at the professor, whose gaze was even more intense than it had been. Harry couldn't meet his eyes.

"Where do you sleep at the Dursleys? I want the truth, Harry."

"There’s a bed in the front bedroom," said Harry uncertainly. He suddenly felt like this was a test, but he wasn't sure what for. He had slept in Dudley’s second bedroom for a couple of weeks last summer after he got his letter. He wasn't sure whether he'd be there again or whether he'd be back in the cupboard. But if he said the cupboard, he would sound ridiculous. And if Dumbledore thought he was lying to try and get out of going back there, he’d be in more trouble.

"Very good," Dumbledore smiled at him. "I'm glad to hear it.”

Harry tried to return the headmaster’s smile and then let out a long sigh of relief when he had gone. He wasn’t expelled. He’d have to face the last few weeks of the summer but he could manage that. He’d done it for eleven years. The Dursleys would be very angry, he was sure. Harry had brought attention to himself. He had forced other wizards into contact with them. There was no way the Dursleys would forgive that. This would be the school nurse at primary school asking questions all over again. But he could put up with anything to stay at Hogwarts. He wiped his eyes. He hadn’t even realised he had been crying but something had released in him as soon as the headmaster left. He felt so deeply, deeply relieved. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to risk losing Hogwarts again.

After a little while, he realised he should have asked Dumbledore how long he had in the hospital wing before he had to go back. That would have probably helped calm his nerves. He didn’t know if he’d have to return to the Dursleys in an hour or a day or in several days. It made him feel jittery, like he wasn't sure whether to conserve his energy or brace for attack. He jumped a little as Snape came back in.

“How was the talk with the headmaster?” Snape asked.

“Fine,” said Harry to the blanket.

“Did you talk about your aunt and uncle?”

Harry shrugged. “I said I was sorry.”

Snape made an odd noise and Harry looked up. Snape looked like he was about to explode. Harry hastily backtracked, realising that must have sounded rude. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to talk back, I’m sorry.”

Snape tutted. “I’m not angry with you, Potter. What are you apologising for?”

Harry froze. “For…” He wasn’t actually sure. “For hiding here? For lying?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

Harry frowned. What did Snape want? Then he remembered - don’t ask questions.

“T-telling you.”

“Are you really sorry?”

Harry nodded vigorously.

“So if you had the choice again between staying at Hogwarts and staying with them, what would you now choose?”

Harry played with the blanket. He should say it. The Dursleys. He was a normal boy with a normal family and he wanted to see them again. He wanted to live there. He had learned his lesson. Say it. Say it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. It just was too far from the truth.

He looked up at Snape who had a frightening look of triumph in his eyes, which then seemed to soften into sadness when their eyes met. Harry had never been on the end of such a look. It looked like disappointment? Harry wriggled, feeling terribly guilty. But he didn’t understand, why were they asking so many questions? What did they want from him?

Snape sighed. “I am concerned about what would drive you to stay here all on your own rather than go back to your aunt and uncle’s house. I want you to be honest.”

Harry shivered. “I know, sir. Professor Dumbledore already said. I shouldn’t have stayed or sent them an owl.” It was a tall order asking Harry to be kinder to the Dursleys, but how could he really expect them to understand? If that was what it took to come back, Harry could do it. “I’ll be kinder, I’ll do better.”

Snape groaned and Harry didn’t manage to repress his flinch that time.

“Potter, you are not in trouble.” Snape sounded exasperated. What had Harry ever done to annoy him so much?

“I didn’t go into your office or anything, I swear,” Harry offered.

“I know that, Potter.”

Harry nodded. He probably did have some kind of hex alarm on the door after all.

“But I want to know how your aunt and uncle treat you. Will they punish you when you go back?”

Harry froze. This definitely sounded like a trick question. Did Snape think the headmaster had let him off too easily? Or was he trying to catch Harry whinging?

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“You don’t know,” Snape sighed. “Do they punish you often?”

Harry thought about it. The Dursleys didn’t ground him or take away his allowance. He wasn’t allowed to go out and he didn’t have an allowance to begin with. That wasn’t punishment, that was just how it was. What did “often” even mean? He sometimes had to miss meals and got locked in the cupboard, but that wasn’t every day. He got punished the normal amount for a freak who wasn’t in control of his magic properly.

“I don’t know.”

Snape’s face was a weird colour. Almost pink. He was twisting his mouth into a snarl. Harry gripped onto the blanket and tried not to close his eyes.

“Do they ever shout at you?”

Harry shrugged.

“Have they ever hit you?”

Harry shrugged. Dudley hit him a lot, but that was just boys will be boys. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had hurt him a few times, but not really on purpose, only if he’d done something really bad that made them lose control or if Aunt Marge was visiting and they had too much alcohol. The last thing he needed was Snape telling Dumbledore Harry had been making up stories.

“Potter?” Snape hissed.

“No. It’s fine,” said Harry. “They do their best, ok? They took me in as a baby. It’s not their fault Voldemort killed my parents.”

Snape flinched hard.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. “Dumbledore said I could use the real name.”

“That’s ok, that’s not-” Snape sighed heavily. “The Dark Lord has nothing to do with it. It wasn’t your fault your parents died. You shouldn’t be punished for that. Your aunt and uncle took you on as guardians. You are their responsibility.”

“I know that.” Harry said. They let him know everyday how much of a burden he was to them. He’d got that message long ago. "I'm sorry, OK? I'll try to do better."

“And as your guardians," Snape spat, "they are not entitled to punishing you unduly. You are owed safety. You are a child. You deserve a happy home.”

Harry scoffed at that. Obviously that wasn’t true.

“Is this why you didn’t want to go back? You don’t feel safe there?” Snape’s eyes were gleaming. He looked a little wild. What was wrong with everyone today?

“I’m fine going back. It’s fine. I can deal with it.” Harry muttered.

“I don’t think it is fine.”

Harry looked up. “I said I was sorry, ok?”

Snape scowled. “Potter. For the last time, you’re not in trouble. But when I visited, I got the impression that your aunt and uncle don’t take very good care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Harry snapped. Why was Snape butting into his business? He could feel himself blushing.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I already said I was going back!” What more did Snape want?

“I want to make sure you’ll be safe.”

Harry frowned. Was Snape trying to get him back in trouble? “I already told Dumbledore, it’s fine.”

“You cannot go back if they are mistreating you. Treating you unfairly.”

Harry nearly snorted. Snape complaining about unfairness was a bit ironic. The Dursleys didn’t treat him well, but that didn’t mean it was unfair.

“It’s fine, Professor. It’s not like I’m their son or anything.”

“Yes, you are! They adopted you!”

“That wasn’t their choice. They had to. My parents died.”

“And that means it’s ok if they take it out on you?”

Harry didn’t know what to reply. He didn’t like it. But what choice did he have?

“I need an answer, Potter.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “You’ve had my answer,” he pleaded. “I keep telling you. It’s fine. I don’t mind. I’ll go back. I shouldn’t have tried to avoid it.”

Snape’s eyes gleamed. “Avoid what?”

It was hopeless. Harry shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain anything. “Going back! I don’t like being there, ok! I’m sorry, I said I’d try to do better! I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” said Snape.

Harry was silent. There was nothing to say.

“Where do you sleep in their house? Where do they lock you up?” Snape asked. Harry stared at his bedcovers, his heart pounding. Was Snape trying to utterly humiliate him? Was he going to bring this up in potions? He thought he might die if Malfoy and the Slytherins teased him about the cupboard. Malfoy seeing him pass out was bad enough.

“Do they feed you?” Snape went on.

“Yes, obviously!” Harry could feel himself getting angry. Snape always knew how to wind him up. But he had to keep himself controlled. He could do this. He breathed as slowly as he could. Snape was just trying to catch him out. Harry forced himself to look up and stare back, face blank.

“Do they feed you enough?” Snape asked.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Harry didn’t care. He wouldn’t care.

“What chores do you do?”

“I cook,” Harry yawned. “I clean. Sometimes I do the garden. I do most of the laundry.”

“Do they give you pocket money?”

Harry groaned. Would he give it up already? But Snape just waited.

“They sent me money at christmas,” Harry answered.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do they get you presents?”

Harry hesitated a bit too long. Snape was staring. “Yes,” Harry rushed. “Of course, they do.” Not good ones, he thought. But that was very ungrateful of him.

“Why did you think starving yourself here was a better option than going back?”

“I wasn’t starving myself. I saved food from last term.”

“So you planned this?”

“Not really. I would have saved food even if I was going back.”

“Why? Do you always save food?”

Harry shrugged.

“Does food often run out at your aunt and uncle’s house?”

“I don’t know. No,” said Harry. “But I eat a lot, ok? They feed me out of their own pocket. They shouldn’t have to, but they do. They give me Dudley’s clothes and a roof over my head.”

“They shouldn’t have to?” Snape asked. “You are their child!”

“Not really,” said Harry.

“You live with them. Don’t you think they should be feeding you?”

“They do feed me,” Harry insisted.

“As much as Dudley?”

Harry snorted. “I don’t need as much as Dudley.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. They don’t want me running about getting into trouble and wrecking everything. I don’t do as many activities as Dudley anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“They take him to sports and swimming lessons and stuff.”

“But not you? So you don’t eat as much?”

“I get a sandwich if I do chores or whatever. It’s fine.”

“And what happens if you do accidental magic?”

Harry paused. He shrugged again, forcing himself to look away as though the conversation was boring him.

“Are you punished for it?” Snape asked. “Potter?”

“Obviously, yes,” Harry groaned, finally. “If someone kept blowing stuff up in your lessons, you’d lock them up too. It’s just common sense.”

“You will never be locked up like that here, Mr Potter. Never. Accidental magic happens more often to children under great stress and they should not be punished for it. I don’t think your aunt and uncle have any understanding of -”

“What do you want me to do about it?" Harry yelled. “You think I haven’t tried to obey them? You think I don’t want more food when I’m hungry? You think I want to do accidental magic? I can’t help it! I get it, ok? I shouldn’t have stayed here. I shouldn’t have lied or ran away and hidden. I won’t do it again. Dumbledore said I had been beaten enough, but if you disagree then you should get it over with and leave me alone!”

“I don’t think you do “get it.” You will never, ever get beaten here,” Snape was practically spitting.

Harry just rolled his eyes.

“You don’t believe me?”

Harry stared at him. Did Snape think he was stupid? “I’ve heard Filch! He is always going on about canes and hanging people up for detentions or whatever. Just because they don’t do it to first years, you can’t pretend I don’t know it happens. At least the Dursleys are honest about it.”

“Honest about beating you and starving you?”

Harry didn’t answer. They were just going in circles.

“Why didn’t you tell Professor Dumbledore any of this?”

Harry shrugged.

“Harry, please. I know it’s hard to talk about.”

That was low. Using Harry’s first name. Trying to manipulate him. As though they were friends. Equals. Not even the Dursleys buttered him up by calling him Harry. Unless someone else was there to watch, of course. But Snape was just staring at him in a weird way. Like he was desperate. It was very uncomfortable.

“What do you want me to say?” Harry asked. “Dumbledore told me I have to go back. I can handle it.”

“I think Dumbledore is making a very, very grave mistake.”

“That’s not my fault! I’d rather go back there for a few weeks than get expelled forever.”

“That is a false dichotomy, Mr Potter. Do you know what that means?”

“No. Sorry. I guess fame isn’t everything,” Harry spat.

Snape looked startled for a moment and then went on crossly. “It means there may be other options.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“This is a big deal, Potter. Get some rest. I’m going to talk to the headmaster.”

“No! You can’t! please! I don’t want that, you tricked me! Please, you’re just going to make everything worse!”

“Mr Potter! Control yourself!”

“You can’t tell him!”

“Why not?”

“I said I’d go back!” He was nearly in tears. “I already said! Please just drop it-”

Snape said firmly. “You are twelve years old, Mr Potter! Barely!”

“So?

“You need a parent!”

“I’ve never had a parent! It doesn’t matter, not for me!”

“It matters!” Snape roared and stormed out.

Harry trembled. He was so stupid. So, so stupid. He didn’t mean to be attention seeking. He didn’t mean to ask questions. Snape had him round and round in circles, worse than in potions. He didn’t mean to say he had never had parents, he wasn’t that stupid. Obviously he had had Lily and James once, it had just come out wrong. But he hadn’t meant to lie. He hadn’t meant to get so tangled up. He hit his fists to the blanket in frustration. Why was it so hard to explain anything? He groaned and wriggled his legs. Hitting the blankets wasn’t enough. He hit closer and closer until finally he was smacking his fists against his legs. He hit and hit until his legs burned. Then he lay still, exhausted.

He could never win. He didn’t know what they wanted from him. Why was it always so hard? He scrunched himself up under the blanket. Then he felt too hot so he kicked the blanket off the bed. That was when he noticed something odd. His feet were… fading. He stopped and watched. Their colour looked almost smoky; it was fading… drifting. After 3 seconds he could see right through them to the mattress. He grabbed them instinctively but they felt normal, warm. But he couldn’t see them. Feeling a little dizzy, he sat up and pressed one back against the stone floor. It was solid - cold and hard. But no matter now hard he pressed his toes, he still couldn’t see them. It was a little like he had his cloak again. But there was nothing there. This didn’t feel right. Harry shivered and bit his lip. Should he say something?

“Mr Potter!” Madam Promfrey was back, bustling through the curtains. “You are still on bed rest!”

Harry looked up at her and then gestured to his feet. They both looked down again. But they looked fine now. Normal. Completely visible again. Weird. Madam Pomfrey gave him a quizzical look, but Harry didn’t have anything to say. She bundled him back into bed and tucked him in. She squeezed his arm and smiled at him. He stared and then finally remembered to smile back, but she had already turned away.

When he heard her reach the other end of the ward, he peeked under the blanket again. His feet still looked normal. He turned them upside down one after the other and patted them, a little bemused. Disappearing feet? Magic was weird. But perhaps the cloak had rubbed off on him after all this time. Harry smiled at the thought. Perhaps one day he’d simply disappear and everything would be ok again.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey told Harry he needed a few more days of bed rest, then smiled and told him not to worry, he’d be back home by the weekend. When he realised she meant home as in Privet Drive, he had to fight hard not to grimace. She clutched her apron and sighed deeply as she apologised that the Dursleys were unable to visit him in the hospital wing, clucking over him as though he must be terribly sad about that. Harry didn't feel sad. He wasn't sure what he felt any more. The sharp anger and frustration he'd felt towards Snape when they were arguing had dimmed and now it was like he was wrapped in too much cotton wool. Everything was a little distant, like he was watching himself along with everyone else, but couldn't make out the full picture. He supposed he was relieved. Harry wondered vaguely what the Dursleys had given as their excuse for not visiting but it didn't really matter. Hogwarts was beautiful. It was their loss.

On the bright side, he had much nicer visitors. Hagrid came and brought Fang, which Harry enjoyed, even though he slobbered all over the bed. Madam Pomfrey’s eye kept twitching, but for some reason she allowed it. Hagrid seemed sad. Harry nearly told him how he had watched him from the windows, but it seemed like an odd thing to say. Instead he just stroked Fang and scratched behind his ears and let Hagrid tell him all about some new kind of sparkling earthworm he had found in the forest. Harry grinned and asked if Hagrid would show him when he got better and Hagrid said “ ‘course” and cuffed him gently round the head.

McGonagall visited and also looked a bit teary. She brought him some shortbread. After a few awkward silences, he asked her some questions about her homework, which seemed to take her aback, but he had enjoyed working on it in the library. She promised the next time she came, she would bring a few books. He told her a little bit about the quidditch tips book he had found and described some of the more ridiculous stunts. When he said perhaps Gryffindor might find it useful next year, she rolled her eyes and gave him a push that nearly knocked him off the bed. Teachers were weird in the summer holidays.

Both Hagrid and McGonagall told him to come and talk to them next time if he needed anything. Harry thought that was nice of them, but he didn’t really know what they expected him to ask for. Could he ask either of them if he could stay with them instead of the Dursleys? Or did they just mean back in term time, like if he got hurt again somehow? Hagrid said several times “You can tell me anything, Harry, anything!” but Harry knew that wasn’t true. He couldn’t tell him that he didn’t like Dumbledore. And he didn’t want to talk about going back to the Dursleys. So Harry just nodded and said, “Thanks, Hagrid.”

He was dreading a visit from Ron and the Weasleys. He didn’t know how to admit to Mrs Weasley that he had lost the lovely tins she had sent him. He couldn’t look Ron in the eye after the lies he had told. But after a couple of days, Snape said Harry had procrastinated enough and that seeing his friends was a compulsory treatment for his recovery. Harry had stared at him until Snape added that Molly might kill him if he didn’t let her in, which Harry thought was odd, but in the end he just shrugged and accepted it.

He got out of his blanket and perched on the edge of his bed, thankful that he was no longer in that horrible gown - Madam Pomfrey had given him red pyjamas with a gold border. He enjoyed the way Snape’s lip curled in disdain when he saw them. He hadn't told anyone where his trunk was yet, so he didn't have any of his own things. It was hard to explain and he kind of wanted to keep the special bedroom to himself.

He heard their footsteps before anything else, loud and hurried, like a huge crowd. But when he looked up, there were only four people: Ron, his mum, his dad and, for some bizarre reason, Draco Malfoy. Ron grinned and immediately plonked himself down on the edge of the bed. Harry gave him an awkward, little wave. Malfoy stood at the end of the bed frame looking supremely bored. Harry wasn’t sure what to do about that, so he just ignored him.

When Arthur introduced himself, Harry almost choked. It was very strange seeing a big, adult version of Ron… they really did look similar. Molly looked pretty much like the opposite of Aunt Petunia in every way. Harry had the odd thought that his own mum had had red hair too. He had been imagining his parents just as they looked in Hagrid’s photo album. But if they had still been alive, they probably would have grown a little old and lumpy and soft like Ron’s parents too.

“Harry, darling, I’m so glad we found you,” said Molly immediately and Harry was quite startled.

“Um,” he said. Then he got a hold of himself. “I’m sorry I lost your tins,” he said to her shoes. “And I’m sorry I lied about where I was.” He took a deep breath and looked up, only to find her smiling.

“I forgive you, dear,” she said softly. “In fact, I have the tins here. Professor Snape got them back for you.” Harry gaped at her. How had he done that? Why hadn't he said anything? She pulled both of them from her bag and opened one to show him. Inside was a ton of fruit and nuts and sandwiches and some little tarts.

“I’ve added an expansion and stasis charm to each one so you can keep food fresh in there. It should last about 6 months at a time. However, I want you to promise me that you’ll let me or Ron know if you ever don’t have enough food again, ok? Or if you are ever on your own without anybody looking out for you. We always have plenty of food to spare. We’ll always come and find you. You are always welcome at the Burrow.”

Harry stared.

“Can you promise me that?” she asked again.

Harry shifted. “Are you sure?” he whispered. “Would… Are… Are you sure you'd have enough to spare? “

“Yes,” said Mrs Weasley. “I’m absolutely sure.”

Harry looked at Ron, who nodded at him.

“Oh, um… ok,” said Harry. “Thank you. That's very kind.”

“Oh Harry, I'm so pleased,” said Mrs Weasley. “I love helping people and cooking food. Anyone asking me for help makes me very happy. It was a joy to bake for you. So don’t you hesitate next time, ok?”

Harry was stunned. He took the tins from her in silence and traced his finger along the beautiful raised lids. “But I lied to you,” he mumbled, looking at Ron.

“It's alright, we get it,” said Ron. “I didn’t like it and I hope you won't do it again. But my brothers lie to me all the time and I still love them. You’ve only lied this once and you’re still my best friend. We’ll forget about it, ok?”

Harry felt this was a bit too much. He would have preferred Ron to be cross with him; it would have made more sense. But he took a shaky breath and then nodded. “Thanks. I'll try… I won't do it again. And thanks, for the letters and everything,” he managed. “And inviting me to stay. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ron said and Harry could hear the grin back in his voice. “You can come stay with us as soon as you’re better. There’s space made for you already. Actually both of you can come if you like,” he said, looking at Malfoy. “We can play quidditch in our field. You have your own broom, right, Draco?”

“Yes, I have the nimbus 2000 already and the nimbus 2001 on preorder,” said Malfoy primly. “You can have one if you like. I don’t need two.”

Ron stared at him. “Bloody hell,” he said.

Molly tutted, “language!” but her eyes were warm. Arthur chuckled.

Ron shook his head in disbelief. “Sorry, Mum. Thanks, Draco. If you’re sure.”

Malfoy shrugged as though it wasn't a big deal, but Harry could see he was blushing faintly. He caught Malfoy’s eye and found himself smiling. Slowly Malfoy's face relaxed into what was almost a smile. Harry had never seen him look like that before; he looked surprisingly shy and uncertain. His eyes were a very unusual colour; Harry had a flash of memory, the dead unicorn in the forest, swirling silver blood through night-time shadows. Harry had never noticed Malfoy's eyes before. He shivered and had to look down again. “I’m sorry to you too, Malfoy,” he said quickly. “That can’t have been fun, when I… you know. I’m sorry. Thanks for helping me.”

“Anytime, Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly.

“Wonderful,” Molly beamed. “Arthur and I are going to go and have a quick talk with Professor Snape. Can I give you a hug, sweetheart?”

Harry flinched a little when he realised she was talking to him, but only because he was so surprised. “Um. Ok?”

Molly bent right down and put her arms around him. It made Harry feel a little light-headed. Her hair smelt like the cookies, faintly sweet and cinnamony. He didn’t really know what to do, so he just sat stiff and straight and let himself be hugged. After a few seconds he tried resting his head down on her shoulder and his hands came up around her. She didn’t jump away; if anything she just held him tighter, squeezing him gently. She was so warm.

When she moved back, she held his hands for a moment before letting him go. Her hands were so different to his, mostly a light peachy colour, calloused and freckled all over. Harry stared at them for a while before realising that might be rude and looking up at her face instead. She had a big smile but looked a bit tearful. Harry blinked at her and wondered why. He scratched his head and looked to Ron. His confusion must have shown on his face because Ron shrugged and grinned at him. This meeting wasn’t what Harry had expected at all; he had no idea what to say next. He looked at Arthur who was rocking back and forwards on his feet as if full of energy.

“Right, we’ll leave you boys to it,” Arthur gave him a happy little wave and then wandered out with Molly.

Harry suddenly felt exhausted all over again. He looked back at Ron and Malfoy; Ron sat slouching with his legs crossed on top of the bed, Malfoy stood behind, stiff and straight as though posing for a formal photograph. They made an odd pair. Harry wondered for a moment if Snape was secretly Malfoy’s father. That would explain… a lot. It did seem very unfair that both Ron and Malfoy were here at school when everyone was making such a big fuss that Harry wasn’t allowed to stay. It didn't make any sense. But it was nice to see them, so what did it matter, really?

They were all quiet for a moment until finally Ron said, “You ok, Harry? It’s good to see you,” and Harry nodded.

“You too,” he smiled and he realised it was the first time he had really grinned in ages. His cheeks ached a little with it. “Your mum and dad are very nice,” he added. “You look like your dad.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Ron, rolling his eyes as Malfoy tittered.

“What?” Harry was surprised at his reaction.

“Nothing,” Ron sighed. “They were so worried when they found out you were here by yourself.”

Harry frowned. “Why?” he asked.

Ron stared at him. “Because you were on your own,” he said.

Harry found himself looking between Ron and Malfoy.

“That’s what parents do, Potter,” said Malfoy in his familiar drawl. “They worry. All the time. One time I wandered off in Hogsmeade when I was about 5 and Mother called the Aurors and had them shut every shop. They found me in honeydukes in the end, licking the jelly slugs.”

Harry burst out laughing. He hadn't heard of either of those places and wasn't too sure what a jelly slug was, but he got the gist.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t even tell Father. He was at a meeting here. He would have gone spare.”

“Yeah, but I’m not 5 and they’re not my parents,” Harry pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter,” shrugged Ron. “They care about you.”

That shut Harry up. He stared at Ron but Ron just stared right back at him until Harry had to look out of the window instead. He hoped Ron couldn’t see the lump in his throat that he was desperately trying to swallow. He felt suddenly all emotional, as though the fog in his brain had lifted and left him bare.

Things got even weirder when Ron told him that it had been Snape who had raised the alarm that Harry was missing. Ron shuddered as he told the story of him turning up on the doorstep, then sighed deeply.

“Snape saw my rabbit slippers,” he said mournfully and Harry giggled. Ron was very precious about those slippers. He never wore them down to the common room. He looked to Malfoy, expecting him to tease; Malfoy smirked at Harry but didn't say anything. It was a nice smirk, however, as though they were on the same side. Ron didn’t seem to mind.

“How did Snape know I wasn’t at the Dursleys?” Harry asked. No-one knew.

“Can I really stay with you?” he then asked Ron. “Dumbledore said I had to go back to my aunt and uncle.”

Ron looked horrified. “No way! I bloody hope not. Dumbledore can't be serious. Mum and Dad won’t let that happen.”

And Harry felt a flicker of hope. He squashed it quickly. Dumbledore said no.

“Don’t you like muggles?” Draco frowned. “Aren’t you friends with Granger?”

Ron sighed and gave him a long look.

“What?” asked Draco.

“There’s nothing wrong with muggles,” said Ron firmly. “I keep telling you.”

“Well, obviously Harry disagrees!”

“No, I don’t!” said Harry. “My relatives just happen to be really, really, shitty muggles, much worse than normal. I wish I never had to see them again,” he said and was a little embarrassed to hear his voice wobble. He cleared his throat. “But regular muggles are ok,” he added firmly. “Most of the kids and my teachers at primary school were alright. And Mrs Figg used to give me cake and let me watch tv when the Dursleys went on holiday. She did have a lot of cats though.”

He realised both Malfoy and Ron were frowning at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Why are your relatives… shitty?” asked Malfoy.

There was something funny about the way he echoed that word. It sounded like he had never sworn before. Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. They don’t like me. They never have.”

“But they’re your relatives,” said Malfoy.

“So?”

“Don’t they love you?”

Harry laughed. “No, they don't. I don't really want to talk about it.”

“But-”

“Shut up. That’s enough,” said Ron. “It’s not Harry’s fault.”

Malfoy tossed his hair and sniffed but didn't say anything more.

Ron sighed and looked back at Harry. “There’s no way they can make you stay there if you don’t want to. I have a camp bed, you can stay with us.”

Harry stared at the ceiling. “I can’t. Dumbledore said.”

“What?” said Ron. “Didn't you tell him about them?”

Harry scratched his ear. “Kind of. He’s hard to talk to. And I messed it up,” he admitted, not meeting Ron’s eye. “I said it was all fine and that I’d go back.”

Ron looked confused. Draco even more so.

“I didn’t want to get expelled!” Harry explained. “And he was acting like I was just bored of the muggle world or I bullied them or something because I’m a wizard. And to be fair, they are terrified of magic. Maybe it’s not their fault really.”

Ron scoffed at that.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Harry insisted. “I lived there before, I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to this summer, but then Filch got me and now I’m in trouble so… whatever. I can deal with it.”

“No, you can’t,” said Ron and Harry was surprised by his tone. “You were all on your own here. We thought you were going to die. It must be pretty bad there.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It was fine. I just got a bit too hungry. And then Filch beat me up a bit. And stole my cookies.”

“So not fine at all then,” said Ron crossly. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not!”

“Stop pretending it’s ok!” Ron shouted and Harry flinched back. “What happened, we don’t have to talk about it, but it’s not ok. You weren’t ok. It isn’t ok!”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. The hospital wing seemed suddenly very large and empty as Ron’s voice echoed through it.

“Sorry,” Ron spat. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that either.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Ron said again. “You can if you want but I’m not going to force you. But if you ever do that again I will set my mum on you and then she and dad and Hermione and Draco and Hagrid and McGonagall and I will hunt you down and then if you’re not already dead, we’ll kill you. And feed you to Hedwig.”

Harry snorted a little but Ron gave him a serious look.

“Ok! Ok!” Harry put his hands up. “I’m sorry! I just don’t get why everyone is losing it over this! Honestly, I was OK by myself most of the time, it just went a bit wrong with Filch…” Ron was shaking his head, still looking murderous, “...but I promise I won’t joke about it if it upsets you. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Fine,” said Ron.

“Fine,” said Harry.

“Ok,” said Ron. “But I still think you should tell Dumbledore-”

“Please can we talk about something, anything else?” Harry pleaded. “Why are you living with Snape?” he fired at Malfoy. “Is he secretly your dad? Is that why you always get top potions marks?”

“He’s not my dad!” Malfoy raised one eyebrow. “He’s my godfather.”

“Ha! So he does give you extra points!” said Harry. “Are you on holiday with him?”

“No.”

“Have your parents gone on holiday without you? Is Snape your Mrs Figg?” Harry scowled. “Serves you right for teasing me at Christmas and Easter.”

“Harry, drop it.”

Harry looked at Ron in surprise and then back at Malfoy, who was blushing deeper than he had ever seen him.

“Oh. Sorry, Malfoy,” said Harry. He realised with a tug of horror that something bad must have happened. It wasn’t like Malfoy’s parents didn’t like him. They sent him sweets nearly every week. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s none of my business. I wasn’t thinking.”

There was a little silence. Malfoy was staring at his fingers as though checking his nails.

“Want to play some snap or something?” Ron asked. Harry shrugged grumpily and then cringed when Malfoy did the exact same movement at the same time. Ron rolled his eyes and dealt the cards. It was a good choice because Ron’s exploding set had them giggling in minutes. And Harry had missed this. He couldn’t remember the last time he had properly laughed, like he did when the cards singed Ron’s eyebrows and Malfoy squeaked in surprise.

It felt like no time before Molly and Arthur bustled back in again. “Time’s up, Harry has to rest,” said Arthur.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” Harry pleaded. “Please, I’m still lying down, that’s basically resting!”

“Not this time Harry. I’ll ask if we can come back and have dinner together later after you’ve had a sleep, shall I?”

“Yes, please.”

“And we'll be back every afternoon as long as you're here,” Molly promised. She patted him on the arm. Harry nearly asked for another hug but suddenly felt too shy. Maybe he could ask tomorrow.

He watched them trail out. Ron waved to him from the door and he waved back. He suddenly felt about a million years old. Why did Ron get such a nice mum and dad? Why did even horrible Malfoy get Snape for a godfather? He thumped his head back against the metal bars of his bedspread, a little harder than he had really intended and felt the pain radiate through his neck. Why did he get Aunt Petunia who treated him like he was nothing? And Uncle Vernon who liked to shout? And Dudley who wasted so much time just dedicating himself to making Harry’s life difficult in so many small, annoying ways, that Harry felt utterly ground down. Why did he get the Dursleys?

There was a noise from the other end of the hospital. Madam Pomfrey had come back in with a stack of papers. Harry put his head on the pillow and sighed. What was he expecting? Not everyone in his life was going to be nice. He should look on the bright side - this year he'd met lots of lovely people. It wasn't all bad. He wouldn’t have to be at the Dursleys always and forever. One day he would be grown up. Free. Maybe he could be like Filch or Hagrid and live at Hogwarts all year round. Or maybe he'd have his own house and his own family and kids who looked a bit like him. A bungalow. With a garden that ran wild. And a bright red door. A kitchen with shelves for his tins. He ran his hands over them and peeked under the lid again. The sandwiches smelled amazing. Fresh bread that would last 6 months! He didn’t know how he would ever be able to eat it. It was too lovely. But if he needed it, he had it. He snuggled down and hid back under his blanket for a nap.

Chapter Text

Severus did not like disorder. Over the years of his teaching career he had cultivated a perfect summer routine. He rose early with the sun and spent the first couple of hours foraging for ingredients in the forest or along the lake, or occasionally flooing out of the castle grounds and apparating to the moors for heather or the machairs for orchids and yellow rattle. He liked the early morning; fresh dew, soft sunlight, the quiet patter of his solitary footsteps. Once he had collected his materials and taken the necessary steps to ensure they would re-grow or re-spawn in place, he returned to his quarters, then washed and dressed in his indoor robes and slippers. This was followed by black coffee and a slice of cheese and the newspaper. He was then clear of mind and ready to brew and write for the rest of his day, stopping at lunch for a sandwich and again at dinner for an egg and a glass of wine. It was a simple routine but it suited him.

It did not suit Draco. Draco liked to talk. Draco hummed to himself as he did his homework. Draco wrinkled his nose at the idea of early morning hikes through bogs and mosquitos, uphill and downhill before even breakfast. Draco was a child, who Severus could not feed with an egg and a glass of wine. The house elves cooked, but Severus still had to sit with him at the table and pay attention and occasionally reply and say things like, “indeed,” and “oh yes,” and “is your homework really finished?” and “what are you intending to do with that potions knife up your sleeve, Draco?” and “oh yes, please do tell me more about that broomstick I so love hearing about.” He hadn’t ever managed the last one, but it didn’t matter; Draco was determined to tell him anyway. He did like his godson, honestly he did, but all this was… a lot. Children were for term-time. Severus had survived years as a professor by recuperating in silence during the holidays.

Potter complicated this situation further. The first few days after finding him were particularly chaotic. Severus found himself writing ludicrous to-do lists: Analyse components of plant-based calming draughts to reduce soporific effects. Lavandula angustifolia is over potent, consider switching to lavandula dentata? Reassure Draco I’m not abandoning him to my work; increase sarcastic humour for reliable bonding. Evaluate artemisia interactions, counteract with added inflorescences if unsatisfactory, check oil is still reactive. Reassure Potter he is safe, sarcasm has adverse effects, decrease acidity. Check supplementary minerals - all harvested on Lughnasadh? Discuss timeline for Potter’s recovery with Poppy; replace emergency summer supply of pain relief. Avoid Albus at all costs. Rewrite schedule for curriculum planning and delay jewelweed research. Urgent - increase personal stock of coffee. And wine. ASAP. The last one he had underlined three times.

However, (and Merlin, he did not expect to ever say this) the Weasleys had been a lifeline. They were more than happy to watch Draco for a few hours each afternoon as one of them escorted Ron to check in on Potter. Severus had wondered if the littlest Weasley and his godson would murder each other within minutes, but the animosity between them seemed to be on pause. Severus had forgotten, perhaps, that they were so very young. And Draco must be finding Severus’ company very dull indeed because he always agreed to seeing the Weasleys immediately, with the barest minimum of sneers and complaints. Severus had to stifle a smirk at the idea of what Lucius would say to that. But it pleased him that Draco seemed to have regained some of the puppy-like bounce that had been missing since he had started school. If Draco was smart he would not mention his companions in his owls to his father.

On the day Potter finally consented to see the Weasleys, Severus seized the opportunity to talk with Molly, Arthur and Minerva in Poppy’s office.

“Albus wants Harry back at Privet Drive,” he told them. Molly immediately tutted and threw her hands in the air. Arthur squeezed her shoulder and looked back at Severus as though waiting for him to elaborate. Poppy stood unusually still as she leant back, arms folded, assessing him.

Minerva cleared her throat. “Are they truly so bad?” she asked. “His family?”

“Trying to extract information from Potter is exhausting but yes, I do believe so,” Severus said firmly. “I will share the memories of my conversations with him and the Dursleys if you wish.”

Minerva swallowed. “I would like to see that. Thank you. I can’t bear… if you’re right…”

“Ron is not one for telling tall tales. And he's very worried about Harry,” said Arthur. Severus highly doubted that first sentence; Ronald was twelve and mischief ran in the family. But it wouldn’t do to contradict Arthur now.

“You're saying Harry has a bad home situation?” Poppy narrowed her eyes, looking from him to the Weasleys like they were a difficult prescription that had to be measured exactly. “I was surprised his family hadn't come to visit, but I assumed they found Hogwarts too daunting. They’re muggles, you know.”

Severus shook his head. “His aunt has been here before, for her sister’s graduation among other things. But Albus plans to take Harry home himself. I don't believe the aunt cares enough for Potter - for Harry - to bother coming to pick him up. Not that she’ll have said that outright to Albus, of course.”

Severus failed to keep the bitterness out of his words. When he looked up the others were gazing at him, mouths a little open.

“Are you sure?" said Poppy. "That's… truly awful.”

“You’ve seen his clothes this year? His glasses?”

“I’m surprised you noticed,” said Minerva.

“I’m astounded you didn’t,” Severus snapped.

“I…” Minerva paused. “I thought he dressed oddly. But I don’t know much about muggle fashions. I didn’t want to make him nervous if the Dursleys didn't have much money or any knowledge of wixen clothing or procedures. I didn’t want to encourage him to go wild with his parents’ money after all. He’s so famous, he could so easily be spoiled.”

Severus shook his head. “At Privet Drive, I saw Harry’s cousin in flashy, brand new gear, things which fit him perfectly. I believe Harry gets whatever they throw away. But that is the least of it. I am concerned that Harry was made to sleep in a cupboard for some years and that they punished him for accidental magic. I am particularly disquieted that their restriction of meals seems to have sparked his desire to hoard food. I think he intended to avoid home all summer if he could. His uncle alluded to him having run away before, albeit unsuccessfully.”

“Are they violent?” Poppy asked quietly.

“I don’t know," Severus rubbed his eyes. "Harry is very anxious and very defiant and won’t say anything outright. But the uncle certainly seemed to approve of corporal punishment. Albus has promised an investigation but seems loath to take immediate action. He wishes to send Harry back there and keep an eye on the situation himself. But I have no doubt this would endanger Harry's physical and mental health. I want to take this higher. Arthur - do you know how the Ministry of Family might respond to such a case?”

Arthur sighed. “They would want to investigate. I don't know how quickly they would come to a decision. It’s delicate, politically. Muggles are generally considered outside of our jurisdiction.”

“Even muggles with wixen children? That can’t be true?” said Minerva.

“They are not under our laws,” shrugged Arthur.

“That’s… a loophole and a half,” Molly scoffed. “Why hasn’t anything been done about this?”

Arthur grimaced at her. “Taking action against them might be considered aggressive by the muggle government. Removing wixen children from muggle households… some would run with that idea. It makes people very nervous about bringing it up.”

“But there must be precedent for muggleborns in unacceptable situations? Can we co-ordinate with both muggle and wixen family services together?” Minerva frowned.

“That would be ideal, of course,” said Arthur. “If I could have all your concerns in writing, I will collate them and take them to Ria Patil. She’s from that department and she's very good. I’ve worked with her on some of the muggle artefacts cases involving children. I would trust her to be discreet with this. But in any case, removing a child from their family is traumatic, I believe it’s always a last resort, muggle or not. I completely agree that we can’t leave this just to Dumbledore, but I can’t promise the ministry of family will be as quick or as decisive as you’d like.”

Minerva swallowed. “And if Potter’s case did go public…”

“All hell would break loose,” Arthur sighed again. “Anti-muggle sentiment would be at an all time high.”

“That's not Harry's fault though,” said Poppy quickly. “We can’t just leave him there.”

“That’s true,” said Arthur. “But perhaps we could keep it under wraps until we know we can take legal action? We’d be happy to have him stay with us in the meantime - we could stretch out Harry’s visit until we've at least notified Ria of our concerns and gotten her take on it. It doesn’t seem like the Dursleys are keen to have him home quickly. We could say, truthfully enough, that he has a complicated medical regime to follow.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Minerva. “And I agree we must be discrete. Harry gets enough unwanted attention as it is. You know Albus wards his post? The vast majority of it is fan mail, sometimes with ludicrous requests. Who knows what they would do if they knew he needed a new home. Did you see the maudlin Witch Weekly articles about him starting school? The photographers must have been hiding on platform 9 3/4. Sometimes I’m very glad he’s too young to get the papers.”

“Albus wards his mail?” said Severus thoughtfully. “I wonder if Potter knows that. I suppose the Dursleys will have given him permission. Perhaps they even requested it.”

“And if Albus won’t let him come to us, could you at least delay his return, Poppy?” Molly asked. “Maintain that Harry is too unwell to move from the hospital?”

“For a few days, yes,” Madam Pomfrey conceded, brushing her hands down her uniform. "But if Harry wants to go home earlier or Albus insists he is moved…”

“Can you override him?” said Minerva.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had cause to try. Surely we could convince him to wait to hear from Patil?”

Severus tilted his head. “One would think. But he’s being stubborn about this and I’m not sure why.”

Poppy rubbed her arm. “I'm surprised at Albus. I thought he doted on Little Potter. All those extra points at the end of term. For sneaking around the castle after curfew, no less. If he were Slytherin, he’d have been suspended!”

“Quite,” said Severus drily, catching Minerva’s eye.

Minerva ran her hand through her hair. “I was there the night Albus dropped him off. He was adamant it was the best way to protect Harry from the remaining death eaters. And the house is warded like no other. It was all so sudden, such a shock… but I wish… if you are right, Severus…” She closed her eyes. “I will support contact with Patil even if Albus does not. I’m happy to report the little I know of the placement and I can attest to his poor attire. It was truly bizarre how he came to school knowing so little of his family. I thought perhaps he hadn’t ever taken an interest. But if his relatives never bothered… I must write down some stories for him.”

“I’ll duplicate his school medical record for you to send, Arthur,” Poppy sighed. “I don’t believe the relatives submitted his muggle medical record when he enrolled, but I can double check for that too.”

“We can keep Draco until after dinner?” Arthur turned to Severus. “If you want to write your report?”

Severus nodded. “Thank you. I'll be in touch with you all. Don't hesitate to floocall if you need me.”

He immediately swept out to the dungeons, composing his notes in his head as he walked along. However, it was not to be. He assembled his quill, parchment and ink, placed himself at his desk and enjoyed a mere ten minutes of focus before Albus' voice reverberated throughout the lab.

"A word please, Severus, when you have a minute."

Severus ground his teeth then released a long low sigh. He didn't have a spare minute. Surely Albus was aware of this? But as he stepped through the flames into Albus' office, he shook his head lightly to disperse his irritation.

"Yes, Headmaster?" he said.

“I have news for Draco. Narcissa and Lucius have been tried and lost their appeal. Lucius faces 9 months in Azkaban for possession and intent to use three Class A cursed objects. Narcissa faces 1 month for possession.”

Snape felt his jaw drop. He paused and breathed out slowly. “The raids… they’ve gone on for years. I never thought they’d actually be caught. What changed?”

“A happy coincidence of timing. I leaned a little on the aurors in my fear for Harry. It seems that the surprise raid was too quick for whoever usually gives them due warning. Plus I do believe Quirrel’s breakdown and death has unnerved the Ministry. His wand was shown to have evidence of a number of curses highly inappropriate for a schoolteacher. They’re refusing to link it to Voldemort just yet, but the Malfoys have made well timed scapegoats to prove the ministry will not stand for any lingering interest in the dark arts.“

Severus considered this. “Draco will be devastated.“

“I hope Draco will learn from this.”

Severus sighed; it could go either way. Draco might very well simply hold on to bitter indignation at their treatment. He would not be allowed to visit, although he would be permitted to write weekly. Severus wondered how Lucius would play it to his son. Humility and repentance was hardly his style.

“I will inform Draco. Will he be permitted to return to the manor in their absence?”

“Yes; it has been released. As long as you are supervising, he may visit. He will find a number of portraits missing, as well as jewellery and a large collection of books. But everything else should be in order and it should be perfectly safe. The house elves have also been returned to the manor.”

“Very well. I will check in on them and take Draco if he wishes. Thank you, Albus.”

“You're welcome.”

Severus turned to leave, but then Albus coughed. "Do keep an eye on Harry this year, won’t you?"

Severus nodded. “Of course,” he said. Then, something in the headmaster's tone made him pause. Albus had made a similar request of him last year regarding Quirrel.

"Keep an eye on him?" Severus asked. "You mean look out for him? Look after him?"

Dumbledore gave him a long look. Severus waited. The headmaster did not say anything. The air in the office suddenly felt very warm. Severus loosened the neck of his robes. He fought not to curl his lip.

"You mean… keep an eye on him," he repeated slowly. "You suspect the child. The twelve year old child."

"Twelve year olds grow into thirteen year olds-"

"If they are kept safe and healthy," Severus interrupted.

Dumbledore acknowledged this with a nod and a wave of his hand and then continued. "-and thirteen year olds may one day grow into men. And the paths they will walk then, may have their first steps here."

"Indeed," said Severus coldly. "And what path do you think Potter - Harry, is on?"

"I fear the future is foggy as ever," said Dumbledore cheerily. "But Harry is no ordinary child. I had planned to catch one dark lord in our trap this year but I little suspected that we might lure another."

Severus did not answer immediately. Behind the headmaster, trinkets moved slowly, popping and tinkling on the shelves. Severus followed their hypnotic movements as he considered his next words.

"The boy wanted to stop me," he said pointedly. "He thought I was stealing the stone for the dark lord. You rewarded him generously for his bravery."

"Indeed I did," agreed Dumbledore affably. "However, his presence was nearly our undoing. He retrieved the stone which otherwise would have remained safe in the mirror."

"And nearly died protecting it."

"Nearly," Dumbledore agreed. "Few children could have stood against Voldemort and found themselves… equal to the task. Few children kill their first man before their twelfth birthday, burn their skin, hear their screams and keep holding on."

Severus shivered. "We should have taken him to a mind healer. There can be no doubt he is thoroughly traumatised.”

“That is a fine idea. I will speak to Poppy.”

Severus nodded. “But still… you want me to keep an eye on him? You believe Harry wanted the stone for himself?"

"No, no. Not to keep. To get it, he could only have wanted the stone itself from the mirror, not the immortality or riches it promised. But I confess, I am not entirely sure of his motive. Harry is not an easy child to read. He is quiet. Withdrawn. He keeps his own counsel. Perhaps he only wanted it so that Voldemort would not have it. A strong sense of justice alone might have motivated him, true… or perhaps vengeance against the one who took his parents. Perhaps the simple desire to thwart his irritable potions teacher was reason enough to sacrifice his loyal, little followers to drink possible poison and fall from stone horses at the bat of enchanted queens…"

"Followers, hardly," said Severus. “They were all foolish, yes, but-”

"Interesting that it was the Longbottom child who told him no. And took the hit for his disobedience."

Severus was lost for words. He shuffled his stance a little wider, suddenly feeling a little unsteady on his feet; he longed to lean against the wall, but it was too far away. He felt very small despite looming over Albus’ desk while Albus sat happily behind it twiddling his thumbs, his beard twitching. Severus found he had a lump in his throat. But he resisted the urge to turn away. He waited for the headmaster to continue, watching as he played with his wand, swinging it in his fingers like a pendulum.

"There is, unfortunately, a connection between Harry and Voldemort, Severus,” Albus went on. “Harry told me his scar hurt whenever Voldemort is near. Voldemort is a master of manipulation and mind magic, as well you know. Perhaps he has found a way to exploit this link. I wonder sometimes, whether he was calling to Harry, perhaps knowing the child could face the mirror in a way he could not. It is no coincidence that Voldemort struck this year, of all years, after a decade of banishment. And Harry… he is not an affectionate child. He does not have that easygoing, bubbly energy that James and Lily overflowed with. And if Voldemort has discovered a way to compel him, then perhaps there may be a more serious problem behind Harry's rule breaking this summer."

"Not bubbly! Not easygoing!” Severus held his tone level, with great effort. “That's not unusual in a child, especially one brought up in a neglectful home. You're telling me he isn't smiley enough and that means he is either possessed by the Dark Lord or plotting to become the next one? You have only yourself to blame for Harry's distress since you knowingly abandoned him to an unhappy home."

"Harry has not been spoiled,” said Albus. “But it is not my place to question muggle parenting. Petunia has cared for Harry for ten years. As regards taking him there in the first place, I do not apologise for taking the necessary action to try to avoid history repeating itself. When I first met Tom Riddle, he was utterly alone. I gave Harry family. I protected him from such debilitating isolation."

Severus shook his head in disbelief but Albus continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"And yet, the reports I had of Harry's childhood are worrying. At primary school he kept to himself, never made friends and was constantly in physical fights with the other children, his cousin in particular. His relatives fear him, Severus. They are afraid of his magic. That doesn't come out of nowhere."

"How did you come by these reports?"

"I am in correspondence with his aunt as I have been for many years, as well as a number of other watchers in the area, placed there for Harry’s protection."

"Of course,” Severus seethed. “And you believe Petunia? That vindictive, petty woman-"

"She took him in," said Dumbledore. "She is a mother, a sister, someone who loved her family enough to continue the blood wards. She has treated him as one of her own, protected him from all the dangers of the wizarding world, a brave undertaking from one who knew so little of it, who already lost her parents and her sister to it…"

"She is a bully, Albus! She bullied Lily and she is cruel enough to continue the feud by bullying Harry, a vulnerable child in her care. Blood does not make family! You truly believe her incapable of prejudice and misunderstanding? Of cruelty? She locked him in the cupboard!"

“An extreme measure. If so, one has to wonder what drove her to it. As a child, Tom Riddle was often locked - "

"I cannot believe this. Harry is not Riddle, Albus!"

"Very true. Very true. And yet… there are similarities. And now we see that, like Riddle, Harry is determined to scour Hogwarts for her secrets. He lies and hides from friends and family alike. He ignores rules as things beneath him…"

Severus snorted. "He's hardly the first child to do so."

"Indeed. He is young. So all I ask Severus, for now… keep an eye on him."

"I will look out for Lily's child."

"Fine, fine," said Albus. "As will I. But Severus, let me be very clear. Harry is safest with his family. I will not orphan him a second time. Families may be imperfect but they are founded on love. That shall protect him."

"Not all families are founded on love," Severus sneered. "You cannot be so naive!"

"Severus!" Albus chortled. "I'm afraid we shall have to agree to disagree."

“As you wish,” bowed Severus jerkily. He fled from the room before Albus could see his hands shaking. He was too flustered to even remember that he had come by floo. Utterly incensed, he strode back towards the dungeons. He could barely refrain from muttering to himself. Albus was so very smart and so very paranoid; this was worse than he had realised. He had to write that report immediately. And then warn Minerva and Poppy and the Weasleys of Albus’ disturbing insinuations. They all needed to look out for Harry.

He hadn't got far when Poppy's patronus met him in the corridor.

“Come quickly, it's Harry,” the silver bear growled in Poppy's voice. Severus broke into a sprint.

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.”

Chapter Text

When Severus arrived at the hospital wing, Harry had fallen asleep, mouth open, looking pale and exhausted and snoring softly. Poppy was looking over him with frown lines deep around her eyes. Draco stood behind biting his fingernails. Arthur had his hands tight on Ron's shoulders. Poppy passed Severus her charts and he read through her diagnostics carefully but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Heart rate was a little elevated. Weight had been steadily improving over the past few days.

“He's OK now,” Poppy said to Arthur. “I'll update you if anything changes.”

“Thanks for calling me,” said Arthur. “We’ll head off and see you tomorrow.”

She nodded and Ron looked forlorn as he was pulled away by his father.

“What happened?” said Severus sharply.

“Let's leave Harry to sleep and discuss in the office.”

That sounded ominous. Poppy held her door open for them and then summoned tea and chocolate, which only heightened Severus’ concern. Draco perched on her little sofa and took a biscuit while Severus stood back against the wall. Poppy gave him a serious look and then turned and sat next to Draco.

“Can you explain what happened, Draco? I heard from Ron, but Severus needs to know and I’d like to listen again.”

Draco nibbled his chocolate and then nodded. “We were arguing,” he said. “And Harry was upset. At some point he went quiet and then we realised he looked like a ghost. We could see right through him. I thought maybe he was using his cloak halfway or something but he didn't have it.”

“What were you arguing about?”

Draco clenched his jaw and sat up a little straighter. “Nothing serious. Just about how muggles obviously don't have magic, that's not even controversial, so muggleborns can't simply pretend they're the same as pureblood wixen.”

Severus nodded. He glanced at Poppy who was pouting a little as though biting back something she had to say.

“And this upset Harry?” she asked finally.

“He was crying!” Draco snorted. “He’s twelve and he was crying over nothing!”

“Nothing wrong with crying, it can be very healing,” said Poppy. “Everyone needs to cry sometimes.”

Draco blinked at her. Severus half thought he was about to argue, but then he stilled and bit his lip. Severus wondered what he was thinking.

“Go on?” said Severus.

Draco started and then frowned as remembered. “And then Harry was asking all these weird questions like where his dad was from. He'd never even heard of Godric’s Hollow or the date his parents died. Do you think he's had his memory modified? Can that happen if you get sick?”

Severus sighed. “I'm not sure anyone ever told him. I don't think his muggle relatives ever did. And then I think everyone else assumed he knew.”

Both Draco and Poppy pulled odd faces at that, something between a stare and a grimace. Severus supposed they were right to be appalled. Poppy recovered first and gave herself a little shake. “Thank you, Draco. Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Severus.”

“Of course,” said Draco politely and gave her a little bow before exiting.

Severus waited until the door clicked behind him and then cast muffliato. Draco had gone without the slightest argument or wheedling; he was certainly planning to eavesdrop. He then turned to Poppy, who had moved to her desk. “What do you think?” he asked her.

“By the time I had arrived - Draco fetched me - Harry looked fine. But both Ron and Draco were trembling, pale as anything. I don’t doubt their stories, they corroborate each other perfectly. Except about the exact nature of their argument,” she winced. “I think perhaps we need some basic magical core classes. And compulsory muggle studies. And probably wixen studies for the muggleborns,” she added after a moment. “If Harry doesn’t even know basic, modern, wixen history, that he was a part of… how can any of the others?”

“And what do you make of him disappearing?” Severus prompted.

“Accidental magic, I think,” said Poppy. “But unusually powerful. And serious. I'd almost say it could be the first step on the way towards becoming an obscurial, except they push energy out when they lose control and this was all self directed. I've never heard of anything like it. At first, I thought it might be vanishing sickness, but he doesn’t have any other symptoms and I don’t know where he would have picked that up. I think we need to consult St Mungos.”

“He was under that cloak for so long,” mused Severus. “It must be extraordinarily powerful, if his father was using it over a decade ago. I'm sure Albus would have checked it for curses before he passed it over.”

Poppy tapped her quill on her ink bottle, her eyes slightly unfocused. “I wonder if there are any studies on long term effects of a cloak like that. I suppose we should notify Albus. Perhaps ask him to look into it, or give it to the department of mysteries?”

Severus sighed heavily. Trust Potter to keep them on their toes. He had once thought Draco chaotic. Potter was something else entirely.

“On the bright side, it’s a very legitimate argument for keeping Harry here under close watch,” said Poppy.

Severus nodded. “Good. Can I leave that to you?”

“Of course. I’ll keep you updated.”

Severus uncast the muffliato and took his leave. What a day. His stomach grumbled as he escorted Draco back to his quarters. He hadn’t even had his sandwich yet, never mind dinner. And he still needed to talk to Draco. He could feel a headache coming on. His godson followed him down in silence with a face like a blank piece of parchment. But Severus could see the nervous way he was picking at the skin around his fingernails. When they got back, Severus expected him to thunder off to his room, but he didn’t. He sat patiently while Severus called an elf and ordered his food and poured himself an extra large wine. Draco had eaten earlier but accepted Severus’ offer of a hot chocolate. He sat and sipped in silence while Severus ate.

“Will Potter be ok?” Draco asked, when Severus was finished and about to clear his plate.

Severus paused, taken aback. “Madam Pomfrey is very good, Harry's in excellent hands. It’s to be expected that he would be somewhat overwrought right now. Beyond the norm for even a Gryffindor.”

Draco snorted.

“You might consider some tact while you are here keeping his company,” Severus said pointedly.

“They don’t even try to understand,” Draco pouted. “I didn’t say anything incorrect.”

“What did you say?”

Draco mumbled something inaudible.

“Pardon?”

“It wasn’t even bad! I said that the Potter line is a good one so he probably wouldn’t have a squib child even if his mother was a mud- er… a muggleborn.”

Severus went still. He had a choice. Was Draco of an age to comprehend? Draco adored his parents; Severus had to be careful. But here was a rare opportunity. He cradled his wine and slowly swirled it as he considered his next words.

“And you believe the theories that muggleborns are more likely to produce squibs?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hmm.”

Draco frowned. “What?”

Severus took a large sip of wine.

“What Severus?” Draco insisted.

“You may not have read, but that has been discredited in recent years.”

Draco nearly spat out his hot chocolate. “No, it hasn't!”

“If you say so,” said Severus, oozing nonchalance.

“But,” Draco spluttered. “You and Father - I thought you… you were both…”

Severus didn’t blink. “My father was a muggle,” he said lightly.

Draco gawped. It looked like his brain had melted. Then he scoffed. “Good one, Severus.”

“It’s true.”

Draco blinked. “But then why… why were you…”

Severus had very little idea how much Lucius had told Draco about their past. He let the words slip past his lips very carefully, though he kept his tone light, matter-of-fact. “I was angry at my father for a long time; he did not treat me well. But I have since learned that it is foolish to blame an entire group for one individual’s actions. And hurting muggles was a poor revenge on my father in the end.”

Severus was surprised how hard his heart was racing: this was not a wise conversation. There was every chance Draco would repeat it. Perhaps Severus could claim Albus had requested it as a test of loyalty? Either way, Lucius would be livid. Severus had to hope that Draco would forget to bring it up. Which, knowing his godson, was hardly likely. Severus wondered what had gotten into him lately. This was an unnecessary risk. He was getting so emotional. Almost sentimental. Perhaps the stress of Albus’ recent conduct had finally pushed him over the edge.

“You hurt muggles? How many?”

There was a little too much awe in Draco’s voice for Severus’ liking. Even had he agreed with the sentiment, he would have hoped for greater discretion in his godson.

“Draco,” he warned.

Draco cleared his throat. “So you wouldn’t… if the Dark Lord came back… you wouldn't follow him any more?”

Severus kept his face blank. “I followed him for a long time. And some obligations are very difficult to get out of. But I work for Professor Dumbledore now. He can protect those who leave. He testified for me so I wasn’t thrown in Azkaban.”

“So if the Dark Lord ever returned you’d be on Dumbledore’s side?” Draco scrunched his nose up.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Severus chided. “And I don’t know. I might not have a choice.”

“But he won’t return, will he?” Draco sighed. “Will he, Severus?”

“That I cannot say.”

“Would Granger be thrown out of Hogwarts if he came back?”

“Possibly.”

Draco smirked. But then he wavered. “Would Potter? Would you?”

“The Dark Lord would undoubtedly want to prove he could defeat Potter. And he would certainly believe I was a traitor, if I stayed here. It’s possible that being able to attend school would be the least of our worries.”

Draco went very quiet. Severus tried not to stare at him. His wine was rich and soothing. He slowed his breathing. Hopefully his answers were vague and open enough for any contingency.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Draco said eventually. “Father said he was a very clever man and if anyone was going to achieve immortality on their own power, he would. But I don’t really think anyone can do that. Can they? And why would he be waiting around, hiding? Zabini said he’d heard Dumbledore killed Quirrel because the Dark Lord was controlling him, but that’s just a rumour, isn’t it Severus? Quirrel died by accident, didn’t he?”

Severus didn’t reply. After a little while, he looked up to see Draco still watching him.

“If Professor Dumblefore helped you, might he also keep my parents out of Azkaban?” Draco asked.

Severus groaned. He had forgotten Draco’s news.

“Not on his own, no. If they made a deal with him and renounced the dark arts and proved themselves in his eyes, he might testify for them, but they’d still have to convince the Wizengamot. But Draco, I’m terribly sorry, it quite slipped my mind in all the confusion earlier. There has been news of your parents.”

Draco put his mug down carefully and waited. Severus could see he was trembling.

“They have been tried and sentenced. Your father will be in Azkaban for nine months. Your mother for one month.”

Draco slouched down in his chair. Severus had never seen a child crumple quite like that. He wondered if Draco was about to faint. But then Draco sat up straight again. “I see,” he said coldly, turning his head away.

“I'm sorry, Draco,” said Severus.

“I suppose it is unlikely they would ever stoop to ask Dumbledore for help. Perhaps if they found a way to trick him…”

“Perhaps,” said Severus. “But not this time, I'm afraid. It already went to appeal and was upheld.”

“But they never found anything on raids before,” said Draco. “Perhaps someone planted something.”

“Perhaps.”

“Everyone hates Purebloods! And Slytherins! We're always picked on! Dumbledore took away our house cup this year, even though we hadn't done anything wrong!”

“He did,” agreed Severus. “And that was terribly unfair. I assure you, I have complained about that wretched bit of bias.”

“So their trial might be a scam too? If I prove they're innocent, can they come home?”

Severus put his glass down and put his hand on Draco's. He expected him to flinch back, but he didn't.

“Slytherins are often maligned. And that is very wrong and very unfair. But we do make mistakes just like anyone else. Apologising and atoning might feel like ceding defeat, but sometimes adaptation may be critical to reaching our end goals. And though the Gryffindors of the world do not understand us, it is a comfort to know ourselves who we are, both the weak and the strong parts. Then we can know what to change and what we wish to keep.”

Draco's eyes were full of tears. He looked like he was holding them in through sheer will. Severus considered him.

“I have several handkerchiefs for collecting tears,” he said. “I am particularly fond of this one.”

Draco shook his head. But when Severus held out the one Lily had made him, pale green and charmed with a little embroidered snake that squirmed around the border, he spluttered and then sobbed. Severus waited while he dabbed his eyes.

“You don’t really cry?” Draco asked, his breath shuddering.

“Hmmm,” said Severus. “Once I even cried in front of Professor Dumbledore. I was utterly mortified and swore off crying for years. But Madam Pomfrey was correct: tears have healing properties. I would be a poor potions master not to acknowledge that. I'm sure I'll cry again. Perhaps after class with the Gryffindor second years next term. I always go and have a little sob in the cupboard when I look at Longbottom’s work.”

Draco smiled.

“Would you like a hug, Draco?”

Draco grimaced. Severus cleared his throat. Perhaps a hug was a step too far. Still, Severus held his arms up to offer. Lily used to do this for him. He could do it. They waited there. Severus felt ludicrous and tried to keep his expression blank. Draco was scowling at the floor, looking revolted. Severus’ arms were starting to ache. Draco glanced up a couple of times, then scowled again. He turned as though to flounce away but then twisted at the last moment. Severus froze as Draco came to lean against him, still averting his eyes. He pulled Draco into the hug and held him tight. Draco burst into tears all over again.

“I'm really sorry, Draco,” Severus murmured. “I know you must miss them. Can’t be much fun being stuck here with me. Not the summer you hoped for.”

“It's not fair,” Draco sobbed.

“I know. I know.”

He rocked Draco for some time. Draco gradually quietened. When his breath was under control, he straightened up and pushed Severus away. Severus heard him mumble something.

“Pardon?”

Draco sighed. “I said, “May I please have some wine?” ”

“One sip,” said Severus sternly. “And if you vomit, you clean it up.”

Draco rubbed his eyes one last time and then took Severus’ glass. Somehow he managed to smear his fingerprints all over it despite obviously trying to hold it delicately just like Narcissa did. Lucius certainly would have scolded him. Draco choked a little as he sipped, left a dribble of backwash, then pretended nothing had happened and gave Severus the glass back with a sigh.

“That's disgusting,” Draco informed him. “You really should ask the house elves for the 1787 Chateau Margaux, it's much smoother.”

Severus nodded and pushed Draco gently towards his bedroom. He then vanished the last of his wine with extraordinary patience. He was getting the hang of this childminding business.

…

The next day, Draco was poking at his eggs and toast when Severus offered to take him home. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he agreed at once. For one thing, he had a few books he wanted to pick up. Plus, his nimbus 2001 might have arrived. Although he wasn’t sure Weasley would want the nimbus 2000 from him now and Draco certainly didn’t want to play quidditch with somebody so close-minded. Stupid blood traitors.

They used the floo and stepped out into the guest fireplace in the entrance hallway. It was oddly quiet. The manor smelled the same as it always did when they came back after a long holiday. It was odd to be here, just him and Severus. His spirits couldn’t be completely dampened though, not when he saw the telltale long package which had appeared in the delivery lobby. He opened it with glee and spent some time just admiring the beautiful deep ebony wood, the shine, how perfectly neat every twig was. Severus let him fly around the pitch and the wind rushed by, surely twice as fast as he’d ever managed before. The broom moved at his slightest touch, with silky smooth turns. He couldn’t wait for tryouts. He had thought to ask Father for 2001s for the whole team if it turned out to be as good as he expected. He supposed that wasn’t an option now. He landed again and trailed inside. He wanted term to start already. This summer was the worst.

Severus went to check on the house elves and then they had pumpkin cake and roselle juice in the kitchen. Draco rarely ate there, but the dining room looked unreal, like something from a museum. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. No books left out. The furniture all stood straight at perfect angles and distance from one another. He didn’t want to eat there alone. Scraping his chair back would be unbearably noisy in this emptiness. Dobby brought the juice and was so pleased to see Draco, he even gave him a big hug. Draco knew he should not have allowed it, but he had missed the funny elf. He hadn’t liked to think of them all in the ministry cells alongside his parents. Just another example of the unfairness of the whole thing. At least they wouldn’t be sent to Azkaban or confiscated to another family.

After the cake, Severus decided to walk the grounds and Draco trudged up to his bedroom. It looked the same as it always had. Sage green walls and a fluffy, white carpet. His bed was cold and very neat, his blanket striped sand beige and thyme green in perfect lines. He sat down on it and considered the view. He supposed everything had been roughed up by the aurors at some point but the elves must have put everything back in place. He wandered to his desk and pulled mindlessly at the drawers, opening and closing them as though looking for something. He didn’t know what he wanted. Everything looked the same as he had left it, as far as he could tell. He picked up a couple of puzzle books that he hadn’t finished yet and the next few Martin Miggs comics from the pile on his desk. Mother always bought them for him to tease Father. But actually they were very funny, if a little infantile sometimes.

It was then he noticed a black notebook, which he hadn’t seen before. Strangely enough it was tucked into the middle of one of the comics like a very thick, clunky sort of bookmark. He wondered if Mother had bought it for him, but she usually got him the matching emerald sets from Scrivenshaft’s, which had a higher quality parchment inside. This journal didn’t even look new, it was grimy and the pages weren’t even properly straight. He sniffed at it and flicked through and saw it wasn’t lined. Mother always praised his sketchbooks even though doodling wasn’t something Father particularly encouraged. Perhaps that was why she had hidden it in his comics. He took his quill and wrote Property of Draco Lucius Narcissus Malfoy on the first page in swirly, looping black ink. He paused in surprise as the words sank into the pages. He turned the page over but there was no ink on the other side. When he turned it back there was new writing.

Hello, Draco. I’m so glad you found my diary.

Draco gasped and then tingled all over.

Father? he wrote.

Yes, my son.

Father had done it! He’d found a way to trick the aurors and had left a way to communicate with him. Draco immediately swallowed back the lump in his throat.

I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed you too, little Dragon.

Draco’s hand was shaking. Little Dragon. Father hadn’t called him that for years and years.

How are you writing from Azkaban? Are you alright?

I’m as well as can be expected. All the better for hearing from you.

And Mother? Can she write too?

Unfortunately not. We are in separate cells. I did not tell her of this diary and it would be best to keep it a secret between us. I would not wish her to get into more trouble should she be interrogated again.

Of course, I understand.

Are you well, Draco?

I’m fine. Severus is looking after me.

Indeed. Are you on your best behaviour?

Of course. There are just two more weeks until school starts again.

I’m proud of you, little Dragon. Keep this diary secret and write to me whenever you can.

I will, Father. I’m so happy to hear from you.

And I, you.

Draco nearly cried all over again. Father was so clever. He hadn’t mentioned anything in his letters, but of course, the aurors could have read those. He must have acted quickly to hide this journal as soon as he realised the raid was coming. His father was the ultimate Slytherin; Draco was so proud of him. He was touched that he had used his last moments of freedom thinking of him. Draco would never let him down. He hugged the diary to himself and slipped it back among his comics to take back with him.

When he returned to Severus he felt almost giddy. He had been silly to worry himself over Weasley and Potter. They weren’t important really. Draco had his family after all. Mother would be free in a month and Draco could talk to Father whenever he pleased. 9 months would go by in no time and then they could put this whole sorry ordeal behind them.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey was pleased with Harry’s progress and was now encouraging him to be up and out of the hospital wing for as long as he could manage each day, coming back to rest every few hours so she could supervise his meals and his meds. At first, Harry was anxious that his progress would hurry up his return to the Dursleys, but Madam Pomfrey had told him that he couldn’t be released until his appointment next week with some sort of specialist from St Mungo’s and a private mind healer. Harry had blushed at this idea and didn’t ask more about it. He still got very tired; one early visit to Hagrid’s hut ended with him falling asleep at the table shortly after arriving. But apart from that, he was basically better already and wasn’t keen to drag it all back up again.

The days passed quickly. Every afternoon Ron came in with Molly or Arthur and sometimes Ginny or the twins. They had expeditions to meet the house elves in the kitchen or to fly over the lawns or have swimming races in the lake, which turned out to be shockingly cold even despite the bright summer weather. Harry didn’t really know how to swim and hadn’t managed to pick it up as quickly as he had hoped. He was a little embarrassed as he ended up mostly splashing around in the shallows and then clinging to Ron, who gave him a piggyback anytime they went deeper. But it didn’t matter, he felt like he laughed more than he had all year. They never stayed in long and always got hot chocolate and biscuits afterwards.

Malfoy joined them from time to time, though some days he claimed to be far too busy, with a smirk that invited them to ask more. Neither Ron nor Harry cared to take the bait on that: Malfoy could keep his secrets; he was probably just plotting dull pranks to play on them in term time. He had gone back to being lordly and disdainful more often than not. When he wasn’t there, Ginny could do a brilliant impression of him that had them all in stitches. But when they were alone, Ron whisper-explained to Harry the news about Malfoy’s parents and gave him a telling look - no matter how much of a grump Malfoy was, taunting him about that was off limits. Azkaban sounded like something out of a nightmare and Harry found himself feeling uncomfortably sorry for Malfoy, which gave him a new kind of patience. They avoided any serious topics.

And there were times when Malfoy forgot to be sarcastic and cold. He could snap back with a funny comment as quickly as either of the twins. He waited politely when they walked as a group to make sure no-one got left behind. As soon as anything became a competition, he went all out, all stiffness disappearing as he threw himself into running, flying, climbing or even collecting mushrooms with Hagrid after a downpour of rain. One sunny afternoon at the lake, Malfoy’s lip had twitched up into a sneer at Harry’s clumsy paddling. Harry bunched his hands into fists, preparing a retort, but before Malfoy could say anything, Fred ran at him and tackled him right into the water. Malfoy gasped in outrage but then Ginny splashed at George and Ron jumped on Fred and Harry shrieked as the water sprayed right up and then they were all snorting and flailing and Malfoy sat down in the water and giggled so hard he almost choked. This gave Harry a funny feeling, a kind of swooping joy like he got when flying. Harry was sure Malfoy would go back to ignoring them all in term-time. But until then, Harry liked pretending they could be friends.

The mushroom gathering trip with Hagrid ended inconclusively, with Harry and Malfoy both claiming they had done better than the other. (Malfoy had collected more mushrooms overall, but Harry had found a rare croaking toadstool when he accidently tripped over a log). When Professor Snape overheard them still arguing over this hours later, he invited Harry to join the two of them for their morning foraging trips. Harry accepted with some trepidation about being alone with the Slytherins. Ron was very dubious and insisted that he owl as soon as he got back to let him know he hadn’t been murdered and dropped in a bog.

It turned out to be surprisingly fun. Snape still called them dolts and idiots and sighed heavily at the way they trampled through the wildflower fields, but he answered all Malfoy’s questions and gave Harry a look as though expecting Harry to have queries of his own. Snape knew the name of every single plant they passed - in English and Latin - and quizzed them as though they were still in class. At first Harry hadn’t known any answers, but he found himself recognising more and more every morning. It was kind of like learning to read again; what he had at first seen as a plain grass field became a tapestry of miniscule plants, each which told a little story. Some flowers changed colour depending on whether the soil was acidic, others bloomed only if there had been a drought, some levitated slightly above the soil indicating a local increase in the ground magic. Snape occasionally sneered at Harry’s ignorance but he always repeated the plant names and continued to point out little details, turning over leaves, making them stroke tree bark and instructing them to stand still for minutes at a time to take in the forest noises. Snape never looked exactly comfortable, he still wore his thick black cloak and had a tight, unhappy expression that suggested he had a perpetual stomach-ache. But seeing him outside in the soft sunrise, getting excited about an unusual kind of daisy or fungus was surreal enough that Harry and Malfoy found themselves often smiling at each other behind his back.

These days Harry wore a lot of borrowed Weasley clothing, including some old trainers of Ron’s. Molly had shrunk everything down to his size so they felt as good as new clothes and Snape had even charmed the trainers so he didn’t feel the wet when they trekked through the dewy fields. Harry was still very clumsy, but he found himself trying to take extra care of these borrowed items, rolling them up to avoid mud and folding them neatly each night. They weren’t made of lovely materials like Malfoy’s things, silky and embroidered and all clearly expensive, but they were soft and smelled nice. Harry missed some of his other possessions, particularly his photo album, but he hadn’t felt up to dragging himself all the way up to the seventh floor to retrieve his trunk. He had avoided telling the adults much about his secret room and thankfully nobody insisted he say more; he didn’t want them investigating it without him.

But finally one day, when Arthur dropped Ron off alone for the afternoon, Harry suggested they head up there together and fetch the trunk. Ron beamed and they bounded up the stairs together, but when they finally reached the seventh floor, Harry froze. Would the magic still work for two people? Or would nothing happen and Ron assume he was lying or a total headcase? He walked up and down and pleaded with the corridor wall. Please give us my bedroom again, exactly like it was before with the pictures and the bathroom and my trunk, he begged. Please give me my bedroom, I want to show my friend, Ron. He had a sudden thought - what if he really had just imagined it as some sort of extended fever dream? But then the door unfolded and Harry pulled Ron inside and closed the door quickly behind him.

“Wicked,” Ron grinned, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it all. “Merlin, look at all these pictures! I’m in that one! This is insane.”

“Aren't they great?” agreed Harry. He flopped back on his bed to catch his breath. The room was just as he had left it. He ran his hands over the duvet cover, snuggling up against the cool cotton.

Ron paced up and down, pulling out random books and staring at the paintings up close. He seemed to want to touch everything, even picking up the little model nimbus 2000 and turning it over and over, then inspecting the bathroom. “And it can turn into a pool as well?” he asked.

“Yeah!” said Harry, watching the golden snitches and stars twinkle on the ceiling. “We have to go outside to change it though.”

“Can the room do anything at all?”

“I don't know,” said Harry. “I didn't try too often. I didn't want it to run out of power.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry shrugged. “Sometimes it just doesn't work. I asked for a café or kitchen but it never came with real food. And you can't take things out, usually. I took some soap and a sewing kit out but anything else just vanished through the door. I don't know why. I don’t want to push it.”

“Can we try some other things? Like the pool?” Ron hurried out.

“Ok, but not too much,” Harry said. “We should make sure it can turn back.”

Harry asked for the pool room and again it appeared, just like before. Harry felt himself relax a little as he watched the water sway. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed this. At some time over the summer, these rooms had started to feel like home. Both rooms were so beautiful. But Ron was too impatient to swim. He wanted to see what else the room could do and Harry supposed he ought to let Ron have a turn. He followed Ron back into the corridor and waited for the door to disappear and then told him to ask for what he wanted. A selfish, greedy little part of Harry hoped the room didn’t respond to anybody else; he waited, staring at the floor. But then Ron whooped and Harry’s heart sank a little. He looked up and of course, the door had reappeared; Ron yanked it open. It looked like Harry's vault at Gringotts.

“Yes!” yelled Ron. He dived straight into the pile of gold coins.

Harry laughed. “You look like a dragon,” he said as Ron spread out his arms and legs as though he were swimming, his eyes a little glazed.

Ron threw a coin at him. Harry ducked but then scooped up another one and held it out of the door. As expected, it vanished as soon as it passed though.

“Oh yeah,” Ron's face fell. “That's a bust. Let's try another one!”

Harry shook his head. “Can we check the bedroom -”

“I'm sure it's fine, don't worry,” Ron cut in and Harry let himself be pulled out again.

Ron made his wish. Harry’s heart was thumping. The door appeared again. It opened onto a huge room, stacked with tall shelves as far as Harry could see.

“What did you ask for?” Harry stared.

“Somewhere we can play games!” Ron grinned. “Look at this - I've never seen so many! They've got Jenga! And Mastermind!”

He was dashing forwards and backwards. Harry smiled. He looked like Hermione in the library, overwhelmed with enthusiasm, unsure where to start.

“And Battleship! And Risk! And Twister!” Ron went on. “They’ve even got some of the muggle versions! Look - there’s muggle Magic the Gathering! We could have Gryffindor game nights here!”

“Dunno. Maybe,” Harry said, rubbing his sleeve. “I don’t think we should tell everyone. Not all at once anyway-”

“Look at all this Harry!” Ron’s voice faded as he vanished into the maze of shelves.

“Ron, wait!”

“There’s a giant Connect-4! Not like McGonagall’s giant chess, I just mean a really big one-”

Harry ran after him. “Yeah, there’s a lot here. It’s really cool,” he agreed. The shelves went on for a long time; it was a little dizzying. It must have taken a lot of magic. But perhaps the room needed to rest? “Can we go back now?” he called.

“Just a sec,” Ron called back from somewhere further in.

“But my stuff-”

“Look at all this!”

“It’s great,” called Harry flatly. “But-”

“Come on, Harry, you've had the room to yourself all summer.” Ron had staggered back to one of the tables with an enormous pile of games in his arms. He plonked them down with a groan and started to run back for more.

“Wait!” called Harry. “I just want to check-”

“Look! Operation! Wizard and muggle versions! Mum never lets us play that one, not after Fred got nightmares…”

Harry stared as Ron pulled box after box down and rooted through them. Harry didn’t want to play Operation or any of the others. They'd been in here too long. It wasn't his room anymore. There was too much stuff and Ron was just talking over him and it might have already been too long. If his bedroom never came back he'd lose his things and if he lost his things, he'd lose his homework and he couldn't do it all again, he just couldn't but then he'd get expelled and then-

Harry started to back towards the door. But he couldn’t change the room now, not with Ron still in it. He flinched as the lights started to flicker, there was a rumbling noise and the floor was vibrating, the games were shuddering and suddenly he could hear all the little pieces rattle and clack and clatter.

“Um, Harry?” called Ron. “Is the room ok? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!”

And then all at once, the shelves were wobbling hard enough that the board games were falling. Harry threw his arms over his head and stumbled forward hoping to grab Ron and then make for the exit. Harry could hear Ron swearing, somewhere. He dodged the falling boxes which were starting to come down in a cascade of pieces and dice and cards. Ron spun out from around a shelf and Harry reached out his hand. But then right behind Ron’s head, he saw a hole in the air. Through it he caught a glimpse of his bedroom, his blue bedspread, his shelves. The hole vanished and then re-opened as though it was warring with the games room.

"No," he gasped. "No, please wait!" They’d done it, they’d broken the room! Harry stared, feeling something cold plunge through him.

"We need to get out of here!" Ron shouted. "We can try again from outside."

"No, we need to fix it!" Harry yelled back. He couldn't leave. What if the door never reappeared?

"Harry! It's OK mate, we probably just need to reset it," Ron was shouting. "Harry! Come on, let's get out! It's not safe!"

But Harry couldn't move. He couldn't do anything. Suddenly Ron yanked on his arm and started pulling but Harry shoved him back.

"We need to get out!" Ron was looming over him, trying to shelter them both as the games kept tumbling. Harry watched in horror as Ron was nearly hit in the head by what looked like seven or eight boxes of backgammon. Ron swore as one caught his ear. It looked like a deep scratch; his ear was bleeding.

"Come on!" Ron yelled, annoyed. "Harry! What are you doing? We have to get out!"

I don't want to leave, Harry thought. Please. don't make me leave. I need to stay here. I want to stay forever. And then suddenly three or four floorboards beneath him buckled and then went soft like mud. The shelves lurched. Harry started to sink into them.

“Harry!” He heard Ron yelp. "We've got to go!"

But Harry was watching tendrils from the new sinkpit curl around his knees like tentacles. They pulled him with a lot more force than he was expecting until his legs, his hips, his torso were all getting swallowed and Harry didn't care one bit as long as he didn't have to leave.

"No!" Ron yelled. "What are you doing?"

He leaned over balancing on the jagged floorboard beneath him that was still solid. He grabbed Harry's arms and pulled hard. And Harry felt himself being dragged back up, his trousers ripping where the edge of the solid floorboards were scraping and Ron was pulling his arms out of their sockets, Ron's fingers digging into his wrists, he was dragging him so hard out of the floor, out of the room and then they were tumbling into the corridor and the door was disappearing and then it was gone.

Harry stared at the blank wall and then just… wailed. He hid his face in his hands and dropped to the floor and cried and cried, shame and grief buckling him over. It was all Harry's fault. He’d lost the room. He should never have brought Ron. He bawled like a toddler, he couldn’t stop. Some part of him somewhere was tutting, exasperated; he never ever cried like this, not in front of anyone; it was mortifying. But he couldn’t rein it in. It hurt. He cried as though the tears were being yanked out of him, his whole body shuddering. After a few minutes, his throat was raw and he had run out of breath. Finally, he quietened. All he could hear was his own shaky breathing. He wondered if Ron had gone. He risked a glance up. Ron was still sat there, frowning into space.

“I’m sorry,” gasped Harry. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's OK,” said Ron. “Look.”

The door had reappeared. Harry stared. Ron opened it and Harry's bedroom was there, everything was there, just like before. His bedroom. His pictures. His trunk. Harry felt incredibly stupid.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so stupid. I'm so sorry. I don't know why - I'm sorry.”

“Mate, it's OK,” said Ron again.

“I just - I just - I'm so stupid.”

“It's OK. Let's go in?”

Harry let himself be pulled up. Ron sat him on the side of the bath and let him cry out the last few weak sobs, then patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. Then he got a flannel and wet it and gently washed Harry's face. Harry wished he could disappear again. He had never blushed so hard in his life. He didn't know what to say. Another childish outburst. How long was this going to go on for? He had better pull himself back together before term-time.

Ron cleared his throat. “You, er… you were really worried you'd lose the room, huh?”

“I'm so stupid,” said Harry. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not stupid. I didn't realise how important… I didn't realise how stressed you were getting. I've never seen you cry like that, mate. Not even after your cursed broom. Or the troll. Or flipping You-Know-Who.”

“I know,” said Harry, staring at the floor. “It's stupid. It's just… I've never really had a bedroom before. I thought it was gone and I dunno - I just lost it. I'm sorry.”

“You don't have a bedroom at the Dursleys?” asked Ron.

"No, I do," said Harry, feeling ridiculous. "I mean it's Dudley's second bedroom really. It's got mostly his stuff in which I'm not allowed to touch. But I do have a bed. In a room. I don't know why I got so upset, it's stupid."

Ron frowned at him. "You share a bedroom with Dudley?" he asked.

Harry looked away. "No, Dudley has his own room. I have his second room. It just has his extra stuff in. The stuff he doesn’t want."

"What about your stuff?"

Harry shrugged. "I never really had anything. Not until Hogwarts anyway."

Ron was giving him that look, the one he hated. Harry thought he should explain a bit. "They moved me there last August, just before I started here. So it's fine. I mean, it makes sense - I'm only going to be there during the holidays so I don’t need my own proper full time room, you know?"

"That doesn't make any sense," said Ron. "Where did you sleep before then?"

Harry paused. He should have seen where this conversation would go. He didn't want to talk about that. He shrugged, hoping Ron would drop it.

"Harry?"

The silence was getting longer.

"It doesn't matter," said Harry breezily. "I've got this bedroom now. And it's fine. It didn't disappear after all. I just panicked. It was silly. Come on, we should get going. It’ll take a while to get my trunk down."

"But where did you sleep before?" said Ron. "Did you share with Dudley?"

"No, just leave it Ron. Come on, Madam Pomfrey will probably be flipping out, we’ve been ages."

"Just tell me, Harry!"

Harry didn't want to. But then Ron said, "Harry. Please."

"Fine!" Harry scrubbed at his face again with his sleeve. "It was under the stairs, OK?" he muttered.

"They made you sleep under the stairs?" Ron repeated, as though he didn't believe him.

"They kindly took me in and put a roof over my head and it's not like I was a normal kid or their kid or anything so it's fine."

"Your room was under a staircase?"

"Yes, kind of. I mean, it was a cupboard. Under the stairs. Like a little room, really. A little bedroom cupboard under the stairs. Can you help me with my trunk? We should have been back ages ago."

Ron helped him check all his things and fold them and pack them back into the trunk and rucksack. They didn't say anything else, just worked in silence, even when they got to the bloody pile of clothes Harry had previously used as bandages. Harry pressed on, he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. This had been one big mistake after another. He couldn’t look at Ron anymore. He hoped he would go back to the Burrow soon. Have a few days off from putting up with Harry, who just kept on acting like a complete spoiled brat. Harry had never really learned to share properly, not like Ron with his six siblings. Ron was a good friend. He didn't deserve the way Harry was treating him.

"I'm sorry I hogged the room," Harry mumbled when they were done. "We… We should come back and play whatever games you want next time. If you want. I'll understand if not. Sorry."

"Harry!" Ron rolled his eyes and Harry flinched away. "Of course we can come back. This room is incredible. I'm sorry for freaking you out, OK? You kept asking to check the bedroom was still there and I didn't get it. I'll do better next time, OK?"

"I shouldn't have gotten so upset," Harry insisted.

Ron shrugged. "Eh, it happens. Let's just go down ok?"

"OK."

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"I dunno. I'm sad. And I’m pissed off."

"Why? What's happened? Are your family OK?" Harry had been so focused on himself he hadn't even noticed anything. He had kind of thought Ron was just really annoyed by Harry's behaviour. He hadn't realised Ron might be sad about something. Harry should have just chilled out and let him play the stupid games. Harry ruined everything.

Ron just stared at Harry. "I'm sad that your cousin has two bedrooms and you don’t have one. It’s messed up!"

"Oh, that." Harry stared at his feet, embarrassed that Ron would care about that. "It's OK. I've found one now."

Ron smiled. "Yeah, I'm glad you did. It's really cool. It suits you."

Harry sighed. "Please - you won't tell anyone where it is, will you? I know it's not really mine but… if it gets broken or runs out of power…" He blushed. “I know I’m being stupid but-”

“I promise,” said Ron. “I won't tell anyone. But maybe we could sneak up sometimes? Maybe have a sleepover?”

Harry smiled. "Yeah! We could get hot chocolate. And midnight snacks!"

"Yeah. We'll do that. With Hermione?"

"Yes, definitely. We can sneak up under the cloak," Harry paused. "If I get it back."

"When you get it back. Dumbledore can't keep it forever."

Harry nodded, hoping that was true. They trudged all the way back down to the hospital wing, Ron helping with the trunk, both huffing and puffing as they went. Madam Pomfrey looked murderous when she saw Harry’s ragged jeans and Ron’s ear. She looked very doubtful when Ron said he had walked into a suit of armour but waved her hand and fixed him up in no time.

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew not to write everything down in the diary. His father would only worry if he knew he was being forced to spend so much time with blood traitors and, he could admit it to himself, sometimes really enjoying it. Fred and George were funny and had boundless energy. Ginny was surprisingly sarcastic, though she often froze up and went silent if Harry got too close. Ron grumbled and went on a lot about food and the Chudley Cannons and his miserable rat Scabbers, but otherwise was very laid back. And Harry… Harry could be strangely pleasant, when he wasn’t angry or sulking. Whenever it had been quiet for too long, Harry would start talking loudly about quidditch and asking Draco questions he couldn’t resist answering. If they had been standing about doing nothing for a while, he would snap and fling himself into a race with that desperate energy like he was chasing a snitch and then he would throw Draco a grin as though pleased he was compelled to follow like the rest of them.

It stood to reason Harry would draw the eye. He was the odd one out among the lanky, red-haired Weasley mob, that’s all it was. At first, Harry noticeably flinched away any time a Weasley patted him on the back or brushed past him, much like Draco himself. But after a few days, he seemed to get used to it and would wrestle or shove or jump into the Weasley pile-ups. Draco watched them tumbling over one another in their rough but cheerful way and found himself a little torn. They were behaving like toddlers. Happy as puppies. Harry would then smile at Draco with such earnestness that Draco almost believed he could do the same. He had started calling him Harry by mistake. Everyone else did and it was hard to remember not to, especially when he couldn’t exactly call all the others “Weasley”. But then Harry started calling him “Draco,” and something about that was nice.

Sometimes he found himself staring and then caught Ginny was doing the same. Draco had assumed Harry would be proud of the attention he got from her; Draco would have been delighted had anyone been so obviously smitten with him. But Harry was utterly oblivious. The twins mocked her every time Harry was out of earshot and sometimes gave Ron and Draco a wink over Harry and Ginny’s heads when she started to stutter or blush. Ron always mimed vomiting but it gave Draco an odd feeling at being included in the joke, almost like another brother. The group was annoying as a whole and would take every opportunity to put Draco and his ideas down if the subject of blood or heritage came up. But it didn’t stop them from inviting him to join them most afternoons and Draco found he could tolerate them well enough for the sake of spending some time in the sun. He had run around outside so much over the last week, he was starting to develop freckles; Mother would probably have a conniption. He shuddered when he caught himself thinking that this had been the best summer in a long time. That wasn’t true, of course not, how could it be? But he hadn’t had to wait around at any boring cocktail parties making polite conversations or been asked to recite poetry in front of distant relatives. He hadn’t had to go to any clothes fittings or long shopping trips or sit through lectures for talented, pureblooded youth.

So Draco walked a fine line. He reassured his father that he was doing very well and not to worry about him, without going into the details. He found it impossible not to describe his summer adventures, but made sure to write about the double-act that was Greg and Vince, sharp Pansy, grumpy, hungry Theo and Blaise... strange, complicated Blaise, implying that he was visiting one or other of them most days. He went as far as mentioning how he couldn’t help worrying about Blaise sometimes and how strangely different he was outside of school. Once he even wrote about how his eyes were a vivid, unique shade of green and then, horrified at the revelation, tried to scribble it back out before the ink sank away. But Father had only laughed at him a little and told him a story about a crush he had once had at school, which had made Draco’s mind nearly implode. It was odd that it had taken such distance to feel so close to his father. He was being so kind. He was like that sometimes, for example at Christmas or when he had been drinking, but never this consistently. At first, Draco bristled a little; he didn’t need to be babied. But then Draco put it down to his father perhaps feeling guilty and hastened to remind him that he was doing just fine with Severus.

Draco spent every evening writing and was reluctant to stop even for meals. Severus had encouraged him at first, obviously glad to get back to his brewing and teaching preparation. But there was only so much reading and homework Draco could claim to be doing, without then being able to talk about it and he sometimes thought Severus was getting suspicious. It was hard to pull himself away and though Father usually insisted he stop writing around 1am, the late nights and early mornings were taking a toll and Draco found himself even more sullen and grouchy than usual. Severus was starting to take notice. He insisted Draco take a hot milk before bed, made him leave his wand in the living room overnight and charmed his bedroom lights off at 10pm to stop him reading late. He refused to let Draco miss meals and started asking him to do his homework in sight of Severus in the lab. Draco tried to get out of this with as much nonchalance as he could but had to give over a couple of nights just to assuage him. He spent that time writing letters to the real Pansy and co, again somewhat stumped as to how to excuse his strangely Gryffindor summer jaunts. He wrote a long letter to his mother and even one to father, for the sake of keeping up appearances.

After a couple of these nights in a row, Draco couldn’t help fidgeting all through dinner. Severus was so slow, insisting on lingering over a coffee and refusing to dismiss him, despite the stilted conversation. Draco answered Severus politely every time he asked a question, with as few words as possible, and dropped hint after hint that he was ready to be left alone to work in his room. He was itching to write and Father might be worried about his long silence. But then Severus suddenly asked him for a favour and Draco found he had agreed to it without really listening.

“Thank you,” Severus purred and Draco realised he’d walked into some sort of trap.

"I haven’t had time to check in with Madam Pomfrey today,” Severus continued. “I wondered if you might be so kind as to keep Potter company tonight."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Potter's very annoying," he said.

Severus snorted. "Indeed. Nevertheless, I would appreciate it if you could spend the night in the hospital wing."

"Like a sleepover?"

"That's correct."

Draco groaned. Severus must think Draco lonely or brooding. It was going to be impossible to explain that wasn’t the case at all. He’d have to sneak the diary into his bag and wait until Potter was asleep to write in it.

"Fine, I guess so,” Draco sighed. “Though you know he hates me."

“I thought you hated each other?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then you have something in common, besides quidditch and being stuck here.”

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed again heavily.

Severus almost smiled. “Excellent. I will meet you at 6.30am in the hospital wing for foraging.”

Draco groaned again. "Can't we go a bit later and have a lie in?"

"No. You will be in bed by 10pm.”

“Can I at least get some sleepover snacks from the kitchen?”

“That can be permitted. Do check with Madam Pomfrey, I’m not sure where Potter is at with his food schedule.”

Draco nodded.

"Very well. Off you go then. Take your pyjamas and your toiletries."

"Fine," Draco sighed. “Fine.”

He traipsed all the way up to the Hospital Wing and found it empty. He dumped his sleep stuff on the bed next to Harry’s and was reaching for the diary when Madam Pomfrey came in.

“Potter with you?” she asked.

“No. Severus sent me to stay the night and keep him company.”

“That’s very kind of you. I don’t think he’ll be long, I think he’s out for a walk.”

Draco sighed. “Ok. Can I get us some snacks from the kitchen? Maybe some hot chocolate and ice cream and things? Is Potter ok to eat those?”

“That sounds lovely. Harry still isn’t eating huge portions and already had dinner, so he might not eat much. But I’m sure he’d appreciate the thought.”

Draco nodded and trudged down to the kitchens. Malfoy Manor had a beautiful kitchen with pretty flowers on the tiles and an open fireplace where sometimes he was allowed to make his own toast. It tasted far superior that way - the bread was still mostly soft and the butter hot and freshly melted. Not like toast at Hogwarts - cold and hard scratchy triangles with barely any butter. But the school kitchens were almost as nice, expansive but somehow still warm and always bustling with activity even though the castle currently had so few visitors. The tiles were decorated with lions, snakes, badgers and eagles, for obvious reasons, which pounced or undulated, snuffled or swooped the length of the worktables. There was often a house-elf or two singing somewhere in the distance, faintly audible against the gentle background chatter and the noise of crockery. The tables in the middle mirrored those in the great hall but at elf height. He wondered if the elves ate there, once they had sent the human food to the tables above. This made him wonder if there was an elf for every student and teacher. He had no idea where they all slept.

He was looking forward to term time now he knew the secret of the ticklish pear. Play it right and a supply of sweets would be very useful in negotiations and make him a certain invite for parties. Perhaps he could undercut Honeydukes and start making a little pocket money. Just among the first and second years to start - the older years surely knew where the kitchens were and would probably stamp down on an enterprise like that. Unless he could give them a cut. He shook the thought away to concentrate. If tonight was to be a sleepover, things had to be done properly. He ordered from the first elf he saw - two hot chocolates with whipped cream and marshmallows and cinnamon (in a stasis charm so it would keep warm for whenever Harry decided to turn up) and some no-melt vanilla ice-cream with sugar quills stuck in the top like Mother always made for him as a treat. Then on a sudden whim he asked them if they had any salt and vinegar muggle crisps. Harry had said the other day he liked them and they sounded disgusting, honestly, but Draco was quite curious to try them.

The elf grinned and gave him six packets and a little bag to carry them as well as an enormous tray for the hot chocolates and ice cream. Draco had gawked at them. Why wouldn't the elf just send it all straight to the hospital wing? But before he had the chance to complain, they had pushed him gently back out of the door. He just had time to remember to thank them before the portrait closed. Then he had to carry it all the way back up! Three floors! He considered calling on Dobby for a moment but then decided against it. The house-elf had told him to call if he needed, but the elf was probably having a nice, easy time in the manor for a change. He couldn’t call on him too often; it might attract attention. He didn't believe for a moment the adults would be happy for him and Dobby to get up to tricks in the castle unsupervised.

When he got back, Harry was lying on his side on his bed staring into space. Moping is what Mother would have called it. Draco cleared his throat several times but Potter didn't even look up, nevermind offer to help. So Draco had to carry the tray all the way over to the bed next to Potter where he had dumped his bag earlier.

“Severus says we're to have a sleepover,” he announced and finally Harry scrambled up.

"What?" Harry blinked. "Woah, Draco, what's that?"

"Sleepover stuff," said Draco. "Obviously." He was a little nonplussed when Harry just stared at him. Did muggles not have sleepovers?

Draco huffed. "Here, take it already. Hot chocolate."

Harry picked a mug carefully off the tray. "It's got marshmallows," he said. "I've never had it with marshmallows."

Draco rolled his eyes. Harry was so picky! "You've missed out, then," he tutted. "Just try it. I'm sure you'll like it."

Harry didn't even smile. He just looked extremely serious as he tried to drink it and got the whipped cream all over his nose. Draco smirked.

"Do you like it?"

Harry nodded. He looked dazed. Draco supposed it was odd the two of them having a sleepover but if Draco could tolerate it, Harry could at least pretend to be having fun. He passed him his bowl of ice cream and the crisps.

"You got salt and vinegar," Harry said blankly. "I thought you’d never had them?"

"I’m not scared to try something new," Draco argued. "Unlike some people. Even if they do sound disgusting."

Harry finally smiled. Why was he so weird?

"Thanks, Draco," he muttered. “A real sleepover.” At least that was what it sounded like, although Draco was pretty sure he must have misheard. For a while they didn't say anything, just licked at their spoons full of cream and sprinkles.

“Why are you so quiet?” Draco grumbled.

“I don't know,” said Harry, sounding exasperated. “Why are you?”

“I'm not quiet!” said Draco. “I'm chatty! I'm practically holding this conversation together all by myself!”

Harry snorted. He pulled open a packet of crisps and held it out to Draco. Draco wrinkled his nose but picked out a large one. Harry took a whole handful and stuffed them in his mouth. Draco watched in some surprise; the crunching could probably be heard in London. Then he licked his crisp delicately and then held it on his tongue.

"Disgusting," he said, when it had disintegrated. "It's like acid."

Harry stared at him. "It's salt and vinegar," he said, his mouth still full. "What did you expect?"

"Can I have another one?"

Harry raised his eyebrows and then threw one at him like he was feeding a dangerous animal.

Draco caught it and this time chewed. The flavour crackled; it stung where he’d bitten the side of his mouth earlier. "It tastes like a scourgify on my tongue,” he said.

Harry tilted his head in confusion, his expression reminding Draco of a puffskein he once had. They were not the smartest creatures.

"It's like a lightning flavoured jelly bean, but made of potato," Draco went on. “No wonder you like it, scarhead.”

Harry snorted. “Do you like them?”

Draco thought about it. “Yes,” he said, a little surprised at himself.

Harry handed him another packet and lay back on his bed. Draco struggled to open it but Harry only watched him with a little smirk. When Draco finally succeeded, he threw a whole handful of crisps at Harry's smug face.

"Draco!" Harry gasped, sitting up and then trying belatedly to stop the crisps falling to the floor. "Don't waste them."

"It's fine, we’ve got 6 packets and there's plenty more downstairs," said Draco. "I'll get you more."

Harry gaped and then picked the crisps up off the floor and threw them back.

Draco shrieked. "Harry! Those ones have been on the floor! There's dust on them!"

Harry snorted. "Don't dish it out if you can't take it."

"It's not the same! They've been on the floor!"

Harry threw one of the unopened packets in his face. So Draco opened it and emptied it over Harry's head. Harry gasped and pushed Draco over and then sat on him, which Draco thought was going a bit far, especially when he started tickling.

"No! Potter! Stop! No!" Draco screeched, laughing.

Harry stopped. "Are you OK?"

"Don't tickle!" Draco gasped and Harry backed off immediately.

"Sorry," said Harry quickly, blushing as he sat back on his own bed. Draco had no idea what was going on in Harry's head but he had gone from playful to meek and gloomy in about three seconds. He then knelt and started to pick up the mess of crunched up crisps from the floor.

“What are you doing?” said Draco.

Harry looked at him like he didn't understand the question.

“You don't need to do that, it’s not hygienic,” said Draco. “Dobby!”

Dobby appeared with a crack. Harry yelped and fell backwards onto the floor. Draco and Dobby looked at him in surprise.

“Er…” said Draco, watching Harry scramble up in the most clumsy, undignified way he had ever seen. How was this boy the youngest seeker in a century again? “Could you please clean this away for us, Dobby?”

“No problem, Master Draco,” Dobby clicked his fingers and the mess vanished. He beamed and Draco realised he had been silly not to call him earlier.

“Dobby?” Harry asked. “Er… hi! I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

He sat down at Dobby’s height and put out his hand to shake. Draco rolled his eyes. Trust Potter to be more polite to elves than he was to wixen. Dobby looked to him and back at Draco.

Draco shrugged. “Go on, it’s ok.” Harry and Dobby shook hands and Draco could have sworn Dobby’s lip trembled.

“Harry Potter is a great wizard with beautiful hair. Master Draco was correct,” Dobby murmured.

Shit. Draco froze.

Harry blinked a few times and then ignored that statement, as though he hadn't processed it at all. Draco let out his breath; Harry must not have heard.

“You work for Draco?” Harry asked.

“Dobby is the Malfoy house-elf,” Dobby agreed.

“You have servants?” Harry frowned at Draco. Draco shrugged.

“No sir, Dobby is not getting paid, of course not. Dobby is an elf,” said Dobby happily.

Harry's frown only deepened. He actually stood up off the bed and waved his arm. “You clean for Draco and he doesn't pay you?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “He's a house-elf, Harry. You don't pay them.”

“Of course, sir!” Dobby beamed, his eyes shining. “Cooks, cleans, gardens, keeps master's secrets, looks out for the one master loves- “

“Shut up, Dobby!” Draco snapped.

But Harry didn't look like he was listening. “You have a slave?” he said, staring at Draco as though seeing him for the first time. Draco stared back, bewildered by Harry’s reaction.

“What's wrong?” he said. “House-elves don't want payment.”

“No,” said Harry. “That's not OK. The elves at Hogwarts must get paid.”

“I highly doubt it,” Draco snorted. “It's OK, They don't want to be free. They've got a roof over their head, we feed them, give them things to wear. Not proper clothes, obviously but-”

Harry made a really weird noise, as though someone had stabbed him. He slumped down on the bed and put his face in his hands. “They're not paid,” he said again. “Oh my god. There are slaves here? They… Oh my god. I can't…”

“Master Draco?” Dobby was biting his lip hard and wringing his hands. “Harry Potter does not like elves?”

“I like elves, elves are fine, Dobby,” said Harry quickly. “I'm sure you're wonderful and kind and hard working. I just don't like people being forced to work for others. It's not right.”

“House elves aren't forced to do anything,” Draco scoffed. “Are they Dobby?”

Dobby hesitated, his ears twitching.

“Are they?” Draco said in surprise. The longer Dobby paused the longer Draco was thinking this was a question someone should have asked a long time ago.

“Of, of course not,” said Dobby eventually, looking down at his feet.

“Tell the truth, Dobby!” said Draco. He winced as Harry and Dobby both flinched.

“Master Draco has always been kind,” said Dobby quickly. “But wizards bind elves by ancient rituals, which do not let them access their own magic unless they serve their family.” He twisted oddly like he was in pain and Draco recognised the symptom. He grabbed Dobby’s arms and held tight to stop him jumping away and hurting himself. “Dobby is honoured to serve the house of Malfoy!” Dobby added. “Dobby has served them well as did his mother and grandfather and great-grandmother and many ancestors before them.”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “But you have no choice! You'll lose your magic if you leave!”

“Dobby chooses to stay,” said Dobby firmly.

“It's not a real choice!” said Harry, clutching at his hair in a way that made him look even more off-balance than usual. Draco was not sure why Harry was so weirdly emotional about house-elves of all things. Was this a muggle thing? But this wasn't how sleepovers were supposed to go and he didn’t want Potter to start disappearing again. If he started to cry, it would set Draco off too. He had barely managed to stop himself last time.

“Um… Do you want payment, Dobby?” Draco asked. “Do you want holidays?”

“Master would give Dobby… holidays?”

“Would you lose your magic?”

“Dobby… isn't sure.”

“We should ask someone,” said Harry. “Maybe there’s a way to reverse the curses.”

Draco felt a little like he was falling. This was getting out of hand. He had a sudden image of his father returning home to find all the house-elves had been freed. He felt a little sick. But Harry was smiling at him and his eyes had brightened. At least it was never boring when he was around, Draco thought.

“I suppose Severus might know,” said Draco slowly. “Dobby? Would you like us to ask someone about whether there is a way for you to be free and paid and to keep your magic?

“It is dishonourable,” said Dobby. “A free elf brings shame upon his loyal ancestors.”

Harry snorted. “That sounds like the kind of thing wixen say to force you to stay, doesn't it?”

Dobby blinked and then bowed low. When he looked back up he had a funny expression on his face: something between scorn and amusement. “Harry Potter is new to this world," said Dobby. "Master Draco was right: Harry Potter has a kind heart, beautiful eyes and he understands nothing.”

“Dobby, please, shut up,” Draco groaned.

Harry looked baffled. “Huh?” he said. “You said what?”

“I said nothing like that,” Draco clarified with all the dignity he could muster.

“No, but master Draco writes about it a lot in his diaries,” said Dobby.

Harry choked.

“Go home Dobby,” Draco yelled, which wiped the malevolent grin off the little elf’s face. “Go home now!”

"Goodbye Harry Potter! Goodbye Master Draco!" Dobby bowed and vanished.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Draco yelled. He wasn't sure if he was yelling at Dobby who had already gone or Harry or himself but this sleepover was the worst thing that had ever happened to him and he couldn't breathe. He knew he should be playing it cool, denying everything with the cold calm his father made him practise but this - this was beyond anything.

“Hey, it's OK, Draco,” Harry was smirking. “Thanks for introducing me to Dobby. Your slave. Who reads your secret diary about my beautiful eyes.”

“He doesn't!” Draco yelled. “He never has. Because I don't even have a diary. He's not my slave. He was teasing me! He does that. I hate your stupid eyes and your stupid hair. And your stupid face! You don't know anything! “

Harry just carried on smirking. Draco grabbed his bag and stormed away from him, leaving the remains of the ice cream and the hot chocolate to spill over the blanket. He was so flustered he ended up storming the wrong way, further into the hospital, away from the exit, so in the end he just took the bed the furthest away from stupid Harry scarhead Potter and lay facing the wall and decided that he would just pretend he had meant to do that and didn't need to put on his pyjamas or brush his teeth. He would go straight to sleep.

“Draco, I'm sorry,” Harry shouted from the other end of the wing, like a pleb. Draco put a pillow over his head and ignored him. He clutched the blanket tight to himself and kept his eyes closed. He heard footsteps approaching.

“I really am sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have teased,” said Harry.

Draco didn’t move. He was asleep. Merlin, some people didn’t even know not to disturb people when they were trying to sleep. Uncultured, uneducated piece of -

“Goodnight,” said Harry and his footsteps pattered away.

Draco didn’t move. He lay scrunched up and frowning and stared at the wall. And somehow, despite it being early, despite the lights still being on, he actually managed to drift off to sleep.

He must have slept for some hours because it was dark when Draco woke up. He sat bold upright. There had been a noise. A scream? He paused but didn’t hear anything else. He yawned and realised he needed the bathroom. He swung himself out of bed only to find he had fallen asleep without even changing into his pyjamas or taking his shoes off. His mouth tasted slimy and with horror he realised he hadn't even done his teeth! Only a few weeks without his parents and already he was becoming a ghoul.

The hospital wing was dark and quiet. He peeked over to Harry's bed but Harry was curled up facing away from him. He was very still and wasn't making any noise, so Draco assumed he was asleep. He found his toothbrush and toothpaste and tiptoed away to the little bathroom at the end of the ward. On his way back he discovered he had been wrong. Harry had his eyes closed but he wasn’t sleeping. His glasses were on the bedside table and Draco could see very clearly that his face was swollen and wet - his eyes were streaming and he was shuddering slightly as though trying to hold his breath and failing. He had his arms crossed and fingernails digging into his skin, scratching and he must have been doing this for some time because Draco could see raised, bumpy, reddish skin all the way along his arms.

Draco stared and hesitated a moment before coming to sit next to Harry. "Hey," he whispered. "It's OK."

He touched Harry gently on the shoulder and Harry flinched away with a deep gasp. He released his arms but reached up to pull at his hair.

“Hey, it's OK,” Draco tried again and Harry finally looked up at him.

“Draco?” He had that confused puffskein look again.

Draco shuffled a little closer. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

Harry nodded slowly. "I saw the St Mungo’s person today. And it was fine, I guess. But I dreamt… I dreamt… it doesn’t matter. But I don't want to go home. I don't want to go home." He closed his eyes and shuddered, his whole body rocking.

Draco was not one for patience. He was tired and grouchy and it was late and he was annoyed, so it burst out of him. "Come on, Potter. Get over it. I'd love to go home. You're lucky. You get to see your family, idiot."

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "Please, I don't want to go home, please," and his sobs got a little louder.

Draco groaned. "You big baby," he said. He climbed into Harry's bed and hugged him from behind like Mother used to do when he got bad dreams. "There, there, it's OK," he said and rocked Harry very gently, barely managing not to tut or roll his eyes as he did so. He had half been expecting Harry to yell and jump away but he didn't. His breathing got slower and he seemed to relax a little, though his shoulders were still all hunched up. Draco was very glad Dobby was not here to see this, nevermind his father. After a while, Draco thought Harry must have fallen asleep so he tried to sit up and go back to his own bed. But Harry grabbed his wrist and held onto it hard, his fingers digging in. Draco sighed a long sigh and went back to hugging him. For some time, there was only the sound of breathing. Harry's breath was a little raggedy like he couldn't quite breathe out all the way.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered after a while. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“It's fine,” Draco sighed. “It's not your fault you had a bad dream.”

And then they were quiet. Draco was getting sleepy again. He leant his head forward so his face was just lightly pressed on Harry's back at the top of his t-shirt. He was very boney. His spine was lumpy like it was pushing through his t-shirt. He was still holding Draco's wrist.

“Can you tell me about your home?” Harry whispered.

Draco blinked in surprise and lifted his head off the pillow. “What about it?”

“Dunno. Anything. What colour is your front door? Do you have a garden? What does it smell like? Imagine you're giving me a tour.”

“Why?”

Harry didn't answer for a while. “Sorry, it's stupid,” he said.

Draco let out a long breath. “The door is dark blue and has black and navy glass panels decorated with stars,” said Draco. “Mother redid the front driveway so it has this new paving with these stones that look kind of dark grey and blue but marbled. There's hedges on each side. And white daffodils come up beside them in spring.”

“Hmm,” said Harry. “Sounds pretty. What do you see when you open the door?”

Draco described the entrance hall - the wooden floors, the skylight, the pale blue chaise longue, which he sat on to do up his shoes and the wooden truck full of winter cloaks. He talked about the owl lobby - the pretty wrought iron arches that usually had flowers growing up them all year round because of mother’s warming charms and the way the post owls dropped off letters and parcels in the little nook which was weather protected for the house-elves to collect and bring to breakfast. He imagined walking all the way along the hall and reaching the first drawing room and it was like he was really there with Harry trailing along with him.

He got as far as the second bathroom on the first floor, the one with the ivory-gold colour scheme and the painting of the sun coming out from behind the clouds, when he realised that Harry was snoring softly. Draco hadn't even got to the good bit yet, so he carried on and described his bedroom and then the half size quidditch pitch behind the summer lawn and pavilion. He tried to remember as many flowers as he could from the garden and as many books as he could from the shelves. It was sleepy work. Too sleepy to get up again. Draco let himself drift, thinking of soft rugs, and flower vases and the clean lemony smell of his mother’s potions lab.

Chapter Text

Severus had not slept at all. He had chopped, infused, stewed, simmered and bottled. Nevertheless, he stretched and glided from his work-table with the easy agility of the well-rested. Brewing always slowed him down. It was almost an occlumenative practice, as he stirred and watched and stirred and watched, his thoughts drifting in and out without getting a hold on him. His medical stock would be back on track in no time. He made his way up to the hospital wing, congratulating himself on his cunning. He had suspected Potter might appreciate company after his St Mungo’s appointment. And if anyone could draw Draco out from his recent, uncharacteristic reclusivity, Severus could trust Potter to rile him up. The pair were as pyrophoric as erumpent horn fluid. But still, better them together than each alone.

His slightly sleepy but contented sense of security lasted all the way up until he swept into the hospital wing. Then, he almost tripped over his robes at the sight of the two boys curled around each other in the same bed. Severus had to lean against the wall and take a breath. Was this what Draco had understood by a sleepover? Of all the… did he have to give Draco the talk? This was not… he could not be expected to… he felt all the calm of the night shatter into panic and then caught Poppy’s eye. She was smiling at him. There was no worry on her face. She was looking over at them with the gentle fondness she usually reserved for Minerva.

Severus let out his breath. The boys were still very young, really. Affection starved. Friends could sleep in the same bed. He had done so with Lily many times whenever the Evans had taken him in for a few nights and that had been long before he had had any real understanding of romance or sex. He chastised himself for jumping to conclusions. They looked so very innocent in sleep. Two little kittens; Day and Night. He raised an eyebrow to himself at this thought; his sleep deprivation must have damaged his faculties. He cleared his throat and strode away to Poppy’s office to help himself to a coffee. Let them sleep.

When he threw one last glance back, he saw Harry’s arm was flung over Draco’s stomach. Draco’s face was tucked into Harry’s shoulder. It was an odd development for the Potter-Malfoy rivalry, the bitter hostility that had not gone unnoticed by the staff earlier this year. But stranger things had happened and, after all, it had been a catastrophic summer for the pair of them. If Albus could see Harry right now… young, dark lord indeed.

The headmaster had been respectful of Poppy's decision to keep Harry in the hospital wing so far, but he was starting to drop more and more hints that this wasn't a permanent solution. Severus was not looking forward to the moment he would have to confront Albus directly again. It must be approaching; the case for keeping Harry at Hogwarts was growing more and more tenuous by the day as he recovered well enough to run around outside with the Weasleys.

Severus was surprised that in the last couple of weeks, Draco had also gained some healthy weight and a light summer tan. Molly had gone as far as describing Draco as a lovely, caring, polite young man, which Severus had repeated to himself in surprise, half wondering if Molly was so overwhelmed by her worry for the boys, that she had lost all perspective. But Draco, although still plagued with moody bouts of withdrawing to his room, did seem to be a little more resilient. He didn't gripe about Harry or the Weasleys or the food or general anti-Slytherin bias nearly as often as before.

After their morning foraging, the three of them sat down to breakfast in his quarters, a little later than had become usual. The elves had taken to preparing them each their own individual dishes. Severus assumed that Draco enjoyed his sourdough, spinach and deviled eggs as much as Harry enjoyed his milk and sugary, beige flakes. At least Severus was extremely happy with his black coffee and his slice of cheese, no matter how the boys laughed at it. It was disconcerting how they giggled; Severus almost wondered how he would maintain discipline during term time. But then he only had to gaze at them and the frivolity dried up.

“And how was your sleepover?” Severus finally remembered to ask.

“It was OK,” said Draco at the same time as Harry said, "it was brilliant."

Draco gave Harry a sharp look as though afraid Harry was being sarcastic. But Harry was just smiling.

“We had hot chocolate,” said Draco cautiously. “And muggle crisps.”

“And Draco told me about his house,” Harry added.

Draco groaned. “You didn't even listen! You fell asleep before I even got to the quidditch pitch.”

“You have a quidditch pitch?” spluttered Harry. “In your house?”

“In the garden,” said Draco. “Not as big as here, obviously. A little field really.”

“Do all wixen houses have stuff like that?” asked Harry.

“No, they certainly do not,” said Severus. “Draco is very privileged.”

Draco shrugged. “Not like I can even go there right now,” he mumbled.

Neither Severus nor Harry said anything to that.

“What's your house like then?” Draco asked Harry.

Severus looked up; Harry looked a little haunted. Then, to Severus' surprise, he grinned. “It has a long driveway with red stone paving,” he started. “And some wooden boxes full of sunflowers. And a red front door.”

“Sounds garish,” said Draco. “How very Gryffindor.”

“Draco,” said Severus warningly.

But Harry just laughed. “Yeah. And it opens onto a large hallway with a wooden floor. The walls are painted light blue and there are some paintings of beaches.”

Severus wasn't sure where Harry was describing, but it certainly wasn't Privet Drive. Either Harry hadn't realised or had forgotten Snape had been there.

“There are no stairs,” said Harry. “Not in the whole house. To get up to the next floor there's a lift.”

“What’s a lift?” asked Draco.

“Um, it’s like a small muggle room that goes up and down floors to move people.”

“They have those at the Ministry. I didn’t realise muggles had them in their houses. Do they have a lot of floors then? What's your bedroom like?”

“It's huge. It’s navy blue with golden - er... stars hanging from the ceiling. The carpet is really thick and fluffy. And I have this strawberry flavoured candle so it smells really good in there, not like mould or damp at all.”

“I'm never allowed candles in my room,” Draco sighed.

“And I have bookcases with actual books on and a shelf with lots of board games and a desk that isn’t broken and has a matching seat and my own little kitchen bit along one wall with cupboards for snacks.”

“Are you serious? Do you keep your crisps in there? In your bedroom? What about crumbs?”

“It’s ok, we pay a cleaner who comes every day and cooks everything as well as cleans and does the garden. It's a very big house, I couldn't do it all by myself. And the garden is huge, like a field but there isn't much done to it so it's just full of herbs and wildflowers and pigeons and squirrels and things.”

“Sounds beautiful,” said Severus. “Your mother would have loved it.”

So many expressions flurried across Harry's face at once, shock and guilt and disbelief. "You knew my mother?"

"We were good friends when we were little. I lived on the same street."

Harry's mouth fell open. Draco scrunched his whole face up in disgust, as though Severus had been keeping secrets from him. Severus stared back at him evenly until he dropped the scowl.

"What was my mother… my mum… what was she like?" Harry asked.

Severus exhaled slowly. How to fit a whole person into a few sentences? “Charms was her favourite subject. She laughed a lot. She loved reading and played the saxophone. She used to eat mars bars and jelly babies at the same time.”

Harry gave the happiest little laugh Severus had ever heard. “Did she like crisps?” he asked.

“I don't remember. She liked popcorn. We used to eat it while we watched films together. One of her favourites was Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” Severus shuddered.

“I’ve seen that!” Harry almost yelled. “Aunt Petunia likes it! Did you go to Hogwarts together?”

“We were in the same year. Different houses, of course. But we stayed friends for a number of years.”

Harry pushed the dregs of his breakfast round and round his bowl. Severus stared at the soggy mush until Draco caught his eye and Severus realised he was pulling the same disgusted, scrunched up face his godson had earlier. He coughed lightly and schooled his face back into polite blankness.

“I don't know anything about her,” Harry muttered. “I hadn't even seen a picture of her until Hagrid showed me.”

Draco turned on Harry. “That doesn't make any sense. She's your mother!”

Harry shrugged then looked back at Severus. “Will you tell me some more about her?” he pleaded. “I'll do anything. I can clean the dungeons if you like.”

Draco's eyebrow rose. “Why would you do that?”

“I'm not good at anything else,” said Harry. He turned back to Severus. “But I promise you, I'm good at cleaning.”

“You don't have to clean here. We have house elves,” Draco argued.

Harry opened his mouth as though to shout back but Severus gave him a look and he fell quiet.

“You don’t need to clean,” said Severus. “But I can tell you about her anyway.”

Harry paused. “What do you want in return?” he asked, looking mournful. “I've got some money if you like but I don't really have much of anything else.”

“I don't need anything of yours, Potter,” Severus sighed. “I'll tell you the stories for free.”

Harry looked dubious. “Why?”

“It will be nice to remember my old friend,” he said.

“But -” Harry frowned. “Dumbledore said you and my dad were enemies.”

“Professor Dumbledore, Harry.” Severus wrinkled his nose. “Enemy is a strong word. But we were not friends.”

“Maybe that would have changed if he hadn't died?” said Harry.

“Perhaps,” said Severus stiffly. Not likely, he thought, repressing the urge to sneer.

“Do you have any old stories about my parents too?” Draco asked. “Like embarrassing things they did when they were little?”

“Oh yes,” said Severus. “But you will have to clean the dungeons to get those out of me.”

Draco bristled with outrage and Harry roared with laughter.

…

All was well, thought Harry. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Dursleys, which was fine by him. His first mind healer appointment had been terrifying and somewhat draining but it hadn't lasted too long and thought he could manage going once a week. The mind healer looked a bit like one of his old Primary school teachers, tall and thin and with a quick grin. He told Harry his name was Usman and said Harry didn't have to talk about anything he didn't want to, which was reassuring. Sometimes they could just sip tea or even draw or do a puzzle. Harry hadn't really minded chatting. He gave Usman a rough outline of growing up with the Dursleys, leaving out most of the really bad stuff. Then he'd talked about all the fun he had had in the castle on his own. Usman had asked him to draw Hedwig and hadn't even minded when Harry explained that he was very bad at art and didn't want to waste the pencils.

He wasn't sure why he'd dreamt that night that Dudley was forcing him to eat crayons, he'd never done anything like that. But Harry had woken with a certainty that he was dying, that the pencils had scratched all the way down to his stomach, that he was going to be sick, that already the lead was poisoning his blood. But then Draco had been weirdly nice about the whole thing, which made Harry feel guilty that he and Dobby had teased him earlier. He couldn't understand why Draco had flipped out, it was so obvious that Dobby had been kidding. But at least in the morning they seemed to have some sort of truce: Harry had crept out of bed to shower and dress and when he got back, Draco hadn’t said anything, just carried on combing his hair and putting on his face creams as though Harry wasn’t there.

When they finished breakfast with Severus, Draco said he wanted to stay in his room so Harry left him to it and made his way to the library to do some reading before Ron came for lunch. There weren't a lot of books that mentioned elves, but he found a few bits and pieces. He wrote out some notes and then wondered if he could ask Professor Snape to copy them so he could send them to Hermione. Harry was sure she’d be interested, although he had been putting off writing to her for ages. When he had finished reading, he forced himself to try, dipping his quill into the ink quickly enough that he didn’t have to think. He started with a rushed apology. She had probably heard everything about his summer from Ron already, but he told her again anyway. Her last letter had been everything he feared: bubbling over with shock, anxiety, advice and questions, most of which he ignored in his reply.

It was a good excuse to go and see Hedwig. She fluttered down the moment he walked into the owlery and Harry rested at the top of the stairs for some time just stroking her. He had done a lot of walking recently and still found he got a little more tired than he used to. Hedwig didn’t seem to mind the stillness. She perched on his arm and occasionally shifted her position, shaking out her wings.

“It’s been a funny few weeks,” he told her. She swivelled her head around and then clicked her beak. It looked almost like she was yawning. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” he added. “Are you ready to fly?” Her claws pushed into his arm, lifting one after the other. He gave her Hermione’s letter and let her go.

He was climbing back down when he heard footsteps coming up the other way. He paused and saw Professor Dumbledore’s beard float around the corner, followed by the rest of him. Honestly he was surprised that Dumbledore could manage so many stairs at his age. But he supposed he must have to use the school owls sometimes like anyone else. It was odd to stare down at him but Dumbledore’s smile was crinkly and Harry couldn’t help but feel relaxed. The last week really had felt like a proper holiday.

“Harry!” Dumbledore beamed. “You’re looking well,”

“Thank you,” Harry paused and then realised it was his opportunity. “Can I please ask you something about elves, sir?”

Dumbledore blinked. “Of course. I’ll walk you down.”

“Don’t you need to send something?”

“That’s quite all right. I simply like to walk up for the view sometimes. So, elves? As in house elves?”

“Yes," said Harry. "Is there a way to free them so they don’t have to lose their magic?”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “An interesting question. Why do you ask?”

Harry explained about Dobby and Dumbledore seemed intrigued by the question. “Well, if Dobby is ever freed, he would be welcome here. He could join our elves.”

“Would you pay him? Give him holidays?”

“If he wished so, yes. I would be happy to negotiate with him.”

“Could you make sure his magic is ok?”

“That’s a much bigger question and one that I don’t know the answer to. Permit me to do some reading, Harry?”

“Thank you, sir!”

“In many places, however, house elves are treated well. They’re considered one of the family.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t think someone who has to do all the work and isn’t allowed to leave is really a family member.”

“Even if they’re loved?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Harry wasn’t sure. “It’s just not the same,” he said eventually.

“You have a big heart, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “But being part of a family will always take some effort. Your family misses you, you know.”

Harry froze. “I don’t think that can be true,” he mumbled.

“Why not?”

Harry shrugged. Dumbledore frowned and Harry looked away to stare at his shoes. Perhaps this conversation had been a mistake. They walked in silence for a little while. Harry couldn’t quite keep up with Dumbledore’s long stride, so he ended up almost trotting along beside him. He wasn’t sure how to take leave of Dumbledore but it seemed like they were walking the same way anyway.

“Are there other kinds of magic people?” asked Harry. “Aside from elves and centaurs and goblins and trolls?”

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore and launched into a long list. Harry felt a little like he was falling through a dream. Giants. Mermaids. Werewolves. The world was a bigger place than he had ever imagined.

“Why don’t any elf or mermaid or goblin or troll children come to Hogwarts?” he asked. “Do they have their own schools? Could we do an exchange?”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Then suddenly he looked at Harry and smiled. “That’s a very good question, Harry,” he said. “Unfortunately, our curriculum is limited to wand-based magic at the moment. And other beings are not permitted wands by our current government.”

“Why not?”

“That is a very long and interesting question. Some people would say they don’t need wands. Others would say that wands are a wixen invention which they are not obligated to share. Others still might say that wixen are afraid to upset the balance of power between communities.”

“You mean wixen want to stay more powerful than the others.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that is pretty much the way of it.”

“But what if Dobby wanted to come to Hogwarts?”

“Does Dobby want to join classes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you might ask him. And I’d very much like to meet him, if he wouldn’t mind.”

“Ok! I can ask! Thanks, Professor!”

Harry realised he hadn’t been paying any attention to where they were going for some time. They were now at the bottom of a golden, spiralling staircase. It glittered so brightly that Harry blinked a few times. Dumbledore gently pushed him forward and before Harry could ask where they were, the staircase was moving up, almost like an escalator. When it stopped he stepped onto a platform in front of an enormous gargoyle. Dumbledore said “Bertie Botts,” and it sprang to the side.

Harry followed the headmaster into a beautiful office, full of twinkling little lights and floating stacks of floating books and scrolls, just like in the library. Beside the door there was a perch with an enormous bird that was the most vivid red colour Harry had ever seen.

“That’s not an owl,” he said, somewhat stupidly.

Dumbledore chuckled. “This is Fawkes. He’s a phoenix.”

“Hello,” said Harry and Fawkes chirped. Dumbledore steered Harry around the desk and to a corner where there were two big, squishy sofas and a table laden with little square cakes in pastel colours. Sat among the cushions was Aunt Petunia. Harry felt his stomach drop.

“Harry,” she said in a strange, babyish voice. “You’re all grown up! Quite the little man. Do you have a hug for your aunty?"

Harry took a step back and then got a hold of himself. He took a breath and put his arms out. Petunia stood, brushed down her dress and then pulled him into a tight squeeze. Her fingers dug into his arms. “We’ve missed you, Harry dear.”

“I missed you too,” he stated. His voice sounded very flat. He hadn’t played this game for a while.

“Tell me about Hogwarts,” she said. “How was your year?”

Harry didn’t know what to say. “It…” he shrugged. “It was great.”

Both Dumbledore and Aunt Petunia chuckled.

“One day you’ll have to show me around,” she smiled. “Lily always said how beautiful the library was, though I’ve never seen it.”

She and Dumbledore chatted a little while about Hogwarts while Harry sat quietly. He ate a cake and held his cup of tea with fingers that barely trembled. It tasted very sweet and milky. He really didn’t want to drop it. He concentrated on staring at it and letting the noise of chatter wash over him. He felt strange. He was only sitting down, but suddenly all his muscles were aching as though he had been playing quidditch for hours.

“Well, Harry, dear boy,” said Dumbledore. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Today?” Harry asked.

“Yes. No need to hang around. We’ll floo both you through to Hogsmeade and then I’ll apparate you back.” Harry saw Aunt Petunia give the slightest shudder.

“You’ll be back here before you know it,” said Dumbledore kindly. “Your aunty came all this way to surprise you, isn’t that good of her?”

Harry swallowed. “Yes, thank you,” he said. It was just over a week until September 1st. No problem. “And my trunk and things?”

Dumbledore waved his hand and they appeared beside the coffee table. Harry saw Aunt Petunia’s eyes narrow as she looked at Hedwig’s cage. Harry wondered if Dumbledore had been planning this for some time. He was going back to Privet Drive. He felt a little fuzzy. He didn’t want to go.

“Can I say goodbye to Draco? And Professor Snape?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not this time, but you’ll see them again very soon.”

Harry digested this. “The Weasleys are coming this afternoon. I should thank them.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Harry put down his cup and saucer. He brushed his sweaty palms on his trousers. This wasn’t right. The problem was Ron and Hermione. Draco and Severus. Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, Hagrid. Molly, Arthur, Fred, George, Ginny. They had as good as promised he didn’t have to go back, hadn’t they? They’d certainly notice; they’d certainly ask questions. He had to make a fuss. They’d want him to make a fuss. He needed to get word to any one of them. His brain was moving so slowly. He felt like a mouse caught in his Aunt’s gaze. She and Dumbledore were both smiling down at him.

Harry’s words clicked and choked in his throat. “I… I need - Can I…” He looked round at the door. This was it.

“There, now. It’s ok, Harry,” Dumbeldore said kindly. “We’ve got you.” He patted him on the shoulder and then pushed him gently towards the fire.

It would be so easy. To nod and follow. Harry took a few steps forward. But he didn’t want this. He didn’t want this. And, for the first time, he knew that mattered. The others would agree with him. He thought of Dobby, smiling as he insisted he didn't mind working for the Malfoys. He felt the weight of Mrs Weasley’s hands on his. Draco’s breath tingled on the back of his neck. It was as though Snape was holding out a vial for him: another option.

“Wait,” said Harry. “I don’t want to go.” He planted his feet into the carpet. Dumbledore paused behind him. His hand had been light against Harry's back and now pressed against him, encouraging him to keep walking.

“No more tantrums,” groaned Petunia. “Come on, Harry.“

Harry turned to Dumbledore. The old man smiled down at him. “Harry, you must -”

“I want to negotiate,” Harry interrupted him.

Dumbledore’s eyes widened slightly. Aunt Petunia scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“That's enough,” she said. “Dudley is waiting for us.” But Harry kept staring at Dumbledore, who stared right back.

“Negotiate?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. “If you want me to live there, I need some security.”

“Security!” Dumbledore chuckled. “Harry, it’s the safest place-”

“I want at least one meal every day,” Harry said quickly. “I don’t want Hedwig to be hurt or locked up. I want to be able to read my school books and talk to Hermione on the phone. I don’t want to do more than 4 hours of chores a day without a break. I don’t want to do more than 8 hours in total per day.”

Aunt Petunia laughed, a raspy kind of sound, more high pitched than usual. “Of course, of course, Harry, don’t be silly. We all have to pitch in around the house but-”

“I don’t want Dudley to hurt me. I don’t want Uncle Vernon to shout. I don’t want you to lock me in the cupboard or the shed or outside or in the car. I don’t want you to ignore me for days at a time. I don’t want you to go on holiday and leave me behind. I want to go to hospital if I get hurt like normal people.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were as wide as Harry had ever seen them. “My dear boy-” he said.

“Is there a way to guarantee that?” asked Harry. “Some kind of magical contract? Or, or… can I have someone come to stay with me? Can Snape or Mrs Weasley come check on me? Could I stay there during the day, but come back here to sleep and eat?”

“Absurd,” said Petunia. “Of course we’ll give you three meals every day, Harry. You might not be able to choose the meals every day, but we’ve never not fed you -

“That’s not true,” Harry managed. He couldn't look at her or he'd lose his nerve.

“Children can be such fussy eaters.”

“I always wanted food,” Harry whispered. “I kept asking for food and you made me cook it but you hardly ever let me eat it!” His voice was wobbling. “You used to lock me in the cupboard. Ron said he was sad for me. It’s not normal to be treated like that. I don’t want to go with you.”

“You’re getting hysterical. Our house isn’t enormous, you can’t always have things just because you want them -“

“Dudley had two bedrooms and… I just had the cupboard.”

Petunia sucked in her breath. Harry took an involuntary step away from her.

“Petunia,” said Dumbledore slowly. “Is this true?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, looming over Harry. “We gave him a bedroom. He’s a dirty, little liar. Always getting in the way, always demanding more and more. He’s spoiled. And I see that a year of school has only made him worse. He’s as bad as Lily: rotten. Nothing we do has ever helped. He has magic, he could do anything! He could have won us the lottery or cleaned the house in a minute. But no, he’s a selfish, little boy who keeps his magic to himself, except for when he can embarrass us. Always whinging and moaning. To think, the amount we’ve given him. And to be paid back with what? These wild allegations? Fancy yourself a little Cinderella, do you? It’s not going to work; Professor Dumbledore is not stupid. We’re going home, now.”

“No,” said Harry.

“You disgusting, little-”

“That’s enough, Petunia,” said Dumbledore. “That’s enough.” He rubbed his chest. Harry looked from him to Aunt Petunia and back again. Her face was squeezed up tight like she was smelling something bad. Dumbledore’s face looked slack in shock.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said. “I think I misunderstood you previously.” He turned to Petunia. “I think I understand now very well what you’re saying. Harry, you may go back to the hospital wing and stay there.”

“You can’t seriously tell me you believe him? He’s manipulating you! He's a nasty-”

“Go, Harry,”

Harry fled. He ran all the way back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He had negotiated. He could stay. He wouldn’t be forced to go back. Not while he could speak up and question it. Draco had found him. Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey had healed him. Mrs Weasley had hugged him. Ron had held his arms when he felt like he was drifting. And finally, finally, Dumbledore had understood. Harry ran flat out, as fast as he had ever run, as though Dudley and his gang were right behind him. There was no way he was going back to hiding away. Not if he could help it. And if he ever fell a little too far from the main road again, there would be plenty of people to notice, who could offer him a hand to help him pull himself back. He ran all the way back to the hospital wing and crashed right into Professor Mcgonagall who was just inside the door. He stared up at her in shock.

“Potter?” she said. “Harry? Are you OK?”

He shook his head. He gripped onto her arm as though he might fall.

“Slow down,” she said. “Harry, it's OK. Can you tell me what's wrong?”

“My aunt came to pick me up,” Harry croaked. “But she shouted at me and Dumbledore told me to come back here. He said I could stay here.”

Mcgonagall sighed and began to stroke his back. Harry closed his eyes. For a little while, they just stood there, Harry taking deep, slow breaths.

“I'm so glad to hear you can stay, Harry." Professor McGonagall's voice was brisk, as though merely congratulating him on an adequate piece of homework. She coughed. "I'm so glad to hear that. I don’t want you going back there.”

“Me either,” said Harry. “I thought they were going to take me back. I thought I had to leave. But I don't want to go back there.”

“We’re not going to let that happen.” Her voice was as stiff as he’d ever heard it. But when he looked up, she was smiling and her eyes were teary. “I’m glad you’re here,” she added. “I was about to have tea with Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid, Arthur and a nice lady called Ria. Let's get you inside.”

Harry let himself be steered into the office. When Professor Mcgonagall opened the door, the adults looked up at them in surprise. Harry stared at them all, suddenly on edge and very exposed. But then Arthur waved to him and Madam Pomfrey winked and Hagrid yelled, “Harry! Lovely to see you!”

And Harry grinned. He let them load him up with his second mug of tea and piece of cake in as many hours and then perched on the sofa next to Arthur. After his sudden shock, he found himself strangely sleepy. He didn't pay much attention to the adults' conversation, but he let the warmth of their words drift over and surround him as he ate the last cake crumbs, put down his mug and curled up for a nap.