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Chapter Text

The problem came to be where problems are most apt to occur: Potions class. 

Slughorn was a fine professor. Certainly more approachable than Snape had ever been. He taught with an exuberance for his craft that enamored even the most listless of students. Harry would know. 

So when Slughorn was rambling on about the importance of eel eyes in potions brewed for purposes of enhancement, Harry had actually paid attention. As the time came for students to assume their own stations, Harry carefully prepared his jars, sharpened his blade, and approached the task with a confidence unfitting of his past proficiency. 

What Slughorn had in charm, however, he lacked in vigilance. Snape would have never allowed Blaise Zabini to replace a cauldron after catching himself on a haphazard mismeasurement. Nor would he have turned his back long enough for Harry to pick up said cauldron, believing it to be of the unused supply. 

As a result, when class was nearly over and most other students had left with their brews vialed for grading, Harry poked fun at Ron’s desperate attempt to salvage his failed sludge and added the last bowl of peeled eel eyes to his own boiling concoction without worry or intervention. 

The explosion of hot, mossy green ooze was the last thing he registered before his world went dark.

-

“Oh my, this will not do. We’ll need to move him quickly–” 

“Move him? Where off?”

Harry came to, ears straining as the tones of Professor McGonagall and Ron broke through his syrupy sleep. He did not dare open his eyes yet. His head felt tight, as though it’d been squeezed through a steel straw. No, his whole body felt that way. Down to his toes.

“Keep your voice low, Mr. Weasley. And do not interrupt.” McGonagall hushed. “Poppy, we need to get him secured. The hospital wing is too public, if his condition were to get out– How soon can we transfer?” 

“Physically, he is stable. Malnourished, but that is a separate issue. He should be fine to move about." Madam Pomfrey's cool composure entered the mix. "However, there is also the consideration of mental distress, and I do not advise the risk of him awakening in transit.”

“Mental-wise… how will he be?” Ron was closer than the others. A mere arm’s length away.

“That is the concern. We will not know for certain until he rises.” Pomfrey responded, matter of fact. Harry knew a cue when he heard one.

“Agh,” his throat was thick and scratchy, groan coming out more like a squeak as he twitched awake against the room’s blistering white light.

Slowly he was able to hold his eyes wide enough to take in the blurry figures craning over his cot. As he’d inferred, Ron was closest, sitting in a chair beside his pillow– the clearest face he could read without his glasses. His expression was all nerves, a wonky smile plastered beneath worried eyes.

“Hey… buddy.” He said, high and soft. Much softer than even after McGonagall had requested it.

Buddy? Ron did not call him buddy. 

“Hi…” Harry furrowed, and again, the sound wheezed out at an unnatural pitch. 

Embarrassed, Harry pushed against his vocal cords to release whatever was obstructing his voice. The act spurred a fit of coughing. 

“Easy now, easy.” Madam Pomfrey came around to his other side, and with his eyes squashed shut, he felt her ease him up by his shoulders and back. Her hands felt large. Abnormally large. Like, taking up half of his ribcage, large .

“Do you know where you are, Mr– em, Harry?” McGonagall asked once he’d regained breath.

What?

Why wouldn’t he?

Harry blinked to answer the puzzling question, but the words fell apart as he saw that even upright, his professor towered almost a meter above his head. More than that, the bed was massive, thin sheet swamping his form like a tarp. 

Harry froze, trying to process the state of things. Madam Pompfrey’s large hands were still fixed on his shoulder and back, the contact suddenly too much, too heavy. He flinched out of her grasp, grabbing the sheets in fists up to his chest. 

“Calm now, it’s alright.” Pomfrey crooned, hands-free, from the side.

“Calm!” Harry squeaked. “I’ve shrunk!” 

“Muffliato!” McGonagall urgently cast, a glimmering bubble forming briefly around the curtains.

“You haven’t shrunk, Mr. Potter. You’ve de-aged .” Pomfrey said, as if it were meant to be a comfort. He surveyed his hands, and true as it was, they were not only small, but rounded with the delicacy of childhood. More than that, the blood quill scar he was so used to seeing by now had disappeared-- As if time itself had rewound across his skin.

Harry turned to Ron, who had backed off some, but remained close enough for Harry to see his reddened, gaping face.

“So you know who I am then?” Ron posed tentatively.

“Yes, of course!” 

“Oh, thank Merlin.” He sagged. “You had me worried there.”

Harry could not believe Ron’s use of had. He was still very much in the midst of worry. 

“Where’s Dumbledore?” Harry looked about. The question sounded needy in this voice, but he hardly had mind to care. The headmaster should be here. Surely, he would have a way to return him to his body and put this strange incident behind them.

“He’ll be here when he can.” McGonagall said simply and refrained from correcting his improper absence of title.

Harry was unsatisfied, but before he could press, Pomfrey chimed in with a different initiative.

“What is the last moment you remember?” She asked.

“Potions class." Harry said. It was clear in his mind. "I was nearly finished. The brew was normal, and then it just-- it exploded, I think. A memory potion. Or, that’s what it was meant to be anyway…” 

The longer Harry spoke, listening to his stupid voice explain what happened, the more his throat burned with frustration.

He made the potion right. He knows he did–- He knows he did! He followed every step to the book–- measured every ingredient to the line–- it bubbled when it was supposed to and discolored precisely when Slughorn said it should.

How the hell did this happen? What did he do? What did he miss? How could he get it so wrong?

“Hey, woah,” Ron said, awkwardly leaning forward but not touching, and Harry realized that globby tears were pooling up to his lashes. He swiped at them harshly with his sleeve– at least they’d shrunken his clothes, too, spared him the indignity of changing– but he still shook with raging humiliation. 

He bit his lip hard, forcing himself to calm.

He wasn't a child, no matter how much he appeared like one. And regardless, he didn't lose himself like this even when he was a child. That type of constant blubbering was reserved for Dudley, and Harry would rather chew his mouth off than whinge about like his spoiled cousin.

“Memory potion, you say.” Madam Pomfrey repeated, thankfully ignoring his silent struggle. “Well, that is something.” 

“Do you know what could have caused this? When it will expire?” McGonagall asked what Harry was thinking, and he was grateful not to try his voice again at the moment.

“Not exactly.” She started. Harry’s ballooning hope rapidly deflated. “But I do know that memory potions are a rejuvenating classification. The same classification as de-aging draughts. I suppose Headmaster Dumbledore will find out more from Horace.” 

So that’s where Dumbledore was.

Now that Harry knew, it made complete sense. Of course the headmaster was with Slughorn, collecting information on the accident and working toward an actual solution.

Harry was silly for doubting his investment, just because he wasn't at his bedside.

“In the meantime, Mr. Potter," McGonagall turned on him, "Your condition makes you exceedingly vulnerable. We'll need to take you someplace private at once. Are you able to walk?” She looked him up and down, and Harry felt like he’d shrunk an extra centimeter from the gesture.

“Yes, I can walk!” He yelped, grounding his arms on the bed at the heinous thought of someone here trying to levitate or lift him by any means. 

McGonagall’s features pinched with the sharpness of her usual admonishments.

“Watch your tone, Mr. Potter. I understand you are under stress, but you will do well to control your manners.” 

“Sorry, Professor.” Harry said, but felt oddly reassured by her sternness. He was glad to have broken through the mushy sensitivity. An inkling of normalcy to hang onto.

Harry grappled the cover aside, bunching it off his person with both hands. He squinted at the floor, trying to gauge the drop, and Pomfrey let out an oh sound before fishing a pair of glasses from her apron. Harry pushed them on his face, remembering now how they’d teetered when he was younger, and able to sense the depth, hopped off the cot with ease. His body still felt tight, and there was a distracting ache behind his knees– a ‘shrinking pain,’ of sorts– but he was steady as he stood. 

“This is weird.” Ron couldn’t help but blurt, his lanky late-teen frame sprouting over Harry, who’s messy hair barely reached past his elbow. Looking down on his friend from this angle was unreal. The same clothes from this morning, the same snark to his words, but this version of Harry was slight and frail, like a wind might up and carry him off. It made Ron rightfully nervous.

 “What?” Harry tensed defensively, not enjoying the severe lift in his chin required to meet Ron’s boggling gaze. He felt very much like an insect, stuck flopping around a jar. “Stop staring at me like that.”

Ron flickered away for a moment, but his attention impulsively rebounded. “Sorry, it’s just very… weird.”

Harry huffed under his breath and glared at the mattress.

“Hurry along. Before classes let out.” McGonagall ordered, then, "Thank you, Poppy." Before taking the lead through the curtains. 

Madam Pomfrey began the work of straightening his cot, but Harry hesitated before taking his leave. He trusted that McGonagall wouldn’t risk him being seen, but part of him still worried that someone might see.

She was right. Aside from the laughter he would no doubt face, there were also much darker concerns to consider. The world was crumbling to ash, and the prophesized savior of it was more feeble than a first year.

“You good, mate?” Ron asked, noting Harry’s stillness.

Harry swallowed the suffocating string of hypotheticals that pounded just below the surface.

If these effects didn’t wear off on their own, Dumbledore was already working on an antidote. He would return to normal in no time. All he needed to do was get somewhere out of the way until that happened. He still had his mind and his magic.

Speaking of–

“Where’s my wand?” Harry asked. The bedside dressers were bare.

“Oh, yeah." Ron rubbed his neck. "Professor McGonagall pocketed it when she arrived. Sorry, she wouldn't let me hold it."

Wandless was not a position Harry particularly felt comfortable entertaining. The absence of its weight on his person suddenly felt pressing and hollow.

"Go ahead. I’ll cover your back.” Ron said. He knew not to tell Harry it was safe, like someone who knew him lesser might. 

With that assurance and not much else to bargain for, Harry departed from the shield of bed curtains. McGonagall was waiting on the other end, brows raised, and promptly spun on her heel at Harry’s joining. Madam Pomfrey remained in the wing, while the three of them set down the corridor in a line.

It was not a long walk– only one turn around the bend– but Harry still expected Malfoy to pop out from between the stones, mock him a bit, and send an owl off to Voldemort about his primed state. 

McGonagall halted at a painting of a woman with tied black hair, posed against a brick wall covered in vines. She lightly cupped a rose, supporting its stem as she aimed her convex nose toward its center. Of all the days Harry had walked this hall, he had not much noticed this portrait, which appeared rather stationary against the rest. Only a slight tilting of her head gave away the enchantment.

“Good day, Miss Myrna.” McGonagall greeted, and the woman turned in her turquoise robes, gently smiling. 

“G’day, Professor.” Her canary voice returned in a thick Irish accent. Dark eyes dropped below her frame, to Harry. “Oh, leanbh. Who is the wee babe?”

Blood rushed to his ears. Ron snorted. Harry made a note to punch him later.

“He will be needing your quarters for the time being.” McGonagall said without elaboration.

The woman curtsied. “My pleasure. I will gladly watch o’er.” 

McGonagall brought the end of her wand to the canvas, another rose blossoming on the vine in swipes of pink and red paint. Myrna plucked a petal, letting it drift wistfully down on swirling waves, until it disappeared beyond the picture. 

Not a breath later, the wall beneath slid into the floor, revealing a spiral staircase that led below the quad. As before, Harry and Ron followed McGonagall in a line down the steps, hearing as the stones scratched back into place behind them. The walls were lit by the fire of torches, not unlike the dungeons, but the architecture was smooth and brilliant– a cool hall of glittering gray limestone. 

They walked for some time, Harry concentrating as he bounded down the steps to keep pace with McGonagall’s stride, before he asked: “Where are we?” 

 “This is an apprentice dormitory. It was built when Madam Pomfrey ran her healing program with the school.” She provided, smirking to herself at Harry and Ron’s stunned silence. It was the sound that all teenagers made once faced with the disturbing reality that adults, in fact, had lives beyond their present careers. “Shamefully, they do not get much use nowadays. Except for when someone presents with an especially contagious illness.” 

“Contagious?!” Ron labored from behind.

McGonagall stopped abruptly at the bottom of the staircase, nearly causing Harry to trip into her skirt, and pointedly addressed Ron. 

“Relax yourself, Mr. Weasley. Need has been rare. And you will be relieved to discover that the threat of contagion is easily overcome by the wonders of cleaning.” 

Ron ducked bashfully. “Right.”

McGonagall moved aside, allowing the boys to step up to the double wooden doors. 

“Now, I expect you will treat these quarters with the same respect as the Gryffindor dormitory.” She said, earning a pair of nods and yes, ma’am ’s. Then, she pushed the doors inward to reveal a display of the castle like they’d never seen. 

A round, oak-floored room was encased by walls of twining roots, leaves and lichen sprouting in patches of deep green. Warm light coated the air from an array of floating lanterns that bobbed in and around the dark nooks of plush cushioned seating. A main couch, wide and felted, faced a cobbled hearth that roared in flame at their entry. From here, the ceiling seemed to stretch up forever, as between the lanterns and roots, were winding steps that led to unseen levels.

“Bloody hell.” Ron said, without thinking. 

“Language, Mr. Weasley.” The smile in McGonagall’s voice was obvious. “But it is quite impressive, indeed. The design is Madam Pomfrey’s creation, an ode to nature’s healing magic.” She stepped into the space, speaking all the while. “On this first level, you will encounter the common room and personal kitchen, where meals will appear as they do in the great hall, at identical hours, so do not be late. On the second, a small library and study room for your classwork, which will be delivered by myself daily. On the third, the dormitories and washroom.” 

Harry never would have guessed that a sanctuary of this extent lurked just below the ground they walked on. 

“This is mad.” Ron said. “Harry, you should have gotten ill sooner.”

McGonagall ignored him and closed her speech. “I trust you can settle without me. Miss Myrna will guard the entrance, which is only accessible to those with an approved magical signature. Dinner will be served at half past five, as usual, and your things will be transferred here by night. Do you have any questions?”

“You’re not going to leave him on his own, are you?” Ron asked, uncomfortable with the prospect of Harry trapped by himself, looking like he might trip over the staircase on the way to the loo.

“I’m fine.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Mate, no offense, but you’re like– six.”

“I’m not six. I’m sixteen.”

“You know what I mean, though.” Ron said.

“I’m still not six !” Harry argued for a pitiful shred of pride, knowing full well that when he was six, he was not yet as tall as the stove knobs. As he was, he’d at least be eye level with them. 

“I saw every age laid out in family pictures. I’m telling you, mate, you’d blend in with Year 2’s just fine.” 

Harry fumed.

“Oh hush, boys.” McGonagall said, pinching where the bridge of her spectacles sat on her nose. “Mr. Potter, you do clearly have the mind of your sixteen year old self, but Mr. Weasley is not wrong that it would be irresponsible to leave you alone while… in this state.” She spoke thoughtfully, minding Harry as he glowered up at her with barely restrained resentment. “De-aging is a fickle transfiguration. We do not know how the effects of your potion will progress, and Madam Pomfrey cannot very well observe you and tend to the rest of the student body at once. If you were any other student, you’d likely be sent home, to be cared for by your relatives until an antidote was brewed.” 

Harry almost laughed with her choice of words. The Durselys barely ‘cared for’ him the first go around, and he imagined they’d be even less generous if made to do it again. 

“But as your condition must be protected,” McGonagall continued, “You and Mr. Weasley will remain here together for the time being. If anyone should ask, you have both contracted a severe case of boils from the spilled potion.”

“Does it have to be boils?” Ron frowned. 

“Yes.” McGonagall dismissed. “Any further concerns?”

“Can I have my wand back?” Harry asked. McGonagall’s brow shot to her hair. “Please. Professor.” 

“You may.” She said slowly. “But do not be discouraged if you find it difficult to use.”

“But my–”

“Magic is an essence of the body, as well as of the mind and soul.” McGonagall explained, and retrieved his wand from her robes as promised.

“Yeah, Charlie let us use his wand sometimes, but I definitely couldn’t do a lick of magic at six.” 

“I am NOT six!” Harry barked.

“Lord, help me. If it will end your squabbling–” McGonagall switched hands and pointed her own wand at Harry. “Tempocorpus.”

An invisible sheath of pins and needles tingled Harry’s skin as the number ‘8’ formed in front of his chest. 

All in all, winning did not do as much for his pride as he’d hoped.

Chapter Text

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, glaring into the fire. 

He’d assumed this position shortly after McGonagall left and had no intention of moving elsewhere. Ron rummaged around behind him, eventually exclaiming when he dug out a chess set from a hutch beside the couch. Harry declined the invitation for a match. He was not in the mood for a game. So Ron arranged the set to play against himself while Harry tried to drown his frustrations in the sounds of crackling mulch.

The pressure in his body had started to fade, replaced by a fatigue that slumped against the plush rug beneath him. He was all too aware of how close he was to the ground and how short his legs looked next to the cobblestones, but when he tucked them into his peripheral and focused on the flames, it was almost like Gryffindor common room. Ron’s constant muttering between the spilling of pawns helped. 

When would Dumbledore find a cure? 

It was Friday and McGonagall said she’d bring classwork, which meant she planned on them staying through the weekend at least. 

The idea of spending several days in this body made Harry nauseous, and the possibility that it could be even more was not something he dared to examine. 

How long would it take for rumors to spread– for the wrong person to question the reason behind his absence? How long until Voldemort slithered inside his head again, and saw a glimpse of his bony fingers and under-grown limbs?

Harry’s grip tightened around his wand where it laid protectively across his lap. He still hadn’t tried any spells, not sure what he would do if it didn’t work. For now, he still had his mind and his magic. Without getting too hasty, he could keep it that way. 

There was a stirring part of him that knew he should find out soon, rather than wait for a need. He shoved that part of him down, along with the nagging reality that it existed whether or not he was willing to see it. 

The thought of potentially confirming McGonagall’s words made him clench in knots.

He’d been in this body– lived without magic– before. He didn’t imagine he’d ever have to go back. 

That life was done. Left behind years ago. Even when he was forced to return to the Dursleys and their scowling, things weren’t the same. Not with a wand in his hand.

But being in this body, all that change seemed muddied. 

If he didn’t have the ability to use magic, what would be different, really? He’d just be something to hide away in a cupboard or under the ground so that nobody could discover the truth of him.

Everything would just go back to the way it was. No, worse.

Everyone who was counting on him– all the people who had sacrificed their lives in the belief that he could fulfill some prophecy– protect everyone – would be wrong. 

Sirius would be dead for nothing.

It’d be over. 

And not because he’d gone out there and fought and failed. 

But because he mucked up one goddamn potion.

“Harry? You alright, mate?” Ron had left the couch and was peering down on him.

Harry realized his nose was running, blurry eyed once again today. He squeezed the tears back and sniffed, cheeks growing warm as Ron folded onto the floor beside him. 

“I’m fine.” Harry growled, chin tucked to his chest. “I don’t know why that keeps happening.”

“What? Do you mean crying?” Ron laughed. “Have you not experienced it before?”

Harry didn’t laugh with him. 

“It’s not a big deal.” Ron tried again, somewhat stilted.

“Easy for you to say.” Harry mumbled, picking at his jeans with too-small fingernails.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s probably the potion.” He said. “You’re still you, I get that. But you’ve got a kid’s body. That’s gotta have some effect, yeah?” 

Harry didn’t respond to that. In the silence, Ron curled forward, bringing them a tad closer to level. But as he spoke, he averted his gaze to the fire with Harry.

“And if it isn’t a side-effect, it’s not like I would hold it against you. Of all the people who deserve a cry, I’d say you’ve earned yours. And then some.”

“I guess.” Harry said. Before today, he never felt much like crying. Usually, he just wanted to break things. Not that that particular urge had gone away either.

If all the weeping was a side-effect, he just hoped it’d be the only one. 

“This isn’t all that bad.” Ron said. “I’d kill to be a kid again. Fred and George used to do this thing where they grabbed my arms and swung me around like a sack of turnips. Made mum furious and hurt like hell after a while, but it was bloody fun.” 

“I’m not a kid.” Harry reminded him. 

He didn’t bother to mention that the closest memory he had to that was Dudley and Piers Morgan seeing how far they could toss his wriggling frame across the sandbox. “Sling the Freak” was the name they called it, which Harry always thought was a missed opportunity– the word, “fling,” right there.  

Even with all the trials of his sixteen year old life, he knew he would never trade a day of it for what he’d had when he was actually eight. He feared that maybe that made him a bad person.

“I’m just saying, it isn’t the worst it could be. Not like Professor McGonagall going around telling the school we’ve got boils .” Ron gagged. “I’m never going to get a girlfriend.”

His eyes widened.

“The girls—Hermione! Do you think McGonagall will at least tell her the truth? Let her come down and visit us?”

Harry wasn’t sure, and to be honest, he’d rather she didn’t. He loved Hermione, but he didn’t particularly want to see her while looking like this. Ron being around was brutal enough, even though it seemed he’d suppressed most of his teasing for the time being. 

It was just maddening, losing his years like this. His sense of familiarity with the body shifted between seconds. Some moments, his insides were too big for it, pushing against his bones for release. Other moments, he felt as small as he appeared. 

Honestly, he couldn’t decide which feeling was more terrible.

“I don’t know.” He said.

“Well, somebody ought to. Let her loose in a library, and she’d have this mess figured out within the hour.”

“Wait.” Harry finally met Ron’s eyes for longer than a blink. “Didn’t McGonagall say this dormitory had a library? For student healers?”

“Oh, yeah– That’s right.” Ron turned toward him. “We should tell McGonagall to send Hermione tomorrow!”

“No.” Harry stood, knocking Ron’s shoulder as he headed toward the stairs. 

“Don’t you want to sit and fume a bit longer?” He called from the rug.

“Come on, Ron!” 

Ron hung his head, but kicked up in tow anyway.

The steps, constructed from the synchronized growth of flattened roots, hugged the walls in uneven footholds. Harry pulled himself along by the winding railings as his legs lunged from one bumpy platform to the next. It was working well enough, though he was growing out of breath as Ron patiently strolled alongside him. 

“Even if there are books, we still have to understand it, and it’s not like either of us are stellar at potions to begin with.” Ron argued half-heartedly, and glanced at Harry's slight size. “Clearly.”

“Thanks.” Harry heaved. “Would you rather we sit around and do nothing then?”

“I think so, yeah.” 

Harry rolled his eyes.

“You can.” He hauled himself up another ledge. “I’d rather get my body back.” 

Ron went quiet, and continued his lazy swagger up the steps.

“Do you at least want a hand, before you go and trip through those rails?”

“I can do it.”

Harry spied Ron's smirk from the corner of his eye and stopped.

“What?” 

“Nothing…” But Ron’s lips twitched.

Harry narrowed. 

“That just…” Ron knew full well that his next words were not going to be received kindly, “Came off a bit childish.”

"Did not!”

Ron snorted, loud and unabashed. Harry followed through on his prior inclinations and swung his fist into the side of Ron’s thigh. 

“Ow!” Ron yelped. “What was that for!”

"Oh. Did that come off childish, too?" Harry smiled and resumed the climb with vigor.

Once they’d made it to the second level, Harry was struggling to conceal his haggard breathing. The stairs continued at the other side of a curved balcony, and he was not looking forward to the hike up to bed later. But for now, they were here. 

The library’s sturdy door was outlined in floral trim, long petals engraved around the threshold. Harry grabbed the ornate handle and leveraged his entire upper body into it. The latch unjammed, and the entry swung open with unexpected ease, dragging Harry along.

“Sorry,” Ron said, his freakishly long arm propping the door open from above.

Harry did not know what he’d expected from the library. Maybe a modest maze of bookcases and a table or two. 

That, it was not.

Not only was the room vast– as large as the great hall itself– but the walls continued upward to the height of multiple stories. Shelves seemed to run on forever, their top stacks only accessible by massive rolling ladders. Unlike the common space, which was decorated with the dim glow of lanterns, leafy clusters dropped down from the ceiling, washing the room in shining speckles of golden pollen. 

All this? Under the ground? Truly, where were Dumbledore and McGonagall looking for a cure if not here?

Harry scanned from one peak of books to the next, knowing that any page in here could contain his key out. All at once, the bitterness in his chest roused into a burning determination. 

“There’s a cure in this room.” He declared, willing it to be true, and started toward the closest ladder.

“Sure...” Ron’s weak rally followed, his face drawn in horror. “But, er… How are we supposed to find it?” 

Harry hoisted himself up the first few rungs. 

“By looking.” He unlodged a heavy block of books– Antidotes: Volumes I-VI – letting them slam against the floor in a flurry of dust.

After pilfering through the antidotes series, which proved to be mostly household draughts for flu, cold and– oddly enough– thirty-three different types of boils, Harry began searching for more specific collections on the topics of aging and rejuvenation. He made his way along the eastern wall, climbing up and down shelves until his legs were all but numb.

“Anything?” Harry asked once he’d traveled far enough to come upon Ron, who sat perched on a ladder beneath a bronze plaque engraved, Potions – his search site, designated by Harry an indiscernible amount of time ago. 

“Wha–? Sorry?” Ron’s eyes were swimming as they peeled from the page. 

“Were you sleeping just now?” Harry questioned. More fascinated than anything.

“No, er, just brushing up on…” Ron squinted down at the book on his knees, “The six-point stirring technique for… half-moon ladles… Merlin, who writes this stuff?” He flipped to the front cover. “ Rolfe Parnell-Price. Bet you were fun at parties.”

“So, nothing, then.” Harry sighed, sagging to the floor under the weight of a 98o page encyclopedia on Medicinals for the Mature Wizard: A Guide to Centenarian Care. He wasn’t even sure why he was still carrying it with him, its contents unchanging each time he opened it– rife with everything an elderly wizard might desire except for deaging magic.

Ron watched as Harry curled inward, thick bangs curtaining his face.

“It’s okay!” He said quickly, discarding the book on a shelf as he climbed down to kneel on the floor. “There’s still a lot we haven’t covered. We’ll keep looking!”

Harry picked up on the sudden proximity and overly cheerful change in tone, and immediately backed away. 

“I’m not crying .” He said, perhaps a tad too defensively, lifting his head to show Ron his unstained face. “I’m just tired. We’ve been at this forever. I don’t care if we stop. I figure I’ll grow back before we manage to find anything helpful, anyway.”

“Oh, good.” Ron fell against the bookcase. “I didn’t really want to keep looking.”

“No?” Harry scooted to sit beside him. “The drool on your chin isn’t a sign of raving interest?”

Ron hastily scrubbed at his lips.

“So, what now, then?” He looked at Harry, who shrugged in response.

He thought about the question. He really did. 

“I have no idea.” Harry admitted, and voicing it leadened the book in his lap. A room full of words, and none of them formed an answer. “Sit around and do nothing, I suppose.”

“A majorly underrated plan.” Ron said, nodding. 

Harry pressed his head into his palms. Ron didn’t understand, and Harry didn’t feel like listing all the horrors of this situation out loud, lest he actually start crying again.

“Right.” Harry sighed instead, sliding the book forward until it toppled over his feet.

But then, he couldn’t sit up. A wide hand was on his back, keeping him in place. 

“Bloody hell, Harry! What happened?”

He felt the chill from where his shirt had ridden up, Ron’s hold pinching it higher as his other hand came to lightly prod by his spine. Instantly, a sharp pain cut across to his side, and the muscles in his back spasmed. 

“Ah– Stop that!” Harry hissed, moving off the shelf to unfurl himself. Ron let him past, but was poised in alarm as Harry spun to face him. 

“There’s a massive bruise on your back, mate.” His eyes were as wide as craters. “What the hell happened? Did you fall off a ladder?”

“No, I didn’t fall! I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” Harry tugged down the hem of his shirt, completely violated.

“You’re perfectly purple, is what you are!” Ron retorted, then took in a breath. “I’m not trying to take the piss, just tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know!”

“You’re telling me you didn’t feel it? Marks like that don’t come from a tap!” 

Harry couldn’t make sense of the fuss. Bruise or not, it was just a bruise, and Harry was clearly still walking and talking alright. Ron appeared genuinely on edge, though, boring into Harry like he was about to fall to pieces in front of him.

“I didn’t feel anything!” He insisted. “Would you drop it?” 

“How badly does it hurt?” Ron ignored his question. “Do you need ice?”

“Ron. Look at me. I am fine. ” Harry stood. “I think I’ve handled worse.”

“Not like– this !” Ron gestured to– well, all of him– getting to his knees.

There it was. 

“Please.” Harry almost laughed at the implications. He’d grown up with more bruises and marks than freckles on Ron’s face, which– “Hold on–”

“Hold on what?” 

“See this?” Harry held up his left hand, flashing the unmarred skin. “Completely clear. Like the blood quill never touched me.”

Ron’s eyebrows knit together, taking Harry’s hand to inspect the claim. Harry allowed it, though pulled back after a moment.

“The deaging potion,” He continued, “I don’t think it’s just making me look like I’m younger. It’s replicating exactly how I looked when I was younger. Like– Like, time travel, or a photograph, or–”

“Or a memory!” Ron interrupted, the epiphany leaping from him.

“Right! It was a memory potion!” Harry realized. Put together and left for a few hours, he and Ron were almost as good as one Hermione. “Whatever I botched– it’s still using memory!”

“So that bruise… It’s from… the past?” Ron concluded hesitantly. 

“I certainly didn’t get it now.” Harry said.

“Merlin,” Ron went a little green, “How’d it happen, then?”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Well, it's your memory, isn't it?”

"Possibly. It's a guess.” Harry ammended. "If the mark is from a memory, I can't specifically place it."

“It’s not just a scrape, I’d think you would recall toppling onto a fence. Or however you got that.” Ron pointed. “It’s bigger than my head.”

“That’s just not possible.” Harry said, earning a slight push from Ron. 

Very slight.

“I think there are salves downstairs–” Ron started, standing up.

Harry scoffed.

“Have you always been this smothering?” 

“Have you always been this stubborn?” Ron shot back. “Nevermind. Don’t answer that.” He shook his head as he stretched. “Like it or not, I’ve been tasked with watching over you. And if Professor McGonagall comes back to find that I’ve left you battered, she’ll have me in detention and you adhered to Madam Pomfrey’s waistcoat.” 

That was probably true, and Harry would definitely pick Ron’s company over Madam Pomfrey’s doting. Still, if he had full choice, he’d rather be left alone entirely. Let his bruises come and go in silence, without unnecessary prodding or questions.

“Whatever.” Harry huffed, trailing Ron with quick steps as they exited the library. 

A rush of warm air fanned into the room as Ron yanked the door, wafting the savory scent of roasted meat around them. 

Ron halted, taking in the smell. A sudden relaxation melted over him.

“Dinner’s out.” He beamed.

“Actually,” Harry said, nodding over the balcony to a clock on the lower level, where the minute hand was just coming upon the hour. “Dinner’s about to be gone.”

Ron didn’t respond. A pounding of footsteps resounded as he scrambled down the stairs. 

Harry tried to run after in kind, but a slip of his heel warned him slower. He ventured down as fast as he could manage while gripping the rails, as Ron flew two steps at a time to the bottom. 

He knew his rush was more performative than Ron’s, as there was no chance he’d make it to the table before the serving plates vanished. He’d accepted that, and while his stomach rumbled against a breath of buttery mashed potatoes, he could resolve himself to a hungry sleep. What he could not accept was Ron finishing his dinner before he could crawl his way to the common area.

By halfway down, he could hear a frenzied clanking of silverware– which then quieted with the chime of the clock. At the same time, Harry’s sock caught on a splinter, and his vision turned. Despite his caution, he found himself bouncing off the steps, loudly catching himself with his hands before he started rolling.

“HARRY?!” Ron’s muffled cry traveled, and he appeared from around the bend, cheeks filled with bread. Ron swallowed hard as he saw Harry sprawled, head first, on the steps. “SHIT!”

“I’m fine.” Harry gritted through his humiliation. His knees throbbed something awful as he struggled for balance, giving his ego a moment of rest before he squirmed himself straight like a flipped bug.

Though, it seemed even that would be too dignified, as Ron’s hands slipped under his arms without permission, and Harry felt himself raised into the air.

“ERGH!” He kicked, as he was placed on the floor. “What the hell!” 

“Sorry. Just easier.” 

“Don’t– do that !” Harry shouted. He missed the unspoken no-touch barrier when Ron was still freshly freaked out by his transfiguration.

Ron dismissed him.

“Why’d you wind up on the ground?”

“‘Cause it looked so comfortable! Why do you think?” 

Ron ran a hand over his face. 

“You are too breakable.” He pointed accusingly and looked back up the tall, meandering steps. “And this place is not child friendly.”

“I don’t think they planned on opening a daycare.” 

“Salves. We need salves.” Ron said, going for the hutch. 

“I’m–”

Ron turned.

“I swear to god, Harry, if you say you’re fine, I’ll hex you.” 

“I’m… not injured.” 

“Brilliant. Then I’ll meet you at the table and try not to break your legs this time, if you don’t mind!” Ron said, opening the chest. 

“I–” Harry prepped another retort, but Ron was already bent half-inside a hutch that clearly went much deeper than it appeared. Whatever defiance he had wasn’t important enough to shout, so instead Harry rolled his eyes to no one and made his way around the bend from where Ron had come.

The dining room had no door, just an open floor with a long bench table. The walls matched the common room, with mossy chandeliers lighting the low ceiling. A single plate remained on the nearest end, loaded with one chicken leg, two rolls, and a steaming scoop of mash. 

Harry sat on the bench in front of it, deciding he should occupy the seat before the house elves mistakenly cleared Ron’s dinner. It was only mildly tortuous, but luckily he had mastered the art of waiting out an empty stomach.

Instead of staring longingly at the food, Harry directed his attention to his swelling knees. He scrunched one leg of denim until a blotch of blue was peeking out.

Not terrible. Not great.

He’d give it a day or so to heal. Though he could already feel his joints tightening, this small body less able to take a hit.

He was more breakable like this. And that fact summoned the full-fledged fear he’d been working hard to tuck away.

If it were only the Dursleys he had to worry about, that would be one thing. He could handle that. Dark wizards, not so much.

Suddenly, the impending task of sleep tonight seemed like a death wish. A one way open-line for Voldemort to find out what a wonderful opportunity he had.

“At least we know you can get new ones, too.”

Ron was back, a tin in hand.

“Good for me.” 

As Ron approached, Harry went to get up, but he was waved back down.

“You haven’t started eating.” Ron noted.

“Isn’t this yours?” Harry looked between him and the plate.

“It’s not all for me! I’m not a monster!” He raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead and take first. I already stuffed down a couple rolls.”

“I’m alright.” Harry said.

“You have to eat!” Ron lectured, and subsequently cringed. “Oh no. You’ve got me sounding like my mum now.”

Harry hesitated, another urge to argue on his tongue, though he had no good reason why.

Ron seemed to sense this, collapsing on the bench beside him. Exhaustion emanated from his every fiber, and Harry was overcome with annoyance.

“You don’t actually have to watch after me, you know.”

Ron looked at him, disbelieving.

“It’s just food, Harry.” 

It wasn’t just food. Harry didn’t know what it was, but it was more than just food .

“I don’t get it.” Ron groaned. “You’ve taken from my plate before. What’s different?” 

“What’s different?” Harry asked incredulously. “Wow. Let me think.”

“When are you going to lighten up?” Ron defended. “I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but you’re the one making a big deal out of everything!”

“Because it’s weird!” Harry yelled.

“Of course it’s weird!” Ron yelled back. “I’m babysitting my best friend!”

“Then, stop!” He didn’t need one when he was a child, and he most certainly didn’t need one now. “No one’s forcing you!”

Ron’s lip flattened into a stiff line, his nostrils flaring. He looked pointedly at Harry, before slamming down the tin and turning off the bench.

For a moment, Harry thought he was getting up to leave. But then Ron stopped walking and spun around.

“Take out your wand, then.” He demanded.

“What?” 

“Take out your wand.” Ron removed his own from his pocket. “If you can disarm me one time, I’ll lay off. Promise.”

Harry hollowed.

“I’m not going to–” 

“I won’t even dodge. Just hit me.” Ron goaded, opening his arms wide. “Go on. One spell.”

Harry was torn, two forces working against him: the pride that held him to the bench in defiance, and the rage that implored him to hit Ron in his stupid face. 

“What are you stalling for?” Ron called. “I can’t make it any easier!”

“You're saying it will shut you up?” Harry spat.

"Only if you can do it."

"Fine!" Harry pushed off the seat, taking his wand from his sock. 

He aimed at Ron, a large target at as close a range as any duelist could hope for.

Harry’s hand was tingling, anticipation in his veins. He locked his elbow in place, and noticed Ron’s expression evolve– a curiosity seeping in.

Ron didn’t know if he would miss. This wasn’t a trap. It was a test.

I can do this. Harry assured himself. One spell. 

He still had his mind and his magic. 

“Go on, then.” Ron pushed. “Having trouble?”

“EXPELLIARMUS!” Harry dispelled the incantation, the intention lighting up through his brain.

But the surge never left his thoughts. The magic didn’t reach his shoulder, let alone the core of his wand.

“EXPELLIARMUS!” He tried again, feeling a twinge more. “EXPELLIARMUS!” He continued, his wielding arm trembling in resolve and pent up magic. “EXPELLIARMUS! EXPELLIARMUS! EXPELLIARMUS!”

His wand finally reacted, sparking painfully and flying from his grasp– ricocheting off the chandelier and clattering from the wall to the floor.

In the swaying of light, Harry looked from his empty hand to Ron’s agape stare. Wide with fear. And pity.

Harry’s sore, knobby knees threatened to buckle as his insides drowned in the overwhelming feeling of magic that couldn’t escape. 

“Harry…” Ron’s voice softened as he took a step forward. “Are you…”

The whirling within Harry swelled up to his ears, and the chandelier’s prongs combusted in an uproar of flame that sent Ron stumbling back. 

On an instinct buried within this body, which only knew one version of survival, Harry ran.