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Chapter Text

There was something decidedly off with Malfoy this year. For one thing, he was eating dinner at the Hufflepuff table, talking to a Hufflepuff of all people. In Malfoy's world, all the duffers went to Hufflepuff. Before Hogwarts at Madam Malkin's shop, Malfoy had loudly proclaimed he'd rather be a squib than be Sorted into that House. And associating with someone in a House was as good as being in that house, according to Malfoy. This was all very suspicious behavior, and yet none of his friends could just see it!

"Mate, you really have got to let go of your Malfoy obsession," Ron said except with half the syllables missing as he was yet again talking with his mouth full of chicken leg. "Could you pass the potatoes?"

Harry stared past Ron's head and absentmindly pushed the bowl. "I think the Hufflepuffs have figured out Malfoy's plot."

Ron turned his head and squinted. "You sure? It looks more like they're terrified of sitting less than two seats away from him, minus the one."

"They're sitting away from Malfoy because they know what he's up to!"

"Malfoy could just smell bad."

"He wears the same cologne everyday. It's impossible he forgot it today. In fact, I can smell it from here, right now." Harry couldn't name the bottle, but it was an inoffensive vanilla scent with notes of amber and wood.

"I'm only saying—"

"Look!" Harry forcibly moved Ron's head. "He's laughing."

"Yes, people tend to do that if they find something funny," Ron said, still chewing.

"Malfoy laughs at people. He's laughing with the Hufflepuff!" Harry insisted. "Definitely up to no good."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe it's not Malfoy. Who knows, that 'Puff could have snuck something into his drink."

"He's sitting at the Hufflepuff table!" Harry was beginning to seethe.

"It is a bit out of character to see a Slytherin at any of the other tables," Ron admitted. "Especially alone, like Malfoy usually keeps bodyguards with him."

"Oh honestly, you don't even know the student's name," Hermione huffed. She leaned across the table and frowned. "Admittedly, I can't place a name on him either."

Harry was distinctly aware he likely was making a fool out of himself squinting evermore into the back of the unidentified Hufflepuff's head, but he found he didn't care. He had absolutely no idea who that Hufflepuff Malfoy was talking with was, which was a bit of a problem, considering he now was utterly convinced he had to be involved with Malfoy's plot.

"You do realize every time we've thought it was Malfoy's fault, it hasn't been?" Hermione said.

"Well," Harry said, "one of these days it will be his fault eventually."

"That's..." Hermione sighed. "Oh nevermind. But you can't just keep staring at them, honestly."

"You're right," said Harry, who definitely did not have a reckless idea in mind.

"You know, I really don't trust that," Ron said pointedly. "That's Harry's reckless idea face."

"We'll have to just steal their post and see who they're letting in on their evil plans," he explained.

"Oh good," Ron said, "I thought he was about to suggest something crazy like killing our Defense professor again even though that would be completely unrelated to the Malfoy situation."

"Ron, going through other people's mail is illegal," Hermione pointed out.

Ron did not seem very concerned at the prospect, which was understandable, considering he was the one who decided to drive a flying car to get to Hogwarts their second year. "Someone should have told Dobby that's the case our second year," he declared.

Despite his friends largely dismissing Harry's very valid concerns, they willingly regrouped later in an empty classroom. Hermione came armed with recently learned Decoding Spells, and Ron brought a camera. Which actually, by itself, was rather suspect.

"When did you have a camera?" Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. "Borrowed it from Creevey. I figured we might as well document the memories for the scrapbook."

"I didn't know he let other people even touch his camera," said Harry.

"I was very persuasive."

Hermione frowned. "That'd be evidence against us for our crimes."

"Okay, but consider: scrapbook." Ron held up his fingers as if he were framing a shot. "It'd be dead useful if we ever need to look back on this moment, I reckon."

"Tempting," Harry admitted. "Well, we'll be making copies of all the letters anyway, which is evidence enough. Might as well."

Ron whooped.

Would Harry regret this? He looked at Ron, earnestly cheerful after his brooding stint with the Goblet last year. Nah.

Unfortunately, this plan was not panning out. The Hufflepuff would not appear on the Maurander's Map. Even with Ron coming back with visual confirmation the two were chatting it up in the hall, blurry polaroid photo in hand, Harry could only spot one dot on the map: Draco Malfoy. Alone. Like the Hufflepuff wasn't a real person.

Ron, ignorant to Harry's declining mental state, stuck his terrible polaroid photo into his recently converted planner to scrapbook.

"I gifted that to you years ago for Christmas!" Hermione squawked.

"Yeah, which means I can't exactly use it to plan anymore," Ron said. "Reduce, reuse, recycle, baby!"

Hermione, painfully, could not find a fault in Ron's sudden eco-consciousness. Harry was merely disturbed that Ron correctly used a muggle phrase. He'd have to figure out who taught him later.

"Do you think the Hufflepuff might not have a name?" Harry asked, stumped at the moment.

"Harry, don't be ridiculous, everyone has a name!" Hermione said. "Maybe the map just relies on you to know it before the person starts showing up on it."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I'd really rather not."

With him running out of options though, it seemed he was cornered: Harry would have to talk to the bloke in a normal conversation. At least he could interrogate him on why Malfoy was giving him the time of day, or figure out if he was another Death Eater in sheep's clothing like Pettigrew.

Chapter Text

Harry did not, in fact, go up and ask the Hufflepuff his name. He swears he was going to, but the time between dinner and breakfast just made the thought of dragging his feet along for introductions unappealing. More important right now was finding out how their new Defense teacher would hold up this year, given Dumbledore's difficulty in filling the position.

When he and his friends entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, there was a blackboard set up. In an overzealous cursive, read his name: Prof. Presley Waechter. Harry wasn't entirely sure why the professor bothered, given that he was already introduced by Dumbledore at the Welcoming Feast. It was almost like someone had forgotten to write that part and was compensating.

As more students fluttered in, Professor Waechter sat behind his desk, rummaging through papers. His hair oddly reminded Harry of Neville's, with a similar somewhat messy but still neater than Harry's own wet mop-like, appearance. And blond. He was tanner though. Finally, with everyone in their seats, the professor stood.

"Some of you may have heard that the British Ministry of Magic had petitioned for one of their own to fill my position," he said in a distinctly American accent.

Harry glanced around, and it was obvious that he wasn't the only one in mild shock.

"Fortunately, as a friend of a friend of a friend of a… oh, you get the point, the Headmaster has graciously extended the offer of this position to me. Notably before that deadline the Ministry set."

Hermione shot up her hand.

"Yes? And name, please."

"Hermione Granger. Is magic taught differently where you're from? You're American, aren't you? Did you attend Ilvermorny?"

"Well, there were never any curses on teaching positions at Ilvermorny when I attended," Professor Waechter said. "I was a Wampus, the house of warriors. Which is a bit of an oversimplification but..." He shrugged.

Navigating through the desks, he murmured, "Hmm, this room is a lot smaller than I expected it… I heard you once had to complete an obstacle course for a final. How did they fit it?"

Neville raised his hand. "Professor Lupin had us running it in a different, larger room, sir. Uh, Neville Longbottom, sir."

"Ah, naturally." Professor Waechter clapped his hands. "All right, I was hired on rather short notice, so I didn't have time to prepare a pre-assessment. How about y'all get out some writing supplies and write down bullet points of what you've covered?"

"Y'all?" Ron whispered.

Harry shrugged. Americans were weird.

"If anyone would prefer to do so orally, you may come up to me after class," Professor Waechter continued. "I hope you've already done your summer homework from your other professors, but you can work on that if you're finished or waiting."

As Harry wrote about what Lupin taught him, from grindylows to the Patronus Charm, it occurred to him that Professor Waechter was almost downright normal. There was no headache from his scar, he wasn't famous, and he wasn't a slightly mad fake Auror. Highly suspicious.

"Professor, I just wondered, could you clarify what your qualifications are?" Hermione asked. "It's just, I heard from Professor Dumbledore that's what made filling the position difficult…"

Professor Waechter shot up out of his daze. "Oh! Sorry, I haven't left America in ages… I did certain types of work that were a bit more odd. Sort of like a combination between an Auror and an Unspeakable, I suppose. I'm afraid I'm under an NDA not to speak much of it."

That… was slightly suspicious. Harry would have to research what departments the American Ministry of Magic had. And by that, he meant to ask Hermione, who either knew what Waechter meant already or would research the answer much faster.

"I assure you though, that I'll have all of you sitting here pass your OWLs even if it means setting up review lessons after hours." He paused. "Assuming, of course, that Professor McGonagall allows it. I'll have my office open at daylight hours as well."

Professor Waechter then took out a piece of chalk and wrote below his name on the blackboard:

Course Goals:
1. Know and identify Dark magic.
2. Know and identify Dark creatures.
3. Know how to defend yourself from threats, using magical and non-magical means.

"I understand you're all fifth years, so the basis for this class is hopefully not beneath your notice," Professor Waechter said. "These goals are just what I'm hoping to be able to broadly teach you by the end of the year. Now, I hope I'm not asking too much for you to multitask, but can anyone tell me of any situation where you've had to defend yourselves before?"

Harry raised his hand, along with most of the class.

"Erm, you in the glasses?"

"Harry Potter," he said. Maybe the Boy Who Lived thing didn't cross the pond? "Voldemort's minion forcibly took my blood and then tried to kill me. Very life-threatening situation that required me defending myself."

"Ah."

"Voldemort also murdered Cedric Diggory," Harry said. "Right in front of me. 'Kill the spare' is what he said."

"I am beginning to wonder," Professor Waechter said slowly, "if coming to Britain was a good idea after all." His eyes twitched. "Are all of you traumatized children?"

Several hands went down, but there was still a majority, surprising Harry. It almost offended him. Were they the ones being called mad by the Prophet for saying the truth? He supposed they all did go through the fear of petrification or death during the Chamber of Secrets ordeal. Maybe that was traumatizing for some. Harry was perfectly sane though.

"Well then." Professor Waechter clapped. "If anyone needs a therapist recommendation, I can give you information for mine. She does virtual appointments, so no need to worry about finding transportation to America." He laughed nervously.

"What's a therapist?" Ron asked, hand raised.

Professor Waechter stared at him. "I am going to have a very long day, aren't I? Okay, so a therapist is…"

Chapter Text

It seemed Harry wasn't going to need to run an investigation after all for the Hufflepuff's name. The Daily Prophet already beat him to the punch.

Hogwarts Admits American Witch Hunter!

As soon as he saw the article was written by Skeeter, he scowled.

"Hey, wasn't that the Hufflepuff you thought about stalking?" Ron asked. "Says his name is Daniel Fenton, descendant of the Fenton-Nightingales."

Hermione's frown deepened as she kept reading. Harry, for the sake of his mental health, refused to actually read the article directly.

"I do feel bad for him," Hermione admitted. "The Fenton-Nightingales were infamous for being the rare few effective Muggle witch hunters of their time. They developed unique methods of countering spells, jinxes, and curses completely non-magically. It's quite impressive, really, but the negative reputation…" She trailed off at right about the same time Harry noticed.

Malfoy, back at the Slytherin table with Fenton, tore his copy of the Prophet apart. He was dragging Fenton by the neck collar out of the Great Hall, looking quite furious.

Harry blinked. "We should follow them."

"Harry, what have we talked about your stalker tendencies?" Ron said.

"I do not have stalker tendencies!" Harry hissed.

"Sure you don't, mate." He shoved his face with more scrambled eggs.

Hermione sighed, but didn't stop Harry from following them.

Using his cloak right now, with so many witnesses, wouldn't work. He tried to walk casually in the hallway, keeping a listening ear for wherever Malfoy went.

"Do we really have to?" said an unknown voice. It came from one of the classrooms. Harry stopped.

"You're not even actually related to them," Malfoy said, enraged. "It's not—it's not right. They have no right to be saying this about you."

"I mean, yeah, but won't it just blow over by next week? They didn't even get my name right."

"Danny, you don't even get your name right."

"I'd be shoved into even more lockers if I went by Deneb. I don't think you understand how extensive the bullying problem at Casper High is, Drake."

Harry nearly blew his cover by choking. Drake, Merlin, this kid wanted to be hexed.

"Yeah, yeah, but just… whatever, I'm still telling Father about this."

"Your father. Just because you're my brother doesn't mean Lucius is my dad. I already have a dad."

"Right. I still stand it would have been better if you had just gone by Malfoy and avoided this."

Harry blue screened.

"I could almost forget the Fentons used to be witch hunters. Ghost hunting runs in the Fenton family."

"Paranormal hunting runs in the Fenton family. I think there was a brief stint where they hunted vampires."

Harry shook himself out of his stupor and cast a tempus. He grimaced. He'd have to head to herbology now if he didn't want to be late. Lucky for him, Gryffindor fifth-years had herbology with Hufflepuff.

…

…

Fenton wasn't in herbology. He wasn't even on the attendance sheet. Did American wizarding schools not teach the subject?

"Have you seen Fenton in any classes?" Harry asked Ron after class.

Ron shook his head. "We take the same classes, Harry. If you haven't, then I haven't."

Harry frowned as he kept walking upstairs. Granted, it was the first week, but Fenton seemed to just disappear. He felt tempted to pull out the map just to check, but Hermione might just lecture about privacy again and—he stopped walking.

"Where's Hermione?"

Ron also stopped. "Do you think she got a time turner again?"

Harry pulled out the map. Hermione was with Malfoy outside on the grounds with Rita Skeeter.

"Blimey, they teamed up to fight Skeeter…" Ron said in awe.

Harry squinted. "Are we sure that's what's happening?" He remembered Malfoy being quite eager to give Skeeter a few quotes last year.

"We could check," Ron said. "Lunch isn't until an hour later anyway."

Considering that Ron's growth spurt made him into an absolute giant, Harry thought they were handling the task of hiding the mess of limbs under the Invisibility Cloak quite well. Which was to say, they failed so spectacularly that they refolded the cloak back under Harry's robes and resorted to traditional sneaking methods. Unfortunately, they were not, as per the expectations of being British boarding school boys, very sneaky at all.

Hermione took pity on them. "We managed to get Skeeter to confess who her source was for her article this morning."

Malfoy actually looked quite dangerous about it. "Waechter," he spat.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really? He's been the most sane Defense teacher we've ever had."

Fenton, meanwhile, just looked tired. "For the record, I still don't understand what the big deal is."

"Danny, just shut up before I explode about having to work with Gryffindors," Malfoy said.

It was strange to be within ten feet of Malfoy and not hear an insult from him after fifteen seconds, Harry mused.

"Also Potter, you have an awful sauce stain on your robes. Are you incapable of performing simple cleaning spells, or are you too used to other people taking on the trouble of cleaning you?" Malfoy sneered.

Ah, there was good old Malfoy back to normal. Mostly. They were still walking together to march at Professor Waechter's office, which was out of character for Malfoy. He supposed the fact he already was acting out of character out of kindness for his brother though might have messed him in the head.

And Harry had stopped paying attention until Malfoy started strangling Professor Waechter, and Fenton had to pry his brother off their teacher.

Professor Waechter hacked to catch his breath. "I'm just going to pretend that wasn't an assault."

"My father is on the Governor's Board and can have you removed," Malfoy said primly.

Professor Waechter raised his hands in surrender. "I am sorry for the trouble I've inadvertently caused. I'll have to avoid going out to the bar from now on, since evidently I'm a bit loose lipped…"

"I can't believe you worry over your students on your own time," Fenton said. "Don't you do that enough on the hours you're actually paid?"

"I'm an emphatic drunk," Professor Waechter sniffed. "The possibility that your magic was being suppressed because you came from a witch hunting family haunts me."

"Well, they're ghost hunters now, so you have nothing to worry about," Fenton reassured their professor.

Professor Waechter then frowned. "Rita Skeeter's lack of journalistic integrity is baffling, however. Not asking for permission or at least disclosing she's a reporter… I should sue her."

"Do you have a magical lawyer?" Fenton asked. "Unfortunately, my personal lawyer is muggle."

"Not one who has experience with British law," Professor Waechter said. "Even so, I believe a coworker of mine may know someone..."

And so, with Hermione's duty to spite Skeeter finished, the three of them left Malfoy and Fenton to discuss suing the Prophet with the professor.

"Do all Americans have personal lawyers?" Ron wondered.

"I think so," Harry said. "I heard they all like to sue each other a lot."

Hermione, for some reason, looked to be in pain at that.

Chapter Text

His eyes widened as he finally processed what he learned earlier, sitting up from his bed. "Fenton's Malfoy's long lost brother!"

In the process, he accidentally messed up the exploding snap deck that Ron was playing with him. To his credit, Ron only sighed and started putting away the cards.

"Some of us are trying to nap here," Dean complained.

"Er, sorry, Dean." Harry whispered over to Ron, "It sounds like Malfoy's parents must have given Fenton up for adoption when he was born—that's why he's Fenton, not Malfoy."

"So why's he back with the family and at Hogwarts now?" Ron asked.

"I have no idea."

"That's worse than you reminding me we have homework."

They did, unfortunately, have homework. Essays, their teachers were obsessed with them. British boarding school boys' worst common enemy, next to Snape and Snape-like authority figures.

…

…

Harry was handing Hedwig his letter to Sirius when Fenton entered the Owlery, looking considerably lost.

"Hey! Harry, right?" Fenton said. "Or do you prefer Potter? Or a nickname?"

"Harry's… fine." Harry's never been asked before what he wanted to be called. He was Harry Potter, and everyone already had an opinion on him. Americans, from being less familiar about the Boy Who Lived, didn't have that, it seemed.

"Harry, great to see you! Sorry we didn't get to talk much last time, was a bit busy with organizing that lawsuit with Professor Waechter. Skeeter's been writing libel against you all summer, right? Would you be willing to join the suit, actually?"

"You can do that?" Harry asked, surprised at the turn in conversation. A lawsuit—could his media issues really be solved so easily?

"Yeah! It'd make our case stronger, especially since you've had multiple infractions, and you're also underage."

"Yeah, I'd… really like that."

"Awesome!" Danny held a hand up in a fistbump, a gesture Harry returned. "You know, you're really not a bad guy, no idea why Drake's been warning me from talking to you."

"Malfoy's been warning you about me," Harry repeated dryly.

"Honestly, it's the highlight of my day to hear him complain about you," Fenton said. "No offense."

Harry raised his hands up in surrender. "I don't doubt it."

Fenton laughed. "But anyway, since you're here, I've been meaning to ask—how far can owls fly? Like, could one fly across the ocean to send packages?"

"That sounds like a lot to ask from them," Harry said slowly.

Fenton deflated.

Remembering his original goal, Harry quickly added, "But Hedwig's a good flier. I'll probably have to bribe her with treats first when she comes back, but I'll see if I can convince her to give it a try."

"YES!"

Harry slapped his hands over his ears.

"Sorry," Fenton said, "but thank you so much. Drake would go nuts if I brought it up with him." He handed him his letter.

Taking it, Harry asked him warily, "And why's that?"

Fenton groaned. "Because Ernie thinks I'm a scourer, and Drake thinks that Fenton tech will only make that worse. But obviously I'm going to go insane being here for a year without even cell service, so logically I need to see if any of my parents' inventions can fix that."

He got the impression that Fenton's adoptive family was like the muggle versions of Mr. Weasley, using technology and science to explain magic, which disturbed Harry. Of course, that was a welcome alternative than being raised by the Dursleys who detested all magic. As such, Harry did not know what a scourer was. Given that Fenton was Malfoy's estranged brother, which spelled doom and disaster, he should nod his head, leave, and find Hermione to explain.

Harry did not do that. "What's a scourer?"

"Didn't you read the newspaper this morning?" Fenton asked, annoyed.

He shook his head. "I just get a summary from my friends. I don't read their drivel, what with Skeeter's libel against me and all."

A small twinge of a smile lifted from Fenton's face. "Then you're already better than every wizard I've met." He slapped Harry's arm. "I've gotta blast though, see you around, Harry!"

As Fenton left the Owlery, Harry held his letter in hand, and realized he had just been duped. Fenton hadn't explained what a scourer was at all!

…

…

"Scourers were bounty hunters who captured witches for a reward," Hermione explained, once Harry caught up to her. "Most real witch hunters were other witches, the Fenton-Nightingales being the muggle exception."

"Oh." He couldn't blame Fenton being up in arms with Ernie over that. Ernie had also thought he was the Heir of Slytherin his second-year when his best friend was Hermione, a muggleborn. It almost made Fenton seem more human.

"I thought we were going to read the bloke's mail," Ron said.

"We are." Harry then proceeded to continue only staring at the letter set on his bed. Maybe they should be doing this somewhere where he didn't sleep.

Hermione pointed her wand at the letter. "Geminio." An exact replica of the letter appeared. She opened it.

“Wow, this guy is almost as suspicious of Professor Waechter as you are about Malfoy,” Ron said.

“Hey!”

“No, no, you’re right, your Malfoy obsession far outclasses a normal person’s healthy amount of vigilance,” Ron said, nodding along to himself.

Hermione was humming to herself in thought. "You know, it sounds like Fenton was muggle raised. If I could get him on board with SPEW…"

"So? We already knew that the Fenton-Nightingales were famously muggles," Ron said. "Favorite little brother though, Jazz must be the Fentons's biological kid."

"Of course, but it's curious—why would the Malfoys give up one of their sons to live like a muggle?"

Harry gasped. "In the letter, Fenton said he's still not sure he can do magic. They probably thought he was a squib, like with Neville before he was accepted at Hogwarts!"

"It sounds like they reclaimed custody of him as soon as he showed magic," Hermione mused. "It's odd to think he didn't have any bouts of accidental magic sooner though. It must be awful, being so behind."

"So Fenton's clear, right?" Ron asked. "Sounds like he's trying to redeem Malfoy with his Hufflepuff ways rather than planning a plot. Nothing really dodgy in the letter."

Harry frowned. He did think it was odd for Dumbledore to hire an American as their defense teacher, but for Fenton to be so actively suspicious when he knew he was working on a lawsuit with the professor… "What's MACUSA?"

"It's the American version of their Ministry of Magic," Hermione explained.

"It might be a little hypocritical," Harry said, "but it's a little dodgy that the guy's first assumption is that Professor Waechter is a government agent out for him."

Ron flashed a photo. Harry swatted his hands at the sudden light.

"Argh, a little warning would be nice next time," Harry complained.

He duly ignored him in favor of adding the polaroid to his scrapbook.

Chapter Text

Harry did hear back from Sirius the next day, and managed to convince Hedwig to make a flight with Fenton's original letter after a bribe of several slices of bacon.

In Defense class, Professor Waechter lectured on inferi—dark zombies, essentially, although the in-depth explanation after some prompting from Hermione left Harry quite pale. Most spells didn't work on them, such as cutting curses that didn't have anything to cut. If one was unfortunate enough to stumble upon an inferius, fire was your best bet.

When the lesson concluded and class dismissed, Professor Waechter asked for him to stay behind.

Ron and Hermione shot him a look, and Harry tried to give a reassuring look. He had no idea what it could be about, but Professor Waechter believed him so far. Harry would listen.

"Mr. Potter, it has come to my attention after reviewing your legal case—and interviewing some of your classmates—that you may be more practically qualified to teach this class than myself," Professor Waechter drawled. "First year, you successfully defended an attack from your defense instructor, which honestly, I'm not sure how you don't have more severe trust issues from that."

"Voldemort was possessing him," Harry clarified.

Professor Waechter's eyes twitched. "Of course he was. It's always about some dark lord with the British… Second year, you apparently killed a basilisk that miraculously survived centuries of being in the school's basement."

"To be fair, Voldemort was also controlling that basilisk."

He muttered under his breath about useless dark lords. "And I cannot believe they let dementors anywhere near children. Are your Aurors not competent enough to catch a madman on their own? It's shameful."

"I had an excellent defense professor in my third year who taught me the Patronus Charm to help."

"Yes, it's too bad he's a werewolf… and then there was the Triwizard Tournament, which you already explained the first day of my class." Professor thrummed his fingers on his desk. "Frankly, Mr. Potter, with your track record, I'm not sure you're getting anything out of my class."

"But you're the best defense professor we've had since Professor Lupin!" Harry said, taken aback.

Professor Waechter looked at him unimpressed. "Ah yes, because inferi are so riveting, especially when due to general hazards, I can't allow any students to practice the Firestorm charm." He paused. "Also, I doubt a disguised Death Eater is really the type of instructor I'd like to be compared with."

"He actually was all right, all things considered. Lockhart was much worse. I don't think he actually knew any defense spells."

"The point I was trying to get across," he said rather firmly, electing to ignore the last comment, "is that there is very little I can reasonably teach you within the confines of this course. Therefore, it is better to have your current understanding be reinforced than try to find new and legal material."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Potter, how would you feel about becoming my TA?"

Harry blinked, stunned. Him, a teaching assistant? He wasn't someone professors gave authority to. Hell, Dumbledore had chosen Ron over him for prefect! "Are you serious, sir?"

"No, I do believe that's your murderous godfather who escaped Azkaban two years ago," Professor Waechter said dryly.

Professor Waechter really never missed. Harry said, "I hadn't realized you knew about that." Or that he had the same sense of humor as said godfather. It really was too bad Sirius was still a fugitive. They would get along swimmingly, he was sure. Maybe Dumbledore would invite him into the Order if he survived the year, and he could introduce them.

"Mr. Potter, even the no-majs know about Sirius Black."

"Erm, no-maj?"

"Muggles," Professor Waechter corrected himself. "Sorry, no-maj is the American term."

"American wizards use different words?" Harry wondered.

Professor Waechter shrugged. "A friend tried to explain it to me once. Something about dialect shift. I hear Brits here call mundys squibs."

"Er, yes?"

"That's awful. It's like calling someone mundane a dud just for not having magic."

Harry winced. "I haven't ever thought about it that way."

"It also may help endear you to the classmates who believe Prophet rubbish," Professor Waechter suggested. "Besides, I hear you can conjure a mean shield charm. I'm going to need everyone in fifth year and up to be up to snuff on it at least. Considering the current political climate though, really everyone should know it."

Harry grinned. "I can help with that!"

In the following free hour, Harry looked over the compiled information Professor Waechter had crunched from the pre-assessment. The lessons he had made in response seemed logical enough, although Harry itched to make his own adjustments.

"We should go over the disarming charm," Harry said firmly. "I know it's a first-year spell, but it saved my life. And I want to teach everyone the patronus charm."

Professor Waechter raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Potter, I can't cast a patronus. We don't have dementors in America to bother with it in the curriculum."

"Well, then it's a good thing you have me, innit?" Harry said cheekily.

He nodded slowly. "I have another class coming soon. I expect you in my office after hours to discuss your schedule."

Chapter Text

He was still in shock as he walked out of Professor Waechter's classroom. Harry excelled in defense, but he never expected to be properly recognized for it.

He quickly found Ron and Hermione in the corridor, who had been waiting for him. He told them the news, feeling almost giddy for himself.

"Oh, that's wonderful, Harry!" Hermione gushed. "You'll be brilliant at it!"

Ron grinned and clapped him on the back. "Yeah, mate, that's awesome! You're the best at defense out of all of us."

As they made their way to the potions class, he noticed Draco Malfoy walking towards them, flanked by his cronies Crabbe and Goyle. A wave of annoyance washed over him as he saw the sneer on Malfoy's face. It seemed their temporary truce over a shared disgust for Skeeter ended.

"Potter," Malfoy drawled, stopping in front of them. "I don't know what's going on in your Gryffindor head of yours, but do leave Danny alone. You won't like it when he gets the brilliant idea to practice casting the fire-making charm indoors."

Harry raised an eyebrow. That was almost nice, coming from him—and it was suspect. "You have that little faith in him?"

"Just stay in your lane, Potter. I know it's difficult for you, believing you're entitled to be stuck in everyone else's business."

Harry was ready to retort, but Hermione spoke first.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she snapped. "Harry's been chosen as a teaching assistant for Professor Waechter. He's going to help him teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. What have you done lately, apart from being a nuisance?"

Malfoy's eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked at Harry with a mix of envy and contempt.

"Is that so?" he sneered. "Well, congratulations, Potter. You've managed to suck up to the new teacher. I'm sure he'll be very impressed by your pathetic skills. But you know what? It won't matter in the end. If you want to be an Auror, you'll need an O on your potions OWL. And we both know you'll be lucky to even scrape an A."

He smirked, then turned to leave, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, who sniggered.

Harry felt a surge of anger, but he knew Malfoy was right about one thing: he needed to take NEWT potions to qualify for the Auror program. And he also knew that he could never learn potions from Snape, who required all his NEWT students to earn an O on their OWL.

Being the TA for defense would certainly help him become an Auror. The job was expected out of the Boy Who Lived. Harry wasn't even sure the Wizarding World would even let him do anything else. But if being an Auror required such an in-depth understanding of his most dreaded subject, he was beginning to place doubts if that's what he wanted. He wondered if there were other options for him, other ways to use his talents and make a difference. He wondered what Professor Waechter would say, if he asked him for advice.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He followed Ron and Hermione into the potions classroom, hoping that he could escape the worst of Snape's wrath today.

…

…

After dinner, Harry made his way to Professor Waechter's office, as he had instructed him.

He knocked on the door, and heard a cheerful voice say, "Come in!"

He opened the door, and stepped into the office. Harry let out a small gasp at the sight of technology in Hogwarts. It wasn't just the sleek, large telly hung on the wall, which he knew would make Dudley very nealous. Strange devices he's never seen before in the muggle world, some of which glowed with green or pink light. There was a pink-glowing coffee machine on a table. Small American flags were etched onto some of the equipment, along with the words: Property of the GIW.

Professor Waechter was sitting at his desk, drowning in papers and books, some of which undoubtedly were not meant to actually be on the floor. He pushed out a small peephole out of a pile that then only fell on his head. "Ow. Welcome to my office." He tried to gesture to the inconspicuously empty chair in front. "Do you want anything? Coffee?"

Harry shook his head, feeling a bit overwhelmed and lost. "You haven't even assigned us any essays in class…"

He took a passing glance at some of the fallen stack, the words capture and test subject catching his attention. It must have been published research on dark creatures, Harry realized. His old job might have only dealt with dark wizards.

"For good reason," Professor Waechter muttered. "If none of you do the readings at all, it'll show in discussion, anyway. The amount of writing the other professors expect out of you is already unreasonable, in my opinion. You can show your understanding of the subject by talking to me just as well as writing it."

"Is that how it goes in America?" Harry asked.

Professor Waechter seemed to have given up any pretenses of organization and swiped all his papers off his desk. At least now they could see each other talk properly.

"Don't be mistaken, I still had to write my fair share of essays," he said, "but the everyday proof of understanding came through intense debate. In fact, one time I had gotten into an argument about how there must have been an error in the calculations for where vanished objects go."

"I thought no one knew where they went," Harry said.

He raised an eyebrow. "What exactly has Professor Flitwick been teaching you?"

"... creating legs on teacups, sir."

Professor Waechter stared at him. "Why."

"To make them dance." Feeling the need to defend the professor, Harry added, "The charm is quite advanced. Ron and I are having loads of trouble with it."

"The world as we know it may as well end tomorrow, and your professor wants you to make teacups dance." He looked up at the ceiling with a groan. "Does he want Britain to continue harboring its dark lord problem? I know he believes you that he's come back. It's talked about extensively in staff meetings." He grimaced.

"Do you mean the curriculum at Ilvermorny is more practical then?" Harry asked.

"Absolutely not. I just hoped he would lighten the load for me to ensure you'll survive whatever comes next."

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. Kill the spare. Every time he survived, it was because he'd gotten lucky. Suddenly, he wasn't quite so sure he was deserving of helping to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"Did Voldemort ever reach the States the last time?" he asked.

Professor Waechter snorted. "No, thank god for that." His eyes looked sullen and sad at the thought though, which alarmed Harry before he continued. "He would have had a much easier time if he bothered."

He stood and paced around the room. "Rappaport's Law was repealed only thirty years ago. It made having any type of relationship with no-majs highly illegal. MACUSA and the no-maj Congress communicate now, but there's still distrust and hostility for the centuries MACUSA kept its silence.

"No-maj-borns were kidnapped from their families. Every memory of having that child was erased. They could never go back home. And if they tried, at best, they'd be disappointed. At worst, they face arrest.

"I know the Dark Lord wants to create a world darker than Rappaport's Law. He believes those without magic are unworthy of living. But if the Dark Lord wanted the perfect opening to create his reality, he would have been in America." He stopped his pacing to look at Harry. "That inaction will be his downfall."

Professor Waechter cleared his throat. "But enough about me! What times are you available?"

Once they made a tentative schedule for Harry to come in, he left the office, his thoughts in a whir. He knew why Voldemort wouldn't have made his revolution start in America. Tom Riddle grew up here, in Britain, and he'd mark his revenge here again. But why hadn't he expanded over the pond, especially since before Harry had defeated him as a baby, his control of Britain was only a matter of time?

"Phantom's here?" he heard hissed, interrupting his thoughts.

Harry looked up to see the House ghosts… arguing? He hid behind a corner, keen on eavesdropping. What could have the House ghosts in a ruckus besides Peeves?

"What could Phantom possibly want with us?" Nearly Headless Nick whispered, doing a rather poor job of it.

"Maybe he'll get rid of Peeves," Bloody Baron suggested.

"Do you think the rumors are true then?" Fat Friar said.

Harry couldn't hear anything else and cursed softly under his breath. They must have gone through a wall. What could scare a ghost though?

Chapter Text

Hedwig flew down at breakfast, carrying an entire basket of gadgets of letters, looking absolutely knackered. Harry stacked three plates of bacon for her in exchange.

Danny walked up to the table, clearly embarrassed. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Is there a reason you couldn't have used Malfoy's owl?" Harry asked.

He flushed. "I tried once, actually. The owl, erm, didn't take too well to my parents." Danny took his basket and took out a box. "Fudge?"

"Not much of a fan," Harry admitted.

"Your loss." Fenton opened the box and popped one into his mouth.

When he left, Hermione did not say anything. Ron though—

"I would've liked to watch them having a showdown against Malfoy's owl."

"It probably was funny," Harry allowed.

They all stood up from the table to queue in front of Filch, who was checking everyone had permission to visit Hogsmeade. Hermione looked deep in thought throughout. Finally, once they crossed the winged boars on tall stone pillars, she said, "I don't think Malfoy's parents had directly chosen his adoptive family. Even if they thought Danny was a squib, they wouldn't have risked a Malfoy child to a family with a history as infamous as the Fentons."

"Eh? So he's gonna be a right terror for Malfoy, who cares?" Ron asked. "What does it matter?"

Harry cared more than he'd like to admit. Ron had said he was obsessed with Malfoy, and while he still vehemently denied it… he couldn't promise that if Malfoy held back on being a brat that first day at Madam Malkins, he wouldn't have taken that hand. It wouldn't have been easy, being a snake and under Snape's scrutiny even more than he already was. But someone who was as confident as Malfoy, knowledgeable in a way only someone who lived and breathed magic since the day he was born, even if it came with snobbishness—it was attractive, in its own way.

The circumstances were different now though. Voldemort was back. Lucius Malfoy was undoubtedly going to follow his dark lord again. Fenton was under Malfoy's wing for now, but it couldn't last. Malfoy hid it well, but he was straining just from the Prophet's words. Malfoy was going to betray his brother. And Fenton had no one else in the magical world in his corner.

He muttered the password to the portrait. "It matters," Harry said carefully, "because Fenton's going to be stranded in Britain once the Malfoys show their true loyalties."

"Or worse, dead," Hermione said gravely. "They tried hiding him from the papers but couldn't. Not when Fenton didn't want to change his last name. Understandable really, especially if they're keeping him in the dark, but it leaves him vulnerable to any Death Eaters who want to 'clean up' their inner circle."

Ron gulped. Suddenly, Harry realized he might not be the biggest target for the threat this year.

"So, is anyone up for butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks?" Harry asked.

With muttered agreement from Ron and Hermione, Harry quietly ordered three butterbeers, and the three of them took up a private booth. Before his butterbeer had the chance to turn warm though, there was a rush of incoming people. Harry felt a prickle of multiple heads looking from behind him. With a slow turn around, he must have been flanked by the entirety of Gryffindor house and an impressive chunk of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

"Hi Harry," Neville said, taking up a seat opposite of him. It was, in fact, the last seat directly in the booth they were occupying. Everyone else made an effort to sit at neighboring booths and bring in extra chairs.

"We heard an interesting rumor," a blond boy began.

Harry was not given any forewarning for why his classmates felt the need to smother him. He did have a slight inkling of an idea as to what it could have been about, but Harry had no idea why they would organize this attention around him.

"Is it true that Professor Waechter hired you on as an assistant?" Terry Boot asked bluntly.

"I was warming up to that!" he squawked.

"Who are you?" Ron asked rudely.

"Zacharias Smith."

Harry desperately wanted to ignore whatever kind of staring match the two had engaged in.

"Yes," Harry said slowly, "although I was under the impression it was only for under-year classes. Certainly not NEWT level."

"You should touch base with him again then," Marietta Edgecomb spoke up. Harry had to crane his neck to see her next to Cho, clutching her hand fiercely. "He told us that you were coming in to show why you survived and Cedric didn't."

Cho elbowed her friend. "He didn't say it like that. Don't worry, Harry, I can talk to him about it, if you really don't feel up to it. But you did well in those tasks last year, getting past dragons and merpeople, and all those other things, enough to compete with students at NEWT level already…"

"And you saved the Philosopher's Stone from You-Know-Who first year!"

"Slayed a basilisk!"

And on it went, much like the conversation Harry already had with Professor Waechter when he was offering the position to Harry. Except this time, he couldn't hide behind making the professor squirm. Everyone here knew Harry for far too long for that to work.

"Surely Professor Waechter can teach us how to cast a Patronus by himself…" Zacharias drawled.

"No," Harry said, relieved to finally be able to talk about something that he knew he accomplished himself on his own terms. "He can't. They don't have dementors in the States. He's never had a reason to try to cast one. It's not a charm you can just learn from a book, either."

There was a murmur in the pub at that. None of the seventh-years here knew how to cast a Patronus. Having Harry TA their class might be their only shot at learning the spell.

"So, are you lot done with interrogating Harry now?" Ron demanded. "He'll do a good job, whichever classes he's helping in."

Ernie squeezed into the front. "Just one more question, a request, really… could you maybe try reaching out to Sally-Anne and Danny when you're covering the third-year 'Puffs?"

Harry frowned. "I thought they were in our year."

His eyes flicked up at that and tried not to look put-out. "They should be, but Sally-Anne's been out for too long, and Danny… well, in any case, when he transferred in this year, his exam scores weren't high enough to put him in our year. It's my job as a prefect to help them out with transitioning to Hogwarts life, but neither of them are really fitting in."

He had no idea what Ernie was expecting him to do, but considering he had his own reasons for looking out for Fenton, adding Sally-Anne to the mix wouldn't do much harm. "I'll try."

Chapter Text

He wondered absentmindedly, if Malfoy had forgotten the danger that lingered in the wizarding world. It was increasingly apparent that although Fenton was the tallest third-year here in Defense class, that he might also be the least magically talented. Why hadn't Malfoy taught him seemingly any defense?

Ernie was right to give him a heads-up on Sally-Anne as well. She was faring much better than Fenton, but she almost just gave up halfway through every spell she tried to cast. In fact, to free Professor Waechter, Harry was relegated to focus mostly on the two of them.

After Fenton managed to only lose his own wand again when casting the disarming charm, Harry pinched his nose. "I wondered before why both of you weren't in my year…"

"Medical leave of absence," Sally-Anne answered briskly. "Couldn't catch up to OWL level."

Fenton gave a what-can-you-do shrug. "It turns out you can't just read your way through four years of school in one summer."

"I can't believe you managed to not have a single bout of accidental magic until you were fifteen," Sally-Anne said. "There must be something wrong with the Trace in the States."

He shrugged. "We have a bit of a ghost problem in my hometown. Any accidental magic would've gotten blamed on them, anyway." Fenton paused. "Also, there is the slight issue that I'm banned from every American magic school."

Harry does a double-take. "How?"

Fenton rolled his eyes. "Witch hunters, remember? Every direct descendent of the Fenton-Nightingales has been barred from a magical education in America."

Sally-Anne frowned. "That sounds highly irresponsible. That's just asking for the first muggleborn kid in the family to turn into an Obscurial."

Fenton huffed. "Magic is overrated anyway. Every contact I have with it just seems to injure me."

"At least your wand hasn't attacked your face yet?" Harry offered.

"No, it has," Fenton said grimly. "Drake tried to teach me this spell before."

He really had no idea why Fenton's spells seemed hellbent on never cooperating. As far as he could tell, Fenton was holding his wand correctly and pronounced the incantation accurately. At one point, he tried putting on a British accent to see if it made any difference, but it only miraculously served to set his robes on fire. Harry conjured water to put it out, leaving Fenton a shivering, depressed mess.

Sally-Anne was successful and able to cast the spell consistently by the end of class, at least.

"I think," Harry said slowly, "we may need to spend time outside the classroom on this, Fenton."

…

…

There was no classroom Harry knew about for Fenton to practice. He held no illusions that the Defense classroom would be viable; it was already subpar to what accommodations Professor Waechter had been expecting. Undoubtedly, any classroom he could find on his own would not survive an encounter with Fenton's nightmare casting. The curtains barely survived Seamus before he got a handle on not setting everything on fire in their first year. Suddenly, Harry had a terrible idea.

"How did Seamus manage to stop setting everything on fire?" Harry asked.

Ron thought about it. "Mate, I don't think he ever did. I think he just learned aguamenti to put them all out."

"I guess that explains why he wasn't panicking that one time he accidentally set his bed on fire." He really would have preferred to prevent the spontaneous fire-making altogether, but it seemed there weren't going to be any shortcuts to disciplined practice and control. "Do you think having a reward system might work? Every time he manages to not injure himself, he gets a treacle tart?"

"I don't think Fenton's a dog like Sirius," Ron began.

He would not repeat the screaming their heads off incident to another soul besides Hermione, although edited. Dobby, being the only slightly creepy worshiper he was, had popped in with a plate of treacle tart for Harry Potter. Ron and Harry did not almost injure themselves trying to get out their wands for the supposed threat before it clocked in that it was just Dobby, who admittedly they did not know before was employed at the castle. More importantly, Dobby had information of a suitable room to use to contain Fenton while Harry desperately attempted to drill any defensive magic into the Hufflepuff before he got himself killed.

(Before he would be another victim of this war, another dead Hufflepuff who didn't ask to be involved, like Cedric.)

The house-elves called it the Room of Requirement, and it was perfect.

It would be a few days before Harry would start his tutoring sessions with Fenton though, so he explored. In the Room of Hidden Things, one can find just about anything. The other sock, some wayward inventions from the Weasley Twins, and all sorts of strange, magical artifacts. Being raised by the Dursleys, anything Harry had for himself were Dudley's castoffs and what he could rescue from the rubbish bin. So really, it shouldn't surprise anyone that Harry would enjoy having access to a room where he could rescue the discarded. When he wanted to be alone and decompress, he would dig through the piles of rubbish to save what he could.

Harry would find an open book on the floor after rifling through such a pile, and spot that there were notes in the margins. This was a potions book, he realized as he picked it up. The notes were detailed and complained about the faults in the recipes from the textbook. When he flipped through it, there were even spells Harry had never heard of crammed in.

He would close the book and open to the front page, where all was written: Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

Chapter Text

Harry didn't dare bring the book to potions class. Copying the improved versions of the recipes in his own handwriting to add to this potions textbook was fair game, in his opinion. It was fortunate he had a new card up his sleeve to survive Snape because Ron, bless him, had started acting quite strange since Dobby told them about the Room of Requirement.

Hermione would tell him both of them were acting off, but Harry was the one who suddenly started enjoying reading. Ron frequently had a dazed look in his eyes since, and he started to stare at invisible beings as often as Luna Lovegood. Perhaps he should skive off Potions and take Ron to Madam Pomfrey.

Snape continued to sneer at Harry, Neville's potion exploded, and that took the decision out of his hands.

"Are you all right, Ron?"

Ron, although a twinge more burned than Harry, did not look up. "You'd think I've lost it."

Harry snorted. "The Prophet already thinks I have."

He took a shuddering breath, glancing down to a sleeping Neville. "Divination is a load of rubbish. But—" Ron held a hand up to keep Harry from interrupting. "—it’s still real. The future isn’t set in stone, but you can predict it. You can observe the pattern. And, if you’re a nice chap who gets along with time, you can interfere."

“Ron, what are you getting at?”

He shut his eyes. “Look, can we just go to the room again? It’s easier to explain with the thing. Not right now or even today. Give me some time to process the messed up stuff in my brain, yeah?”

Harry thought about every time his friends' nagging got on his nerves. He thought about the interrogations from the press last year, from the Triwizard Tournament. And so he let it go, for now.

"Two weeks," he said.

"Two weeks," Ron agreed.

Harry proceeded to spend every free hour reading the Half-Blood Prince, which became increasingly rare in between his TA hours, trying to make Sally-Anne feel an actual emotion in Defense class, and getting the right results from Fenton's spells. After another disappointing session with him, Harry rubbed his forehead. He took a lazy seat in the room and cracked open the book. This time, one stray note in the margins for the Draught of Peace caught his eye—

May be possible to make modifications to fight an Obscurus. I dread giving hope to any Obscurial with it though.

He wrinkled his nose. Obscurus. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't remember what it meant. Harry would ask Hermione, but she'd know it wasn't something he happened upon in any of their textbooks. He shut the book, stood, and well, it was called the Room of Requirement. Surely…

"I need to know what an Obscurus is," Harry whispered. "I need to know what an Obscurus is. I need to know what an Obscurus is."

The room shifted. Another book flew into his hand, already open to the necessary page. As Harry read, his gut squirmed.

An Obscurus is the manifestation of the repressed energy of a young wizard or witch (known as an Obscurial)¹, said the book. Being an Obscurial was in no way pleasant. It was to have your own magic destroy you, your surroundings, and anyone unfortunate enough to be near. There was no known treatment nor cure.

And it sounded awfully familiar. "I'm an emphatic drunk," Professor Waechter sniffed. "The possibility that your magic was being suppressed because you came from a witch hunting family haunts me."

"Witch hunters, remember? Every direct descendent of the Fenton-Nightingales has been barred from a magical education in America."

Fenton wasn't even allowed to attend Ilvermorny. Aside from one summer with Malfoys, his time here at Hogwarts would be the first time he would have been able to consciously cast magic. Even if Fenton claimed his family didn't do witch hunting, who was to say they didn't have the same opinions on magic as the Dursleys?

His eyes widened. What had Sally-Anne said that day? "That sounds highly irresponsible. That's just asking for the first muggleborn kid in the family to turn into an Obscurial."

It was distinctly possible, Harry realized in growing horror, the reason for Fenton's magical self-sabotage was because he was afraid of the magic flowing through his veins. Were there signs for this type of thing? Or did it develop subtly, building, until it violently explodes?

Harry put the book down. He'd have to confess to Hermione after all.

…

…

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Harry demanded.

Hermione bit her lip. "Harry, I know this school year has been relatively uneventful compared to everything else. But don't you think making Fenton this year's school mystery unfair for him?"

"Hermione, both Professor Waechter and Sally-Anne think things have come about wrong for Fenton. He could be in danger!"

"From himself, yes," Hermione said. "It's not like I don't care, Harry, I do. I just wonder if it's our place to ask. It's such a… sensitive topic."

Harry turned to Ron, pleading to his best friend to see reason.

Ron hesitated for too long. "He's a weird kid, so he's got weird magic. It's not that weird."

"Ron, unless you're going to back me up, please shut up," Harry said. "You've said the word weird already thrice."

Hermione pinched her nose. "We can keep an eye on him but no more. I don't think we should violate his privacy again by stealing his post."

Harry wordlessly puts away the owl treats.

"I just don't think the problem has to do with Obscruses," Ron mumbled. "Obscuri?"

"Obscuri," Hermione confirmed. "It's Latin for dark."

"We could save him," Harry insisted. "Knowing Malfoy's family, Lucius probably figures they could try and control it as some secret weapon."

"Uncontrollability is why they're so dangerous," Ron said. "Fenton might just kill all the Malfoys by accident. Wouldn't that be a nice Christmas gift?"

"Ron!"

His best mate huffed, turning his foot to leave. A small glint of light reflected near his neck. "You can't save someone who isn't in trouble in the first place."

Chapter Text

"Where on earth did Quirrel manage to find a mountain troll to bring inside?" Professor Waechter complained. "Let me tell you, teaching in a country where you have no connections is awful. If we were at Ilvermorny, I could have hooked us up with my dragon-handler friend to visit a dragon sanctuary, but the closest one to here is in Romania. I mean, seriously, where am I meant to find anything interesting for practical demonstrations?"

Harry was trying very hard not to audibly groan. Don't get him wrong, it was a wonderful feeling, how receptive Professor Waechter was to Harry's suggestions. He just really would rather be reading from the Half-Blood Prince over this, and he didn't anticipate that Professor Weachter would require his presence for the brainstormming session.

"Professor Lupin brought in a boggart my third year," he offered.

Professor Waechter hummed. "That would cover about half my classes. I'm not keen on repeating material though. I wonder… have you covered doxies?"

"Not in the classroom," Harry said cautiously because, well, they hadn't. He did, however, spend a good chunk of his summer at Grimmauld Place, which was filled with them.

"But you do know how to deal with them."

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent." The professor stood, and turned the knob to a closet. Harry peeked inside, and his stomach turned uneasy.

"I'm surprised the house-elves didn't clean the dust, at least," Harry finally said. Dear Merlin, Professor Waechter was rotten at keeping his space neat. He must have been a terrible roommate at Ilvermorny.

He flushed. "I kindly requested them to avoid my office. The technology I have is very… experimental. Wouldn't want one of them to get their head blasted off by accident, would we? Besides, I can at least capture a few of them for lessons."

He sweeped. There were housekeeping charms for this sort of thing, but Professor Waechter was cleaning everything by hand too. Harry figured, well, this technology could survive the saturated magic at Hogwarts, but it probably would be better not to risk it anyway. The sudden sharpness of the sound of broken glass made him wince.

"Shoot, did one of my picture frames fall earlier? Don't worry about that, I'll get a dustpan for that."

Relieved, Harry nonetheless began to inspect the scene at the words picture frame. There was a photo of the professor, much younger, mixed up in some papers. Besides him was another kid, who held himself proudly but had a knowing look on his face. Or at least, that was what he assumed. The professor seemed to be wearing a girl's primary school uniform for some reason. He waved at it. The photo did not wave back. A muggle photo then. It was a nice thought, the professor having that type of memento with him. (Harry would bury the brief flash of jealousy.)

"Who is that?" Harry asked.

Professor Waechter stumbled at the sight. "Right, I forgot I packed that… old friend of mine before Ilvermorny."

"Hair's almost as messy as mine," Harry offered. Dark rat nests for hair, if they weren't different types of Asian, he might have accused them of having inherited Potter hair.

Professor Waechter snorted. "She never combed it unless there was an engagement. Insisted it looked better that way, fluffy. Ms. Chang thankfully has better sense than my old friend did." He narrowed his eyes. "You do try to comb it, right?"

"It's Potter hair. Nothing calms it down," Harry explained. "My dad was the same. I don't think it's because I'm Desi though."

He hummed. "What does your curly hair routine look like?"

"My what?"

"You know, like what curly hair products you use. Shampoos, conditioners, and the like."

"There's shampoo just for curly hair?"

He didn't know why Professor Waechter fell and began slamming his head to the ground. Harry thought he heard his professor mutter, "I hate anglo Brits."

When he peeled his face off the floor, he said, "I'm really not the best person for this. My hair's naturally straight, so I have to use product to shape it. Is that why Ms. Granger's hair is bushy like she's been trying to comb it straight? Is there anyone here with curly hair who knows how to take care of it?" He sounded faintly horrified.

"Lavender is good with hair. I think," he tacked on.

Professor Waechter hardly even looked bothered when a doxy bit his leg.

Chapter Text

Harry's gotten rather good at ignoring the people who spat on Cedric's name because they believe the Prophet. The underclassmen classes he'd been helping out are more prone to believe he's someone to be quietly feared at the worst. Really, it was a testament to his ability to tune people out that Harry did not consider going dark like some tabloids were suggesting. Mostly. Who would blame him for kicking Justin, ever the toxic gossip, for throwing him into the Great Lake?

Speaking of which… "Justin's spouting nonsense again, isn't he?" Harry asked. He was preoccupied with staring at Malfoy from registering what the boy had to say that necessitated walking up to our table.

"He's got it bad, doesn't he?" Justin asked Hermione.

"He does." Hermione sighed. "Harry, Justin actually was apologizing. He's a Hufflepuff. It'd be distasteful if he didn't believe you."

"Also, Ernie was apologizing to Danny, and well, it felt a bit unfair if we didn't also try to make amends with you too," Justin said. "Since your tutoring's really helped."

"Is it helping?" Harry wondered. "I have half a mind to buy dragonhide leather just to save myself the trouble of having to dodge so often."

"Well, we haven't had an emergency evacuation in the Hufflepuff dorms since," Justin said cheerfully. "It must be doing something."

"Huh." Something warm inside bloomed. "Thanks, Justin."

"Also, Cho said she wanted to talk to you when you were free."

Ah, that. Harry winced. "Can you tell her to catch me after Defense in the afternoon?"

Justin gave him a thumbs-up.

…

…

There were cages of doxies in the classroom, although the cages looked considerably high-tech.

"After some discussions with Mr. Potter, it occurs to me that none of you have been taught how to deal with doxies," Professor Waechter said. "Magical pests who target homes that aren't clean, usually residing in dust."

Harry regretted not lying. Really, more doxies? He sighed. It wasn't even that interesting to watch Seamus poke at the cages and get himself electrocuted.

He did manage to convince Professor Waechter to let him go early, but Harry hadn't counted on Cho already outside waiting. Her face was wet, like she was sobbing.

"Cedric," she said, like the name alone meant anything. It meant everything.

Harry sat down on the ground, next to the floor, patting the space next to him. "Isn't it enough, to watch him die lifelessly to the ground, without the papers making me out to be a liar for it? We both know his death wasn't an accident. Why disgrace his memory by pretending it was anything but a declaration of war?"

"Exactly."

That's how Professor Waechter found them, once the class was dismissed. He hands them each sticky notes.
Professor Waechter hands them both sticky notes.

"Contact info for grief counselors," Presley Waechter explained. "They're mundane, that is, squibs. You're safe to talk about any part you're comfortable with. If you'd prefer someone in-person, or British, your choices are probably going to be muggle, though."

Harry thought mirthlessly that getting permission to go to a muggle library just for this might be next to impossible. He stayed quiet though, for the hope in Cho's eyes.

"One question though," Professor Waechter said. "Do you pronounce your name like Cho Chang?"

"Yes, that's right," Cho said warily. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Ms. Chang, if that's how you like your name, there are no issues. I just figured I'd check because I used to have a friend who hated the anglo version of her name." Professor Waechter laughed nervously.

…

…

The fallout for Hogwarts' worst kept secret brothers was inevitable, really. Given the flair for the dramatic Malfoy had, it was always going to be loud and public. The Great Hall was just the sort of place to expect it happening too.

Harry could hardly believe they've been civil for this long already. Fenton just was nearly the opposite of Malfoy in all the important ways. He really thought though it would come down to Malfoy's snobbish, pureblood superiority that would be the center of the conflict. Not this. Something personal, vulnerable in a way that cut more like Aunt Petunia's resentment of magic.

"You don't get it! I'm not meant to be a wizard, Drake. I don't care if I was born like this, someone has to have figured out a way to get rid magic from people who don't want it!"

"But it's magic! It's in your blood, centuries of Malfoy heritage—"

"And I've never been a Malfoy for a second, while I've been a Fenton my whole life. Fentons don't do magic. This was all just some stupid mistake. You can't possibly understand!"

"Fine! I don't understand, so bloody explain yourself!"

"What's there to explain that I'd rather be dead than keep living as a public hazard!" And then, Fenton punched Malfoy's shoulder, a solid crack in the air on impact. A deep thud followed as Malfoy fell, his eyes widening.

Harry found out later, watching for people going in and out of the Hospital Wing, that Fenton was making a scene in hopes of getting expelled. It was something he wanted to stage. The general census was that all of it was nonsense. There were other answers though.

He'd thought the bullying in Hufflepuff would have ended since Ernie seemed to have regained his senses, but maybe it was the opposite. Worsening bullying that led to Ernie snapping back into prefect duty. Developing Obscurial was still in the cards too.

There was a nagging feeling, and he wondered, if Voldemort were to punish Lucius Malfoy for losing the Diary, where would a strike hurt the most? Lucius would have warned both of his sons. Then why was Fenton deliberately making himself a target?

Harry was beginning to realize that something was deeply wrong with Fenton.

Chapter Text

When Ron picked up the medallion, it was because it was the shiniest thing he first saw in the room. The Room of Hidden Things surely had plenty of things no one would miss. He could not predict, though, the overwhelming numbers of timelines that assaulted his mind.

Harry was eleven and made two best friends for life after fighting a troll. He was eleven still when he was told he could not stay at Hogwarts over the summer, and Ron remembered his righteous rage he used to rescue him.

Harry was eleven when he entered Hogwarts knowing every scrap of the magical world his Aunt Petunia Evans could manage. He was eleven when he shook Malfoy's hand, and they giggled over a friendship that lasted their entire lives. Ron stood by the sidelines, with cold beef corned sandwiches, left to watch it all. He was eleven when his Defense professor, who did not wear a turban, decided he'd rather go back to teaching Muggle Studies, this time at Ilvermorny.

And for a brief, flashing moment, Ron's jealousy screamed. Why was it about Harry? Why was it never about him? Why couldn't Ron be famous, be someone special? Merlin, wasn't it awful, how he still felt like this? But then the visions kept going.

Harry was eleven when he was Sorted into Slytherin. He walked alone into the dungeons, and Ron could only watch from the golden gates of Gryffindor.

Harry was eleven when Death Eaters broke through the protections in the Longbottom home. He and Neville would not be able to join Ron and Hermione on the Hogwarts Express. Ron's beef corned sandwiches tasted especially cold.

Harry should have been eleven when the Wizarding World learned he was dead for almost a decade already. Under abusive care by his muggle relatives, as entrusted by Dumbledore, he barely survived two years. Ron's mother remembered not to pack him the beef corned sandwiches, because Ron hated them, before they headed to the Express.

And Ron gathered up that righteous anger again because how dare the powers that be let him stand and watch as a bystander? He was Ronald Weasley, the sixth son of the second son, and sure, that meant nothing in terms of prophecy. It meant everything though in terms of family. Gryffindor was his by birthright, and he would take action in his own life. Harry had to live.

Then, Ron was back in the room again, trying to catch his breath. "Bloody hell." The medallion was on his neck, and he tried to tear it off. He tried, but it wouldn't let go. Resigned, he held up the medallion into the light, where the initials MZ overlapped. He frowned. Who was MZ?

…

…

Limited as his Seer blood was, Ron was fairly certain this wasn't how future vision was meant to work. Who's heard of needing to wear jewelry to have prophetic powers activated? Nevermind the fact he Sees more than one line for reality to unfold, including other realities. Really, just his luck.

He almost regretted choosing Divination as an elective now because Trelawney had no love for his lack of work ethic before, but he needed advice. And maybe she was a fraud, but she believed in her own ability and that—that would have to be enough.

Harry had to snap him out of staring at her the entire class. Divination was an easy O, but no one warned about the essential oils, he grumbled.

His only solace is that Trelawney sensed, through Sight or by virtue of having eyes, he wanted to speak. Harry gave him an odd look for it but Ron shrugged.

And then he got that tingly feeling, a faint echo in the room that pierced through Ron's skin. What a silly feeling. Until Trelawney pulled out a knife, and Ron yelped, barely dodging in time. "Bloody hell, what was that for? You're a witch, aren't you?"

Trelawney's frown deepened. "If you are to See your opponent's moves before they strike, you will survive yet another day. True Sight leads to good people being stolen away by Unspeakables. Your silence will be your greatest weapon."

"Staying quiet never saved a life," Ron huffed. "Don't tell me you think Harry should be keeping his head down about You-Know-Who too."

"No. But you will until I believe you can survive."

Ron dodged. "Expelliarmus!"

The reason Harry was so easy to See, Trelawney explained, was because he was a child of Destiny. He was someone the universe unilaterally decided was Extremely Important. That sounded like bullshit to Ron, but he really couldn't deny that his visions, despite always being from his point of view, did seem oddly Harry-centric.

He collapsed into his bed at Gryffindor Tower after hours of squinting, forcing himself to See. He laid down to worlds and timelines inviting themselves in and out of his mind. It would destroy any mortal mind to comprehend all of them. He would try, anyway because how else was his best mate meant to survive?

No one would believe him, like Trelawney. It was better this way, safer, she said. Ron didn't believe it. Two weeks. He'd give himself that much to find a real answer.

And then he Saw, Harry standing above Malfoy in a pile of blood. They were both crying.

"Why didn't you warn us?"

That. Hmm. Yeah, no, Ron didn't want to lose his dinner seeing that. Quite a tragedy, that cool people like him must suffer in the face of horrific second hand trauma. Very sad. He would just have to fix his skill issues.

And he dreamed. Ron was never very good about recording his dreams for divination class, but if he had bothered, maybe he would have taken the warning to heart.

…

…

He was ginger too, and he was scowling. "Phantom is someone with enough unchecked power to kill a king." He drew up a metal barrel that glowed a horrible Killing Curse green. A gum? Was that what muggles called it?

"The Fenton-Nightingales were the most infamous witch hunters of their time for good reason. I intend on capitalizing on that. The Statute of Secrecy will not keep us silenced anymore."

Chapter Text

Harry was silently glad that he didn't need to figure out how to video call. The counselor he wanted to talk to, Rachel, flew into Scotland to Hogwarts as soon as he confirmed his interest. She'd wanted to do some travel abroad anyway, he'd only be helping her foot her adventures into the London crawl, she claimed.

The grief counselor was a woman. Her brown hair was dyed blue at the tips. Big boots, with shiny blue soles that were distinctly muggle but seemed rather childish. Aunt Petunia would have never approved. Harry felt a small thrill at that thought.

"Do you blame yourself?" Rachel asked.

"What?"

"Well, it's quite common in this situation for a patient to feel a kind of… guilt."

"What situation?"

"The accident."

Harry did not schedule another meeting.

…

…

An accident. He knew that's what the Prophet said about Cedric. The point was to tell the world the truth, but Harry was sick of it.

He took out the Half-Blood Prince and buried himself deeper into the pages.

"Levicorpus."

…

…

The thing was, once Cedric died, it was like everyone stopped caring about him. Harry knew it wasn't true. Even Fenton got swept into the grief for Cedric from Hufflepuff House. It was like a sickness, siphoning from his life. Small things twisted his attention, to cope, but chasing after Malfoy's family tree could not fix him.

He coughed.

The nausea caught him, and he felt–sick. That was all it was. So sick he did his homework lying down in bed. So sick he sat in the bathroom for hours at a time. So sick, all he could manage for dinner was asking Dobby for a glass of water. He wondered where Ron was, and then he kept coughing until even Seamus became concerned enough past his accusations of attention-seeking to work with Dean to bring him to the Hospital Wing.

…

…

Madam Pomfrey was deadly serious as she ordered Harry to be quarantined. It was possible it was merely a dragonpox mutation, but the green bubbles on his skin wasn't something she'd ever seen before. He'd need to be transferred to Saint Mungos.

And so, Harry laid in bed in wait, until a shadowy figure walked in, sticking closely to the shadows. Maybe he should have been worried, but he just felt numb. They walked into the light, blond hair shining in the moon's light. Slowly, with a hint of hesitation, they traced out the outline of Harry's jaw. He was just so… tired.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted quietly.

"You might get sick too," Harry warned.

He scoffed. "You're always sick, Potter. If this was contagious, we'd all fall down to your inferior intellect level."

He coughed out more mucus. Malfoy made a disgusted expression as he handed him a tissue.

"It's different though, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"You can't always be special," Malfoy drawled. “It wasn’t about you, Potter.”

“What, you think people get sick because of karma?”

“You’re the one who’s Indian.”

“I’m the most British person in this room. You’re French.”

“Imagine being British, the horror.”

Harry was highly tempted to throw his pillow at him. “We’re both British, you prat.”

As Malfoy stood there, laughing, Harry settled his face back into his pillow. He was back being touchy-feely again, patting him with sympathies such as, “Don’t worry Potter, I’m not running back to France,” and, “We can’t leave the Chosen One in Britain all alone, can we?”

"This is a dream," Harry realized.

"Yes," Dream-Malfoy admitted. His face returned back to a more neutral expression. "You would never have the emotional intelligence to make the first step."

"I should punch you."

"Do you dare risk waking up though? When flesh meets flesh, you must face my sneers in Care of Magical Creatures, and all you can think about is my touch again?"

Harry's mouth thinned. "Why did you even take that class? You hate Hagrid."

"How would I know? You don't know, so you can't put the words in my mouth."

"I hate you."

"I know." Dream-Malfoy cracked a smile. "Isn't there a plot of mine you have to solve in the waking world, Potter? Something that made my brother pissed off. You simply must solve this mystery."

“Am I dying?” Harry whispered. “I can’t remember, if I’m even really sick at all.”

Dream-Malfoy placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have to wake up to find out.”

…

…

Chapter Text

When Harry entered the defense classroom, he blinked at the strings of still photographs depicting various creatures, mostly green, with some humanoid. One figure that had human skin, glowing an unnatural white reappeared the most.

"There will be no homework with this lesson today," Professor Waechter began. "I do remember what it was like to be young and excited for Halloween. What I'm covering today won't be on your OWL exam, so feel free to use this time to work on any papers instead, if you feel that would be a better use of your time."

"Professor, these are muggle photographs," Hermione said, confused.

"Correct," Professor Waechter said. "The spirits you see here don't show up well in wizarding photos, unfortunately. They tend to come out too blurry, hypothesized to be a result of their natural resistance to magic."

He wrote on the blackboard: Ectoplasmic Entities.

"This is what MACUSA officially designates them to be. In layman's terms though, most simply refer to them as ghosts." His eyes darkened, and continued on, ignoring the several confused hands that shot up. "Ectoplasmic ghosts are completely different to magical ghosts. The current research out there tells us they are malevolent and make a habit of targeting humans. They typically form in order to stew general chaos or a desire for revenge."

"Does that make Peeves an ectoplasmic entity?" Dean asked.

"No, fortunately, Peeves is merely a poltergeist. Similar in some ways, yes, but Peeves is not outwardly violent like ectoplasmic ghosts."

Hermione was frowning, clearly deep in thought. Harry could hazard a guess as to what she was thinking. The wizarding world was not kind to non-humans. With werewolf discrimination rampant, who was to say these ectoplasmic entities were being unfairly judged?

"Sir, surely these ectoplasmic entities don't attack without reason?" Hermione asked.

"As far as specialists hired by MACUSA have gathered, ectoplasmic entities are inherently dangerous because they attack indiscriminately. Unlike the Hogwarts ghosts, they are corporeal unless they choose not to be.

"Currently, there are no effective magical means to defend ourselves against ectoplasmic ghosts directly. They don't experience physical pain, so even if you did manage to land a cutting curse, they won't back down. In order to stop an ectoplasmic entity, you must either capture, destroy, or convince it to fly off for easier prey.

"The British Ministry of Magic currently is of the opinion that ectoplasmic entities are a fraud. MACUSA has personally researched the matter though, and they are very real. While they haven't been sighted in Britain yet, I want each of you prepared regardless. It is of my personal belief that due to their Dark nature, Britain's Dark Lord problem may seek to recruit them to join his side." He was looking directly at Harry.

All paths led back to the inevitable war. He swallowed.

"How do we even know You-Know-Who's even back?" Seamus demanded.

"We don't, not really," Professor Waechter allowed. "It could be a copycat. Between life or death though, does it really matter? An enemy is an enemy, and you will know how to defend yourself when the time comes."

Harry felt eyes staring at his back.

"With that in mind, let's put away the wands for something unconventional but fun. How good is your balance? Any yoga fans? The tree pose is an excellent way to measure your balance…"

And then Professor Waechter slipped, letting out a, "GAH!"

"He might need the balance lessons more than us," Harry muttered to Ron.

There was evidently a reason for this, as the professor held up a distinctly greasy-looking hand. "Oh haha, forgot I was in a boarding school for a second. No one's gonna fess up? Guess we'll add cleaning charms to today's agenda then."

"You think a ghost put that oil on the floor to trip him?" Ron asked him point-blank.

"I don't hear Peeves cackling, so no," Harry replied. "Bit tame for a prank from him anyway."

Hermione's interested face was disturbing.

…

…

He was proven right to be wary when later, during free period, Hermione had a new stack of books specially owl-ordered. Harry buried himself with the Half-Blood Prince's musings once his friends started squabbling.

"Well, Harry's planning on taking his A-levels too, aren't you, Harry?" Hermione said. "You should at least consider it, Ron."

Harry blinked out of his daze. "Hermione, I never even took my GCSEs. You aren't telling me you've been spending your summers on those too?"

Hermione flushed. "Well, I have been rather singularly focused on magical studies, but really, I need to diversify, in case."

"In case, what?" Ron asked. "You're the brightest witch of our age. You could probably get any job you wanted."

Harry and Hermione turned to each other, both of them probably thinking just about the same thing: that it wasn't about skill.

"Voldemort's back," Harry said. "Hermione's muggleborn. Those two facts can't exactly coexist peacefully."

Ron turned pale at that.

"And really, even without You-Know-Who," Hermione said, "it does seem likely that I'll be at a disadvantage in the wizarding world, on the whole. They run on small town politics for governing a nation state."

"Small town politics?"

"Ron, London's got about 8 million muggles living there. We've got about 3000 wizards in the entire UK," Hermione said.

Harry knew the wizarding population was small but that sounded abnormally so. "I think Little Whinging has more people than that."

"It's why wizards are able to turn their noses up against muggles while simultaneously being so afraid of them that they installed the Statute," Hermione said. "It doesn't matter if most muggles aren't like the Nightingales when they overwhelmingly outnumber magic folk."

Subconsciously, Harry traced over his scar. "If I can't manage to kill Voldemort, muggleborns are going to flee to the muggle world en masse without the educational requirements in order to properly hold a muggle job."

"Which is why I originally planned on taking my GSCEs during winter break," Hermione said.

"Why aren't you anymore then?" Ron asked.

"I've been thinking about what Professor Waechter said today," Hermione said. "It would be good for Snuffles and our furry friend to leave that stuffy house, wouldn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked warily.

"Well! I just thought, if the British Ministry of Magic doesn't know about these ectoplasmic entities, You-Know-Who might not know yet either. And while Illinois isn't exactly a popular vacation spot, it might be a nice visit for the cultural exchange."

Ron's eyes widened. "Blimey, you can't be thinking of trying to recruit these dangerous ghosts to Dumbledore's side in the war, are you?"

"Between basilisks and dementors, it can't be that much more dangerous," Harry said slowly. "In fact, with the dementors on Voldemort's side, I reckon having some equally dangerous ectoplasmic entities might help even the odds."

He still thought Hermione wasn't all there for the suggestion, but it did make sense. Fight fire with fire. If Voldemort was recruiting Dark creatures, then Dumbledore needed to too. The Order evidently wasn't having much luck with the werewolves through Lupin, or even the giants through Hagrid. Why not divert to a crowd that hasn't listened to Voldemort's promises first?

"Plus, I believe Danny said his parents are ghost-hunters," Hermione said. "I'm almost certain he meant ectoplasmic entities, so he might know who would be more amenable to joining the cause."

Ron winced. "Gonna be honest, Hermione, I'm pretty sure the whole Fenton-Nightingale mantra was all witches are incapable of emotions and were pure evil? Don't think they'd changed their minds on that even if they'd be saying that about ghosts now instead."

"That… would be a problem," Hermione allowed. "Let's pin that idea for later then."

"Maybe we should just get the Fentons to kill Voldemort," Harry joked.

They had a plan, something they could do instead of being holed up in Grimmauld Place again. Harry could go to bed tonight peacefully, without any weird dreams he would lock away in his mind-luggage.

…

…

And then Harry woke up screaming about being a snake who attacked Mr. Weasley.

Chapter Text

The Hufflepuffs were erupting in the stands as their quidditch team unveiled their new Seeker: Fenton.

"He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else," Ron commented.

"He probably does," Harry agreed absentmindedly. "He's playing against Malfoy."

"Merlin, that'd be like us having to play against the Twins." Ron shivered.

Fenton flew like a goose; a complete natural with a dash of chaos. He made so many elaborate tricks, like a rather risky jump where he landed back onto his broom that gave Hermione an audible scare, taunting his brother. They couldn't hear it from the stands, but Lee Jordan also made sure everyone knew the twins were bickering loudly on the field.

The problem, really, was that Harry wasn't looking at Fenton. He was looking at Malfoy. And Malfoy was so distracted by his brother, neither Harry nor Malfoy ever saw the Snitch.

"And Fenton just caught the Snitch!" Lee announced. "I repeat, Hufflepuff has won the match!"

…

…

"Your mind's too volatile for conventional Occlumency," Professor Waechter declared, once he exited Harry's mind. He decidedly did not bring up anything about Malfoy, much to Harry's relief. "I can see why you were having issues learning it from Professor Snape."

Harry slumped. He was grateful that Hermione encouraged him to ask Professor Waechter if he knew Occlumency, since Snape was utter rubbish. Professor Waechter went on about how it was a good defense against ecto-entities' ability to overshadow—possession, really. If even he thought Harry was hopeless…

"So instead of preventing a mind invasion, let's go to the next best thing: encryption," he said cheerfully.

"Encryption?" Harry asked, relieved.

"You know about online hacking?"

"A little."

"Right, so websites stop hackers from plucking your password data by encrypting it. What they get is utter nonsense instead of the actual password."

"So Voldemort will be able to enter my mind, but he won't get anything useful."

"Exactly—now, have you read Bram Stoker's Dracula?"

Harry was not going to explain how the Dursleys banned any mention of magic. "I haven't."

"Nevermind then. Basically, I'm going to have you learn shorthand as a way of encrypting your thoughts. I know Pitman's generally considered more useful since it's the most common in the UK, but seeing as the goal is to prevent the local Dark Lord problem being able to read it, let's go with American Gregg."

What Professor Waechter wrote on the board had Harry's brain spin in disbelief.

"What is that."

"Say hi to Gregg."

This was it. The Prophet was right and Harry Potter finally lost his mind. Hooray! Harry sputtered out, "Professor, those are squiggles."

"I'm afraid you're going to have to become best friends with those squiggles very soon."

"Oh Merlin…"

Even copying the supposed alphabet confused him. Sure, there were no vowels to bother with, but the squiggles reminded Harry of descriptions for what dyslexia was like.

"How about you try writing about those adventures you keep having at Hogwarts," Professor Weatcher suggested. "See if you can hide details from me."

Basilisk. He wrote the word in shorthand, unsure of what his mind was supposed to be doing. It came flowing out, in all its inky spelling errors. Professor Waechter's hands seemed to almost itch as Harry retold the story of Fawkes saving his life onto the pages.

"Has the basilisk's body been removed from the Chamber?" he asked abruptly, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

He slumped. "It didn't work at all, did it?"

"There is enough progress for today," the professor said gently. "You need to work on being more aware though. I do ask again though, was the basilisk ever removed?"

"I… no?" Should Harry have removed it? He was a bit more preoccupied with not dying and stopping Lockhart from removing his memory at the time.

Professor Waechter snapped his fingers. "Then let's have a side quest to break things up! It'd be good to harvest at least some of it for potions ingredients, hmm?"

He then proceeded to cartwheel out of his office. Harry did not have the heart to tell his professor that he was going in the wrong direction.

…

…

As they walked to the girl's bathroom on the second floor, Harry started having an itch. He was forgetting something. Either that or the whistling from Professor Waechter was getting to him.

"Have you met with Professor McGonagall yet about career prospects?" he asked.

"Was I supposed to?" Harry wondered. "I'm not really sure what I want to do. Auror, maybe?"

"Maybe it's a bit early in the year," Professor Waechter allowed. "Personally, I'm hoping someone breaks the curse on this position, so you could upgrade from being TA."

If Voldemort died… "Who referred you to the Defense teaching position anyway?"

"Oh, some guys at work were interested in confirming what Professor Dumbledore said, see if the British were really back in civil war again. You know, it's funny, I can never seem to remember their names. I think they started with an O and K? Some politics thing, you know how it is."

Harry groaned. "I hate politics."

"You're not supposed to like it, I'm pretty sure," he said. "All war's inherently political, so you're not escaping it anytime soon."

"Is it politics then," Harry said distantly, "that makes people not see Voldemort kill Cedric?"

"Ah." Professor Waechter clicked his tongue. "To be frank, the Dark Lord's mission doesn't really divert much from the general public's values. If he wasn't using such crude methods, I think he would have done extremely well as a traditional politician."

"He's Voldemort!" Harry said incredulously.

"I'm not saying I agree," Professor Waechter hastily backtracked. "But you've seen Lucius Malfoy. Highly successful politician. His outwardly stated political goal is to remove the rights of everyone else, and even though that's literally fascism, no one's actually calling him out on it."

Harry stayed quiet after that. He hadn't forgotten about Lucius. It was the entire reason why he didn't get along with Malfoy Jr and had reservations about Fenton too. But, when stated point blank, it really made Harry's increasing facial redness worse. Why was it that the Wizarding World had Voldemort's pureblood supremacist values already integrated into its system?

When they'd reached the bathroom sink, he hissed at it, opening the entrance. Harry unshrunk his broom from his pocket and flew down.

"Do remember that war changes people, Mr. Potter. You might be surprised who will step up for justice." His voice echoed through the pipes. Professor Waechter slid down, managing to remain on his feet. "I have been preparing my entire life for it."

"Voldemort never went to America though. You're the one who told me."

"It's not war from dark lords I fear," he said dryly. "Ecto-entities, on the other hand..."

"If they're such a problem, how come conflicts haven't been documented?" Harry wondered. "Binns always drones on about the Goblin Wars."

"Professor Binns," he corrected sharply, "is inclined to feel sympathy for them. I admit, their concentration in the Real World is... recent. Not something I'd like to advertise in class, given Mr. Fenton's attendance."

"Sir?"

"Keep in mind, strictly, there is no evidence we could bring to court about this." Professor Waechter grimaced at this. "MACUSA experts believe Mr. Fenton's parents are the ones responsible for letting ectoplasmic entities enter our world. It's quite the headache, since they won't agree to sell their lab. We'd be able to confirm our suspicions if we could just—oh my god, that thing is huge."

Harry snapped his head back to the dead basilisk. Still the same slimy snake as always. He was more surprised at the lack of decomposition. The dungeons must have been cold enough to preserve it. "Yeah, that's the basilisk."

He stared. "Is this a bad time for me to mention that I don't know how to navigate the moving staircases?" said the professor abruptly. "They're messing with my muscle memory from my time in Ilvermorny."

"Can't you just…" Harry waved aimlessly. "Break the snake down with magic?"

Professor Waechter looked at him, unimpressed. "What have you been learning in Care of Magical Creatures, exactly?"

Harry coughed.

"Right." He gave Harry a look-down, then sighed. "Basilisk are much more resistant to magic than, say, a troll. The only thing that has any hope of penetrating its skin is goblin metal. I think… we may be at an impasse unless you can get access to the Sword of Gryffindor again. Unlikely to happen, given that theoretically this is theft of Hogwarts property…"

"I think the fangs are where the venom is most potent," Harry offered. As he reached out, the professor's eyes widened, and he yelped in alarm. Too late, Harry already broke off a fang.

"Mr. Potter!"

"Eh?" Harry turned around, unharmed. "What's wrong?"

"Drop that!" Professor Waechter demanded. "You are literally holding some of the most potent, undiluted venom in the world on bare skin!"

Harry slowly placed it on the floor. "I feel fine though?"

In perhaps a flash of irresponsibleness, Professor Waechter waited and observed. "You really don't feel the venom at all? You should be screaming your head off at least… unless, when Fawkes cried on you last time, was there an open wound?"

Harry thought about it and nodded.

"Incredible," Professor Waechter breathed. "The phoenix tears must have done more than neutralized the venom. They must have entered your bloodstream and altered its chemistry! It's like you built some immunity, or at least a tolerance to the basilisk venom… probably should still wash your hands though." He cast an Augamenti.

Harry rinsed the venom off his hands as the professor muttered to himself. He stared at his hands. If a phoenix crying on an open wound made the person immune to venom, why wasn't it more sought after?

Chapter Text

His late night mirror-call with Sirius had not gone well. While Sirius was all for ditching Snape in regards to teaching him Occlumency, he did point out the fatal flaw in Harry's chosen replacement.

"I'm surprised Dumbledore's allowing it, since Waechter isn't in the Order."

"I did not ask for permission," Harry said, realizing he might have skipped a few steps. "He's only seen Quidditch games, at least?"

"Harry, we really can't trust him. He probably isn't a Death Eater, I'll give you that, but we don't know if his methods are going to hold up against You-Know-Who."

Harry sighed. "Is there any choice I have? Snape's the worst. I don't know if I even want to be an Auror because that'd mean two more years of him."

Sirius didn't have a solution for that.

…

…

The morning Daily Prophet sent the castle into madness, and for once, Rita Skeeter had her eyes on a new victim: the Malfoys. The not-so-secret secret that Fenton was actually Deneb Malfoy, and the private campaign from Lucius Malfoy to regain custody. The bits and pieces he heard yelled over the tables, it struck Harry as odd, since Lucius was respected by the media. How were they spinning this?

Two owls, one carrying a copy of the Prophet, and another a letter, dropped by their table. After paying the Prophet owl, Hermione ripped into them both. A hurried summary once she finished skimming made him groan.

"They're not even mad at Malfoy Sr. for having a muggle-raised son?" Harry gawked.

"Huh," Ron said plainly. "I didn't see that."

"I bet Danny didn't even get a say whether he wanted to leave his adopted muggle family," Hermione said darkly.

At least Fenton was wanted, Harry didn't say. His former witch-hunting, muggle parents chose to adopt him, and now his former wizard parents even wanted him back.

Harry took a glance at the Hufflepuff table, unable to spot Fenton. He scanned around until he found him suffocated at the Slytherin table, surrounded by Malfoy's guard dogs. Fenton looked downright bored by it all, while Malfoy was attempting to murder people by glaring. It was too bad Malfoy's glares no longer affected people, given how pathetic he was alone.

"I thought you and Malfoy had an agreement to blackmail Skeeter," Harry said. "Whatever happened to that?"

"She registered herself, apparently," Hermione said. "She might think that as long as she paints Lucius in a positive light for this, by 'rescuing' Danny from witch hunters, she's in the clear, but clearly Malfoy is displeased."

"It was a horribly kept secret anyway," Ron said.

"We only knew because we have access to an invisibility cloak," Harry pointed out.

"No, everyone knew," Ron said. "We were just the only ones who had it confirmed."

He frowned. That didn't make much sense to Harry at all, but then again, he tried not to pay much attention to the other students this year. "Well, I for one am glad we're going to be an entire continent away from Malfoy."

"We are planning on going to Danny's hometown. He might go back to visit his muggle family," Hermione pointed out.

"Nah," Ron said. "They're staying at Hogwarts during the break."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Well—" Ron fiddled with his collar. "They need to make a good impression on the other Death Eaters, don't they? Running off to America wouldn't look great, but Fenton doesn't know enough to not offend someone. He could stay safe learning how to survive it in Hogwarts."

"That's… surprisingly well thought out, coming from you, Ron," Hermione admitted.

Ron let out a sigh of relief.

…

…

"Do you have any idea why Mr. Malfoy keeps glaring at me?" Professor Waechter asked after class. "He's been looking at me like I wiretapped his house."

"I don't think he even knows what a wiretap is," Harry said.

He frowned. "Is the Ministry not using wiretaps for civilian surveillance? Suddenly I find myself no longer as baffled as to why people choose to live here."

"MACUSA has your house wire-tapped?"

Professor Waechter snorted. "They have every magical house wire-tapped. It's a relic from Rappaport's Law, supposedly, making sure we're not mingling too much with our muggle neighbors." He shivered.

Harry gave a hurried good day to catch up to Malfoy. Even if the professor hadn't asked, he did want to eavesdrop on the potential conversations from the ferret. Easy enough when he remembered to bring his cloak.

So predictable, Malfoy was speaking to Fenton again. They seem heated though, in disagreement.

"I hate wizards," Danny said evenly. "I hate magic. The government has no right to memory wipe my folks. Messing with people's minds like that… it's too easy, in this world. And yet, for some unknowable reason, it's impossible to make anyone forget my birth parents named me something else. My name is Danny Fenton. Not Deneb, not Malfoy. It's Danny Fenton."

"And I know that." Malfoy held onto Fenton's hand.

Fenton scoffed. "But what about everyone else? The only one who gets it is Waechter. Isn't that the saddest thing?"

Malfoy cupped his ear. "Did you hear that?"

"Are you talking about the person hiding in the corner pretending he isn't listening in on us?" he asked dryly.

Harry ran.

Chapter Text

"Our child wasn't even a squib."

Mother did not yell. She cut her words as ice, and Draco slowly backed away as Father was frozen to the ground.

Draco's twin was alive.

…

…

He was a boy now, calling himself Danny. Awkward, rubbed at his neck in a nervous tic far more often than Draco thought was acceptable. Yet, he was his.

It was miraculous for them to even be reunited. Magic detected in a ghost town without any documented wands. Except, as one MACUSA worker realized, for the supposed squib child adopted by a muggle couple.

"Maybe the… transition… is what fixed the condition," Father said. "The body finally matched the heart for a healthy person to conduct magic."

He was supposed to be dead. Draco was very glad he was not.

…

…

"He's mine," Draco insisted. Realizing his misstep, he corrected himself, "He's my twin. Why shouldn't I get an opinion?"

"The Dark Lord very explicitly—" said Father.

"Lucius, if you dare continue that sentence—" said Mother. "When you married me, we agreed we wouldn't disown any family who wanted to stay. If our child doesn't want us, it is only because you allowed his mind to be poisoned by not wanting him first." She placed a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder.

"It is good," she continued, "for you to want your brother."

…

…

Draco was not good. Malfoys did not do good, as a general rule. They valued power, politics, and beating the shit out of people they hated. The last one mostly referred to his father versus Mr. Weasley, and himself against Potter, admittedly, but that did not make it any less true.

Malfoys though valued their own skin above all else. They valued kin. And Danny, poor muggle-raised, rebellious, Hufflepuff Danny had either the great misfortune, or greatest blessing, depending on how one looked at it, to be Malfoy kin.

If they were not spending their winter hols at Hogwarts, he was certain coming back to the Manor would be the snapping point for Danny. His twin would spit on the Malfoy name, loudly proclaiming to their parents about his rejection of every gift magic could offer.

He couldn't understand it.

Danny wasn't who he was meant to be. A boy instead of a girl, a different name, rejecting his birthright—

Draco took a breath.

It would be fine. He still had time to convince him. Danny was his, after all. There was no magic that could separate them again. Intertwined destinies, friends until the end, this was his greatest wish come true. Draco just needed to work a bit more than he anticipated to make everything perfect.

…

…

"I don't have magic," Danny told him, again.

"You would not be having nearly this much trouble with your spellcasting if you stopped living in denial," Draco said, almost bored.

He did not like having these conversations in the hallway where anyone, like Potter, could wander in. Danny kept starting them though in these public spaces, instead of somewhere sensible like a closed door classroom or a private alcove. Even outside, where voices at least wouldn't echo, would be better.

"I'd have to be alive first to be living in denial," Danny deadpanned.

Draco wanted to scream. Surely his brother could pick up on some clues from their parents. Perhaps he was obtuse on purpose. "You can't just get yourself expelled to stop learning magic. Our… my parents would just send you to Durmstrang next. Magic is in your blood. You must learn to control it."

"So then I get myself expelled from Durmstrang," Danny said calmly.

"You cannot get expelled from every magic school in the world." He pinched his nose. "Is it our classmates? We could just go for private tutoring if they're so awful."

"Drake, I don't know how else to tell you this, but it's really not difficult to go pretend the only spell you can cast is arson when even muggles can do it."

"Har har."

"It's called a lighter."

Draco had no idea what a lighter was, if it was even real and not just something Danny made up to spite him. "I do not want to debase myself from asking favors from Gryffindors, but I will talk to this… Seamus… if I must. For you."

"You wouldn't have to if you ever took anything I say seriously," Danny said. "I've never lied to you, even once."

"Say I believe you believe you don't have magic."

"Because I don't."

"What are you hoping to accomplish when you prove you've been a squib this whole time?"

Because that was the thing. Magic was wonderful. It was what made life worth living. If Danny was a squib, then—

"For things to be back to normal," Danny said softly.

His shoulders slump. "So you don't want me."

"What?" Danny looked alarmed. "No, stop putting words in my mouth. You've been the only good thing out of this mess."

"That's funny. All you've done in this conversation is reject me. Magic is my life."

"But it's not mine."

They were at an impasse again. Didn't Danny get it? He couldn't just pick and choose. It was all or nothing. And Draco, slowly, was becoming worried Danny would abandon him for the latter.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," Danny said, surely lying.

Chapter Text

Between gobstones, exploding snap, and wizard’s chess, a new game presented itself on the scene. A card game, one that prided itself on bright, noticeable colors and simple rules, was the new Hogwarts frenzy right before break. Everyone was murmuring about it, those not dealt in watching the game being held in the Great Hall with apt attention.

“I know what’s going to be on everyone’s Christmas list,” Zabini purred from the sidelines behind Malfoy.

Malfoy, who was actually dealt in, elbowed him. “Way to state the obvious, Blaise.” He glared at Smith who just went. “I don’t have any reds or 7s, you twat.”

“That was rather the point, I think,” he drawled. “I believe you need to draw a card now.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Not quite.” He turned to Fenton on his other side. “Forgive me.” With a dramatic flourish, he slapped his card down.

Gasps echoed in the hall.

“A plus four! Of course Malfoy was hiding that, sneaky Slytherin!” cried the audience.

Fenton laughed. “Oh, I am so glad we agreed to play house rules.” He pulled a card out of his hand, turning it for all to see.

“Another plus four?! What are the chances?”

Howls, cries of foul! Sally-Anne, who was next, groaned, rubbing her eyes.

“Figures.” She bowed her head in defeat, taking the eight cards necessitated in shame.

In the midst of Harry being dumbfounded, a frozen bystander to the game, Hermione found him. She whispered into his ear, “I don’t think they realize…”

“They don’t.” A genuine sense of tiredness leaked into Harry’s voice. So many purebloods who sneered at muggles in one breath were jumping to watch, or even play, a very muggle card game. It would have been a cause of celebration if it wasn’t clear everyone else was collectively holding their breaths, no one daring to mention it within earshot.

How much hypocrisy were they prepared to take?

Harry’s hand twitched. “Someone deal me in.”

Dean and Seamus made room for him on the Gryffindor side of the table.

Upon receiving his cards, Harry scowled. “How many decks have you got mixed in?”

“How did you know we combined decks?” Ernie, sitting next to Sally-Anne, squawked.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Basic card counting.”

“Only six,” someone from the Ravenclaw side said.

He sighed, beginning to regret his decision.

After several rounds of yelling, new alliances, and betrayal, Professor McGonagall approached. “Mr. Potter, the headmaster asks you to be in his office.”

Harry did not throw her a dirty look because he was dominating uno and was two cards away from winning. That would be rude, and it wasn’t like she could have known Harry was not particularly interested in speaking with Dumbledore. He barked at Ron, “Win in my stead!”

Ron gave a solemn salute, taking his cards.

“The password is ‘fun dip.’”

…

…

“Run by me again why are you giving me a very rare and highly valuable vial of phoenix tears?” Harry said sardonically.

“Consider it an early Christmas gift!” Dumbledore said, a small twinkle in his eye. “Why, I noticed you didn’t put your name down to stay at Hogwarts this break, and assumed that meant you were going on a grand adventure with Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley. In case of catastrophe, these tears may very well save your life.”

Harry sort of doubted that American ghosts could be very dangerous, but he supposed with his track record, some protection was warranted. Even if Professor Waechter wasn’t very starstruck, who knows? Maybe there were obsessive fans on the other side of the pond too.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Be safe, young Harry.”

“Sure will.”

“Do try not to miss the Hogwarts Express this time.”

Harry scampered off.

…

…

He almost forgot that taking the Express back meant that Hermione and Ron would be in the prefects’ carriage again, leaving Harry alone. Almost. Harry resigned himself to Neville and Luna for company again.

“Cheer up, mate, we’ll spend the entire break together.” Ron patted his back sympathetically. “Besides, you won’t even run into Malfoy on the train. His name was on the list staying at Hogwarts.”

“Really?” Harry didn’t think Malfoy ever stayed at Hogwarts. He considered it a darn shame Harry didn't have any loving family to spend the winter break with.

“Danny’s name was on the list too,” Hermionee chimed in. “He probably wants to show him around for the complete Hogwarts experience.”

So, he sat with Neville and Luna. Neville looked genuinely surprised to see him.

“I thought you hated your relatives,” Neville said.

“I’m spending the break with Hermione’s family,” Harry said. It wasn’t even really a lie, not that he needed to lie, but well. This mission felt like it should be private. He did need to spend a few days with Hermione’s family to prepare for their trip because they needed to fully convince them that Remus was an acceptable adult to travel internationally with the wizarding way.

“Oh, okay…” Neville trailed off. “Do you think, maybe, I’d be able to visit?”

Visit? “Probably not,” Harry said. “Any reason why?”

Neville flushed. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself when we start working on the Patronus after break…”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t be the only one struggling,” Luna said. “It is quite advanced magic.”

He was actually vaguely concerned about that. If they weren’t able to find a boggart to act as a dementor, Harry doubted he could teach anyone the spell at all. Still, Neville didn’t need more doubts to add on. “It’s really quite simple. Think of your happiest memory.”

He squinted his eyes shut, putting all his concentration searching. Luna put down her copy of The Quibbler, copying him. Harry gave the headline a cursory search, finding nothing comprehensible.

“Then, once you found it, look again. It has to be a really potent memory, a singular one, to really work well. You don’t need your wand to practice that part.”

As Harry quietly coached the two of them through memory-searching, he wondered. Was it really worth it, leaving behind the rest of his friends to go chase after ghosts?