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Chapter Text

New Perspective

Harry dragged himself out of Umbridge's office, the weight of yet another unjust punishment bearing down on him, along with exhaustion from countless sleepless nights. The burning, throbbing hand was a constant reminder of the injustice he had endured. How he wished things could be simpler—his life was already complicated enough without a sadistic Ministry employee adding to the mess.

Harry rubbed his tired eyes for the umpteenth time that evening. His mind wandered, absent, while his footsteps echoed in the deserted corridors.

It was almost curfew, and Hogwarts seemed wrapped in an eerie stillness, far removed from his chaotic thoughts. He felt the need to reach the dormitory, to collapse onto his bed, and forget the weight of the world for a few hours. As his mind drifted, his attention was caught by something—a faint, almost suffocated sob, echoing from a dark corner of the corridor.

Harry stopped; his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He moved closer to the sound, until he spotted a small figure huddled against the wall.A first or second-year boy wearing Slytherin colors. The child was crying, trembling, and he wasn't alone. In front of him, three larger figures loomed menacingly, their faces hidden in the semi-darkness.

"You're a disgrace to our house, you're a traitor—just wait until we're done with you..." the one in the center said, his wand pointed at the boy.

Harry couldn't see who the three bullies were, but he didn't care. Without hesitation, he stepped forward. The memory of his own experiences with Dudley and his gang resurfaced, along with the anger he always kept suppressed. Without thinking of a plan—actually, a pretty stupid move when you think about it—he impulsively stepped forward.

"Leave him alone!" Harry shouted; his wand firmly pointed at the one who had threatened the boy.

The three students turned toward him, but they didn't seem intimidated.

"Oh, look, the Boy-Who-Lied," said the tallest, a sneer spreading across his face.

"This isn't your business. This is a house matter. Get out of here before you regret it, Potter."

Harry didn't respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and mentally braced himself for the fight.

"You know, I didn't think you Slytherins were cowardly enough to gang up on one of your own like this."

This wasn't going to end well. There were three of them, and they were bigger than him. If he wanted to win this duel, it certainly wasn't going to be a fair fight. He didn't wait for a response. He immediately cast a Stupefy at the Slytherin who hadn't spoken yet. The boy fell,

knocked out by surprise. Harry didn't even have time to feel triumphant before two more spells were launched at him. He dodged the first one and raised a shield at the last second against the second spell.

The curses kept coming, most of them dark. Harry dodged and blocked most of them, but the fatigue weighing on him slowed his reflexes. He was struck on the shoulder by a cutting curse. The sharp, throbbing pain made him stagger, but he pushed on.

"Expelliarmus! Diffindo!" Harry shouted, casting one spell after another until one struck his second opponent, injuring him slightly but not taking him down.

Footsteps echoed in the distance.

"Let's go!" one of the boys said, pulling his companion by the cloak. In an instant, they grabbed the third guy, still unconscious, and fled, leaving Harry and the small Slytherin alone.

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Harry rushed over. The boy was slumped against the wall, unconscious, likely hit by one of the spells in the crossfire.

He reached out to check if the boy was okay when a rough hand suddenly grabbed his shoulder.

He knew, an instant before he was spun around, who it was, and closed his eyes when his suspicions were confirmed

This was bad. No, scrap that—this was damn bad. He was alone in a corridor with no one around, facing an unconscious Slytherin and the Head of Slytherin House: a man who despised him, didn't believe a word he said, and held prejudices against him.

He was dead—bloody well dead. He knew it before even opening his eyes. Not more than two seconds had passed after that thought when he was roughly shoved against the wall. His back slammed painfully into the wall, the impact enough to force his eyes open. What he saw

made him want to close them again.

Snape was furious—he had never seen him this angry. The man radiated rage, hatred, and disgust. His eyes were cold, gleaming with maniacal aura, and his lips were drawn into a hard, unyielding line. Harry knew without a doubt—Snape wanted to hit him. He had recognized the look from his childhood, the one adults gave when they were about to strike him.

Snape's hands were painfully gripping him against the wall, pressing down on his injured shoulder. The man was too close for his comfort. It seemed like an eternity before Snape spoke. His voice was calm,but there was an undercurrent of danger that sent a chill down Harry's spine.

"Potter," he began, staring at him as if he wanted to burn him alive with his gaze. "Isn't it enough for you to behave like an arrogant fool, strutting around like your father? You had to add a Slytherin to your list of trophies, something to flaunt, just like he did."

Harry could feel Snape's hot breath against his face, but he didn't dare move. The pain in his shoulder grew sharper with every word, in step with Snape anger.

"That's all you are, Potter. A self-important little bully who believes he's above consequences. Just like your father... a coward. A pitiful imitation of a pitiful man," Snape continued.

Harry tried to speak, but Snape shoved him back against the wall, his voice turning

into a cold, venomous hiss.

"Not a word, Potter. I know exactly what you are—a liar." His lips curled into cruel sneer "You really think you'll slither your way out of this one with your fame? Dumbledore isn't here to protect you now." A look of dark satisfaction crossed Snape's face as he took in Harry's reaction. "No more excuses. No more leniency. Finally, there's no one left to shield you from the consequences you so richly deserve."

The full weight of Snape's words hit Harry, and he felt his stomach drop. He had always known Snape hated him, but with Dumbledore gone, it felt disturbingly real. This was no longer a game of petty insults. Snape had the upper hand now, and he seemed to relish every second of it, his sneer widening as he saw the effect of his words. Harry's legs felt like jelly, and he wished

desperately that this was all just a nightmare. He wanted to scream, to tear at his hair, to cry. But looking into Snape's icy stare, he knew nothing would help—no excuse, no explanation would sway him now. Snape had already made up his mind.

With a final, sneering glance, Snape turned toward the unconscious Slytherin, studied him for a moment, and nodded, as if reaching a decision. A numbness swept over Harry as he watched his most hated professor quickly check the boy over and lift him onto an invisible

stretcher. Then Snape turned back to him with an unpleasant smile, raising his wand. Harry

didn't even have time to react.

"Incarcerous," Snape murmured, and magical ropes wound tightly around Harry's wrists, wrenching his arms painfully back. The pain in his injured shoulder flared like fire. He barely held back a scream of pain, glaring defiantly at Snape, his look burning with anger and defiance.

"What are you doing, Snape? You can't do this, let me go, bastard!"

Snape's expression twisted into something even darker, his lips curling into a cruel sneer.

"Potter, do you honestly believe anyone will come to your aid? The new headmistress will not be lifting a finger for you... Boy-Who-Lied," Snape said with malice, referencing the nickname from the Daily Prophet and, by extension, the reputation that Harry currently held with the Ministry of Magic and consequently, with Umbridge. Harry's blood boiled, but before he could speak — "Silencio."

He opened his mouth to tell Snape exactly where he could go, and that Umbridge could go there too, as far as he was concerned, but no sound came out. Blinding anger surged inside him—he had never felt so helpless.

"Now, Potter, you'll learn what it feels like to be defenseless. Next time, you'll think twice before bullying someone weaker than you. You'll stay here until I've taken Mr. Trevis to the infirmary." With a final, derisive glance, Snape turned and swept out of the corridor leaving

Harry alone.

Harry's eyes burned. The exhaustion, the pain, and the stinging sense of injustice wrapped around him, making him wish he could rewind the day and stay hidden in bed. His mind wandered, but the humiliation gnawed at him, growing with every passing second. His

anger toward Snape flared hot.

He tried to focus, to think clearly about what happened and what might come next. Surely, he'd be cleared. When the Slytherin woke up, he'd tell the truth, and this entire farce would be over. Harry even imagined the look of disappointment Snape would have when he

realised there was no excuse to expel him. That thought, oddly enough, gave him a small sense of relief. He began to try and build a mental wall, like he'd tried so many times before, but it was no use. The mere thought of Occlumency reminded him of the bat in the dungeons and the anger he felt about the situation.

Time seemed to drag on, but eventually, the sound of footsteps reached his ears. His heart raced, and though he knew it was a ridiculous hope, he couldn't help but wish it was the Potions Master returning to resolve the misunderstanding and finally allow him to return to the Gryffindor Tower.

If only he had known how wrong he was, he probably would have turned and run then and there, to hell with Gryffindor courage. Though, thinking about it, with the spell still in effect, even that wouldn't have been an option

Chapter Text

Snape swept toward him with an intense fury, slamming him back against the wall. Between the force of the shove and the binding spell still in place, Harry wanted to scream, but no sound escaped him- Snape's silencing charm held fast.

Finally, Snape lifted the spells, but Harry felt little relief, as Snape continued to loom over him with a blazing anger.

"Do you have any idea what you've done, you reckless, foolish boy?" Snape hissed, his voice low and lethal. "Not even your arrogant father would have dared to sink this low."

Confusion flooded Harry.

"What?" This earned him another shove against the wall and a sneering, bitter laugh from Snape.

"Are you truly this dense, Potter? For all your self-righteous Gryffindor heroics, what you've done would make even the Dark Lord applaud."

A chill settled into Harry's stomach. "I... I don't understand..."

"Oh, of course you don't understand," Snape sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "How very convenient for you to not comprehend the consequences of your actions. The injuries you inflicted upon Mr. Trevis have left him in a comatose state, one that will require every ounce of Madam Pomfrey's skill and patience to reverse."

Harry was speechless, the urge to cry swelling up inside him. But before he could even begin to defend himself, Snape seized him roughly by the collar and dragged him forward.

"Actions have consequences, Potter," he spat. "And now you'll face yours." Without another word, he hauled Harry toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.

Harry was in shock. Now he found himself in the same room as two people who, he was certain, despised him even more than Voldemort. The predatory smile Umbridge shot him as he entered her office made his stomach turn. And so, after Snape delivered his distorted version of the evening's events, Harry sat there, bracing himself.

"So, from what you're telling me, Severus," Umbridge said, her eyes gleaming with delight, "Mr. Potter attacked and injured another student without provocation?"

Snape gave a short, cold nod, and Umbridge looked as though she'd been given an early Christmas present.

"And Mr. Potter, do you have anything to say for yourself?" Harry knew better than to hope she'd listen. He recognized that predatory smile for what it was—she finally had the pretext she'd been waiting for to punish him.

"Professor Umbridge..." Harry began, his voice wavering despite his best efforts.

"Ahem..." she interrupted, clearing her throat with a slight, overly deliberate motion. "Headmistress Umbridge, if you don't mind." The barely concealed satisfaction and disdain in her expression made Harry feel as though the walls were closing in. He knew he was losing this fight.

"Yes... um, Headmistress Umbridge, it's not what it seems. Professor Snape is mistaken— "

A predatory smile tugged at the corners of Umbridge's lips. "Are you calling Professor Snape a liar, Potter?"

Harry swallowed hard, feeling a wave of frustration rising. Snape stood by, looking like a cat who'd just caught a particularly troublesome mouse, savoring every second of the moment.

"If I may," Snape said smoothly, his voice oozing disdain, "Potter has a rather well- established history of twisting the truth. Over the years, he's consistently treated the rules as though they don't apply to him. This is just more of the same."

"Oh, I can see that clearly, Severus," Umbridge replied, her voice sickly sweet. "Mr. Potter's true nature is... unmistakable."

Harry gritted his teeth, desperately trying to keep control. He had to stay calm—he couldn't let them see how much this was getting to him. As the two of them continued to pile on the accusations, Harry tried to block them out, but the tension in the room was unbearable.

Just as he was about to lose himself in the frustration, there was a knock at the door. Minerva McGonagall stepped inside. Her posture was impeccable, and her sharp eyes immediately took in the situation, though she couldn't see Harry from where she stood.

"Dolores," McGonagall began, her voice as composed as ever, "I came to see if you'd had any word from Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger seemed quite concerned. They mentioned he didn't return after his detention with you."

McGonagall stepped into the room, her gaze now sweeping over the scene, sharp and calculating.

"Is there something I should know?" she asked, her tone clipped but polite. Harry felt a surge of relief, as if a weight had been lifted. Finally, someone in this room might actually listen to him.

Snape, of course, seized the chance to explain the situation, but his version of events was distorted to fit his agenda. Harry clenched his fists, trying not to let his anger show.

Umbridge, meanwhile, stood to her full height—though it wasn't much—cleared her throat, and said with a tone that bordered on theatrical, "Certain... circumstances have come to light that will prevent Mr. Potter from continuing his studies here at this institution." She paused for effect. "As High Inquisitor and Headmistress of this school, I hereby declare Harry Potter officially expelled."

The room fell into a tense silence. Umbridge's words hung in the air, and Harry's mind reeled. The injustice was overwhelming. He could feel his chest tightening as disbelief turned into anger, and before he could stop it, a bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"This is... absurd. Utterly unfair. If I could just explain—"

"Ahem..." Umbridge interrupted, her voice dripping with smug finality. "I think there's nothing left to explain. You were caught in the act, Mr. Potter."

Harry's patience snapped, but just as he was about to retort, McGonagall's voice rang out, firm and unyielding.

"On the contrary, Dolores," she said, her voice cold but resolute, "I believe it would be unwise to make such a decision without hearing the full story."

For the first time that day, Harry felt something close to hope. At least now, someone was willing to give him a chance.

"Minerva, we can't place any trust in what Mr. Potter says," Umbridge sneered, her tone dripping with disdain.

"There are ways to establish the truth, Dolores," McGonagall replied crisply, undeterred. "A Pensieve, perhaps, or even Veritaserum—"

"Ahem!" Umbridge cut her off with exaggerated impatience. "Surely you can't suggest a plan so silly. Potter could easily tamper with his memories."

"You cannot be serious, Dolores," McGonagall responded, her voice edged with a rare sharpness.

Harry watched the exchange, hardly daring to hope. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape observing as well, his mouth twisted in a smug, satisfied smirk.

"I assure you, Minerva, I am entirely serious," Umbridge replied, her voice sickly sweet. "Potter's deceit has been tolerated for far too long."

"There are rules, Dolores, even if you're eager to forget them," McGonagall said, her voice steady and unyielding. "Rules that have protected this institution for centuries. Expulsion requires concrete, indisputable proof."

Umbridge's smile grew more fixed and brittle. "Rules, Minerva, can change."

"Not these." McGonagall's tone was as firm as steel. "Until Mr. Trevis is able to identify Mr. Potter as his attacker, Potter cannot be held responsible."

Umbridge's face grew taut with barely contained fury, though she knew McGonagall had a point. But before she could form a retort, Snape stepped in, his voice slow and silky.

"If I may, Dolores," he said, with barely disguised relish, "Potter may not be expelled until Mr. Trevis recovers, but he certainly should not be allowed to return to classes until his innocence is, shall we say... fully established." His expression conveyed how little he believed in that innocence.

A sinking feeling washed over Harry. He looked to his Head of House for support, but she was gazing at Snape with a slightly betrayed look.

Now, he was pacing the bathroom in his dormitory. The others were fast asleep, but there was no way he'd be able to sleep—not now, maybe not ever.

He'd been suspended. Professor McGonagall hadn't been able to stop it. He wasn't expelled, sure, but he'd been suspended for something he hadn't done. She had led him out of that toad's office after what had felt like an eternity.

Snape had complained that suspension wasn't punishment enough, sneering that Harry would just be coddled by his "adoring family" at home.

And for the second time that day, Harry felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He was so overwhelmed by the suspension that he'd hardly thought about the fact that it meant going back to the Dursleys.

Fantastic... truly fantastic.

He was dead. Completely, horribly dead; Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were still furious over what had happened to Dudley with the Dementors. And they hated him with a passion—never bothered to hide it.

Professor McGonagall had tried to reassure him, saying this would be sorted out, that this misunderstanding would be cleared up, and that he should keep studying during this "forced break." But all Harry could think about was going home. He nodded curtly to his Head of House, and she let him go.

He focused on the present, looking at himself in the mirror. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his face was covered in scratches. His shoulder, which he'd forgotten about, throbbed with a dull ache. He took off his black robe, which had hidden everything, and saw that his white shirt was stained with blood. Carefully unbuttoning it, he noticed a deep cut with a bruise starting to form around it—and he knew for sure he had a matching one on the other side, courtesy of Snape, of course. He wiped away the blood as best he could and did a makeshift bandage, then pulled on his pajamas and lay down for what would be his last night before returning to Number Four, Privet Drive

Chapter Text

The events of that day kept replaying in Harry's mind. Lying in his dormitory bed, he just couldn't sleep. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't relax enough to rest. The thought of returning to the Dursleys much sooner than expected only added to his anxiety and multiplied his worries.

It was bad enough being forced to return to his awful relatives each summer, but at least he usually had months to prepare.

He understood why he had to go back to that house—the blood wards offered powerful protection against Voldemort. But understanding why he needed to go there every summer didn't mean he had to like it.

He couldn't close his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. His mind kept flashing back to Umbridge's smug look of satisfaction and the total triumph in Snape's eyes.

He wondered what his classmates would think of him, wondering if those few who hadn't turned their backs on him when Voldemort returned would still believe him.

He knew he could rely on Ron and Hermione's support, even if they couldn't fully understand how much he dreaded going back to the , they knew he didn't get along with his relatives, but nothing more. Sometimes, he wondered if Hermione, with her intelligence and perception, had figured out more.

He remembered that they'd waited for him when he returned to the common room. He'd been too upset to explain anything, so he reassured them by saying he'd tell them everything the next day.

Another frustrated sigh—the umpteenth one that night—escaped his lips.

Realizing he wouldn't accomplish anything by lying there and knowing that he wasn't going to find rest, he quietly grabbed a quill and some parchment. Writing to Sirius would help pass the time, and just as he was drying the ink with a spell, he heard the first sounds of movement around him.

He quickly gathered up the letter and dressed. He planned to take the letter to the owlery first, then stop by the hospital wing; much as he hated going there, it wouldn't help to go back to the Dursleys already injured.

He entered the hospital wing and waited for Madam Pomfrey to appear. All the beds were empty except for one, and he curiously wondered who was in it. As he moved closer, he mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner that it was the student from the previous day. Before he could go any further, a deep voice stopped him.

"Come to gloat, Potter?" Harry turned to find himself face-to-face with the man who seemed determined to make his life miserable. Merlin, that man was everywhere.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he could blurt out something insulting. Instead, he responded in an even tone, "I came to see Madam Pomfrey."

Snape sneered. "For what purpose, Potter? An impassioned plea to convince her to say you weren't the one who put Mr. Travis in this state? Or are you here to do something else to the student you already injured?"

Harry stood there, uncertain and somewhat stunned. He had never done anything to deserve this treatment from Snape and couldn't remember anything that justified Snape's suspicions about him.

Snape didn't wait for a response, continuing in the same malicious tone. "I won't let you disturb Mr. Travis or give you the chance to hurt him further. I take the health of my Slytherins seriously, and right now, you are a threat." With that, he roughly escorted Harry out of the hospital wing, with no sign of Madam Pomfrey.

"Don't come back here to bother my Slytherin, Potter. If I see you here again, you'll be dealing with me, and you'll regret it so much you'll be begging for expulsion instead."

With that final threat and a look of pure hatred, Snape shut the door in Harry's face—literally. If Harry hadn't moved at the last second, he would have ended up with a broken nose, at the very least.

Harry was in shock, completely. He'd have to go back to his relatives without even being in good health. A fresh wave of simmering hatred for his professor surged through him—Snape had no right.

He angrily marched toward Gryffindor Tower. There was still no one around. Once past the portrait of the Fat Lady, he found his two best friends waiting.

They were sitting on a couch by the fireplace, deep in conversation, and hadn't noticed Harry sat down with a thump to get their attention, and Ron and Hermione stopped talking immediately. They had been arguing a lot lately. Harry decided to get straight to the point; there was no point beating around the bush, and he wanted to share the weight he was carrying.

"Umbridge suspended me." There were two audible gasps and a stifled curse from Ron. "… or rather, she wanted to expel me, but thanks to McGonagall, it didn't happen."

He then launched into a detailed explanation of the evening, listening to Ron's angry exclamations and Hermione's quieter but passionate responses. Hermione was more reasonable, thinking that although the situation was unpleasant, it would resolve itself.

"So, you have to go back to the Dursleys?" Ron asked cautiously, exchanging an uncertain look with Hermione.

Harry knew from that look that his two friends had talked about this before—perhaps Hermione's worry had come up. He hadn't said much to them about it, but she surely must have picked up on something.

Harry felt his heart racing with anxiety and tried to change the subject. "Yes, but it's not a problem. According to McGonagall, this will be sorted out soon. Besides, I want to talk to you. We don't have much time left before I leave."

Hermione gave him a knowing look, understanding he was changing the subject, but fortunately, she let it drop. Harry's heart calmed. He didn't know why he didn't want to talk about it with them—they were his best friends; they knew everything. Still, maybe this was one part of his life he wanted to keep hidden.

Time flew by, and before he realized it, Professor McGonagall entered the common room looking for him.

During the entire trip, Harry felt his anxiety grow. McGonagall said almost nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line. It was clear she didn't want this to happen. Soon, they reached the gates of Hogwarts, and she took out a Portkey. Seeing his confusion, she explained, "For your safety, Mr. Potter, we'll be taking a Portkey. The other methods of travel aren't safe under the circumstances."

Harry didn't have much to say; his stomach felt knotted, so he simply nodded and took the Portkey, and they both disappeared. The disorienting sensation of the Portkey was something he would never get used to. It took several moments before he could focus on his surroundings. Grateful he hadn't eaten anything that morning, he found himself facing his personal nightmare.

They walked the path to Number 4 and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house. Harry felt his legs turn to jelly; he couldn't move. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped in surprise.

"Everything will be all right, Harry. You'll see—it will all work out." He was surprised; McGonagall was a strict teacher and rarely showed this side of herself. He smiled gently at her, unable not to return the tight smile she gave him.

She accompanied him to the door, and as he walked the last steps, he felt the urge to ask McGonagall to take him as far away as possible. Of course, he didn't say anything and continued on autopilot.

The time between the sound of the doorbell and the door opening was far too brief for his liking. When the door opened, he found himself face-to-face with the person who starred in most of his nightmares.

Chapter Text

The door opened. Uncle Vernon stood there with his briefcase in hand, not yet noticing Harry. He was cheerfully saying goodbye to Petunia before heading off to work.

Harry stiffened almost imperceptibly, knowing that in a moment, Vernon would realise who else was standing on the landing. Professor McGonagall, who was next to him, cleared her throat to get Uncle Vernon's attention before he unwittingly crashed into her with his rather substantial frame.

The look of utter surprise on his uncle's face was brief, quickly replaced by the typical expression that Harry's presence usually evoked in him. It wasn't too obvious, but Harry knew the barely concealed anger and hatred that lay beneath.

McGonagall didn't seem too offended that the man hadn't even looked her way. She cleared her throat again, this time more pointedly, to catch his attention. Vernon's gaze, to Harry's relief, shifted from him and finally settled on his head of house.

"Mr. Dursley, I’m Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said, her voice firm and unyielding. Vernon's face flushed a blotchy purple at the mention of magic, but Professor McGonagall pressed on as though she hadn't noticed. "There has been a misunderstanding involving your nephew, Mr. Potter, that has led to his temporary suspension from school. However, it will be resolved, and I assure you, there is no further cause for concern."

As she spoke, Harry saw the look of fury building in Vernon's face. His uncle didn't care in the slightest about who was at fault. He was simply livid that Harry had returned, disrupting his "perfect" family once again—a family that, of course, didn't include Harry.

Harry felt almost sorry for his professor wasting her breath trying to reassure Vernon. The idea that his uncle might care about his education was so absurd it was almost funny, though Harry held back the urge to laugh; he knew it would only make things worse.

Just then, Aunt Petunia appeared in the doorway, her expression sharp and displeased as her gaze fell on Harry.

"What's he doing here? We were told it would just be summers," she snapped, her voice shrill and getting higher with each word. "I told Dumbledore we didn't want him here any longer than necessary."

McGonagall's face flickered with mild confusion, as though she were trying to piece together why Harry's relatives would be so openly hostile to him. She cast Harry a questioning look, and he felt a wave of embarrassment that she had to witness the treatment his aunt and uncle so graciously reserved for him. He quickly interrupted, hoping to prevent his aunt's sharp words from escalating the situation further.

After what felt like an eternity, during which even McGonagall's face began to show signs of impatience, Harry managed to persuade his relatives to let them inside, with multiple reassurances on his part that it wouldn't be a long stay.

As McGonagall prepared to leave, she cast a look back at Harry, seeming troubled and somehow hesitant, as though reluctant to leave him with these Muggles.

Harry did his best to put on a strong, confident face, completely unlike how he felt inside, and he managed to convince her that he would be fine. At last, she nodded to herself.

"Well then, Mr. Potter, we shall see each other soon, I'm sure. I trust you'll keep me informed, should you need anything." She glanced back once more at Vernon and Petunia, her gaze sharp.

With that, she turned and walked towards the door. Each step took her further away from Harry, from safety, leaving him one step closer to being left alone with his "loving" family.

The sound of the door closing sent a heavy feeling plunging into Harry's heart. He kept staring at the door, unable to summon the courage to turn around and face his aunt and uncle.

But he didn't need to turn; Vernon saw to that, roughly grabbing his shoulder to spin him around.

"Listen to me, boy," Vernon growled, his face an alarming shade of purple. "How dare you come back here, imposing yourself on us again after everything we've done for you!"

Harry clenched his fists, refusing to look away.

"It was a mistake," he said quietly. "I won't be here long."

But Vernon had barely heard him, his anger boiling over. "Oh, a mistake, was it? A mistake! Just like everything else you and that lot do, I suppose? And now you come back here, expecting us to take you in!"

As he spoke, Vernon shook him so violently that Harry's shoulder, already injured—a wound Snape had left untreated—throbbed with pain, making Harry's vision flash white with agony.

Vernon continued with his angry tirade, but Harry couldn't make out the words anymore. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as he fought not to cry out.

Finally, Vernon released him with a violent shove, sending him crashing to the floor. His elbow struck the hard ground painfully, and the words began to regain meaning in his mind.

"Because of you, I'm late for work, you ungrateful little freak," Vernon spat. "But tonight… oh, tonight you'll see just how we deal with ingrates like you."

With one last venomous look, Vernon turned and stomped toward the door, grabbing his briefcase and storming out without another glance.

This left Harry alone with Aunt Petunia, who had remained silent throughout Vernon's tirade. Whether she was satisfied with what her husband had said or merely waiting for her turn to take it out on Harry, he couldn't tell.

What he did know was that Petunia was different from Vernon. While his uncle relied on brute force and physical abuse, his aunt was more insidious. She had a sharp tongue and knew how to wield words to wound Harry deeply.

He almost preferred the violence of his large uncle to the cruel words his aunt could deliver. He was used to physical abuse ,or as used to it as anyone could be, but his aunt had a way of targeting his weaknesses and doubts, digging right into them.

And there was the fact that Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister—the only living connection he had to her. Harry had always felt bitter that Lily's own sister didn't love him, especially knowing she was capable of love, as she clearly loved Dudley. It left Harry feeling undeserving, somehow.

As time went on, however, he'd begun to understand that he wasn't the one at fault. He was only a child; his aunt should have loved him, for heaven's sake. He hadn't done anything to deserve such hatred.

And, as always, that day it was Petunia's words that hurt him the most.

"You always have to ruin things, don't you?" Aunt Petunia sneered. "I know it was you who hurt that student. Don't think you can fool me, Boy. I see exactly what you are. You're nothing but trouble, hurting everyone around you—just like you killed that Cedric you scream about in your sleep every night."

Harry flinched visibly at this, and his aunt noticed. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she pressed on, clearly intent on wounding him further.

"Oh yes, boy… you thought we didn't know? Those peculiar professors at that school of yours told us what happened. Said we were to keep an eye on you, as if we'd want to! But we know it was you who got that boy killed, don't we? Deep down, you know it too. Just like you know you're responsible for Dudley getting hurt. You're a menace, freak, spreading misery wherever you go."

Harry shook his head, almost as if he could physically shake off her words.

"No… it's not true… you don't know anything…"

A cruel, shrill laugh escaped Aunt Petunia's mouth.

"Oh, I know enough to see through your act. You're not innocent, not at all. You even got your own parents killed. That murderer you lot carry on about in your ridiculous world wouldn't have hunted down my sister if it hadn't been for you."

Her words hit Harry like a punch in the gut, making it hard for him to breathe.

Petunia gave a satisfied smile, seeing the impact her words had on him. She took his silence as the end of the conversation.

"And since you insist on being a burden to this family, you can start earning your keep." With that, she left him standing alone in the sitting room, her words still ringing painfully in his mind.

As she walked off, he noticed Dudley standing at the end of the hallway, looking troubled. Harry didn't understand why and, at that moment, didn't particularly care. Aunt Petunia's words echoed in his mind.

A little while later, Aunt Petunia returned with a long list of chores. Harry took it without a word; he didn't have the energy to argue. At least having work to do might keep his mind busy, though he doubted it would do anything to stop his relatives' anger.

He was in the kitchen preparing dinner. The day had gone by quickly, filled with chores around the house and garden. He'd done them mechanically, his aunt's words replaying over and over in his head. Maybe he did bring death with him, he thought—first his parents, then Cedric.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door slamming outside, and he froze, hearing the heavy footsteps of his uncle approaching the house.

The hand holding the pan trembled, and he struggled to steady it, though he knew what was coming.

When Vernon entered, the tension in the air became almost unbearable. Harry kept his back to him, though every instinct screamed at him to leave. He forced himself to stay put and finish the meal as fast as possible.

For now, Vernon seemed content to ignore him, which Harry was grateful for. Vernon sat down at the table, speaking with his wife and son, though his voice was tense and laced with irritation.

Harry almost sighed in relief when he finished serving the food. He placed the plates on the table quickly and retreated into the kitchen, hoping they'd let him go to his room for once.

From the kitchen, he could hear the sounds of their dinner. He wasn't allowed to eat with them—a reminder that he was not, and never would be, part of the family.

So far, the evening had gone surprisingly well. Despite the tension, nothing had happened, and Harry hoped it would stay that way.

But, as he should have known by now, nothing was ever straightforward in his life.

He was clearing the table when Dudley, who had been different toward him since the Dementor attack, tried to hand him his plate.

Harry hadn't expected this small kindness from his cousin; before that summer, Dudley wouldn't have hesitated to make things harder for him. But perhaps having his life saved by magic had changed his view of Harry's world.

The unexpected act of kindness, combined with Harry's desire to leave the Dursleys' presence as quickly as possible, led to disaster.

The sound of shattering glass echoed, and Harry knew he'd remember it for years to come, along with what followed.

All the Dursleys jumped up from their seats. Harry's eyes went wide as the first stirrings of fear took hold. A glance at his uncle told him Vernon would seize on this as his excuse.

Dudley seemed to realise this too and, to Harry's surprise, tried to take the blame.

"Dad, it was me. Harry didn't do anything. I was the one who dropped it."

But Vernon's eyes were fixed on Harry, his expression murderous. Without looking away from his nephew, he spoke.

"Dudley, go upstairs."

Cold dread settled in Harry's stomach.

"No, Dad, please… it wasn't…"

But Vernon cut him off with a sharp look.

"I said, go!"

Dudley looked hesitant, and for the first time, Harry met his gaze and saw fear there. Vernon rarely spoke to Dudley that way.

Harry, touched by his cousin's unexpected show of support, didn't want Vernon's anger to turn on him as well or make his uncle think had put his son under some kind of spell.

He knew his uncle had been looking for an excuse since that morning.

He gave Dudley a small nod, hoping to communicate his gratitude while trying not to make things worse.

Dudley bit his lip, clearly understanding, but he still didn't want to leave. Petunia pulled him upstairs, giving Harry a scornful look on her way out.

And then, they were alone. There wasn't even time to brace himself before the first blow landed.

Chapter Text

Harry opened his eyes. He was in Dudley's second bedroom, lying on the floor. When his uncle had thrown him in, he hadn't even managed to reach the bed—he had simply fallen asleep there, or more likely, passed out.

Everything hurt. Vernon hadn't held back. With a sigh, Harry tried to assess the extent of the damage. His jaw ached where Vernon had landed the first punch. He cautiously tried opening and closing his mouth—it hurt, but not in the way a broken bone would. He was familiar with that feeling.

He touched his face and, as he expected, found a sticky substance, partly dried; it was coming from his split lip, which was swollen and throbbing. His chest was another story—it was perhaps the worst pain of all, and breathing was difficult. Harry hoped fervently that nothing was broken.

In his mind, he could replay the scene that led to each injury.

He remembered how Vernon had lunged at him; he had taken three punches before falling to the ground. He tried to get up quickly, but barely made it to his knees before the kicks began landing on his ribs.

And that was how it went. Between one insult and the next, Vernon kept on berating him while raining blows. Harry could barely make out the insults through the haze of pain. The only positive note was that his uncle's bulk slowed him down, and usually, Vernon would stop only when he was out of breath. But not before he had fully vented his fury on his nephew.

Harry attempted to stand up, slowly, being careful not to put weight on his injuries. He moved towards the lumpy mattress. The resentment, anger, and humiliation he felt in that moment were overwhelming—beaten by a useless Muggle.

If only the magical world could see their little hero now, he thought bitterly.

He hated that he could hold his own against Voldemort, yet couldn't stand up to a pathetic, blubbery man.

He hated feeling so afraid of this whale of a man, and hated that he couldn't fight back. Because, as always, the moment he returned to the Dursleys, all magic—and by extension, his only means of defence—was locked away, sealed up in the cupboard under the stairs.

He turned his head towards the window, where the moon was still out, stars faintly visible. How he wished he had his Firebolt and could just fly off into the night, escape his violent relatives, escape all those who called him a liar for saying Voldemort had returned.

He would have gladly run away—from all the accusatory looks, the judgments, the insults. It was all too much. He was tired of carrying it all. He was exhausted.

He looked away. There was no point wishing for things he could never have. He would never have a normal life. He would always be Harry Potter, wherever he went; he would always be "The Chosen One," with all the responsibilities that came with it.

There were people who envied his life—even Ron had, once. But the truth was, Harry would trade it all in a heartbeat. He'd give anything to be just a normal boy. Just Harry.

Sometimes he imagined what his life would be like without the scar, with loving parents, no responsibilities, no fame.

Harry shook his head to stop himself from drifting too far into introspection. The persistent pain was a constant reminder that these would only ever be fantasies. He eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, but the ache made it impossible for his body to fully relax.

He woke to hard knocks on the door, and his aunt's shrill voice cut through his thoughts.

"Up! Get down here and make breakfast, boy!"

He stepped out of the room, and Aunt Petunia gave him a withering look. "Clean yourself up first. I won't have you dragging your mess into my kitchen." With that, she turned and left.

He sighed, heading to the bathroom. He didn't expect any pity from his aunt, but it never stopped surprising him how cold she could be.

Looking in the mirror wasn't easy. Bruises were already blooming along his jaw, beneath his right eye, and there was a split on his lip. Usually, Vernon tried not to leave visible marks in his face, but this time, he hadn't bothered.

Carefully, Harry removed his shirt; his shoulder still burned from the injury he'd got with the fight at school, and the cut that hadn't fully closed yet. He did his best to replace the bandage, then took a look at himself to gauge the damage. Bruises had already spread across his chest in various colours—mostly red, with hints of purple that would darken over the next few days.

His elbow was another source of pain, and Harry wondered tiredly if it would be easier just to list what didn't hurt.

At the moment, there was little he could do; he had no potions on hand.

Normally, he prepared a stash for the summer, but this stay with the Dursleys had come up unexpectedly, so he hadn't had the chance.

In his first year, he'd desperately searched for ways to survive the summers, and potions had been the answer. That was why he'd poured so much energy into improving his skills until he was quite good at it. Not that Snape would ever acknowledge it. When it came to Harry, it was like Snape saw nothing but James Potter, and nothing Harry did would ever change that.

At first, his eleven-year-old self had been crushed that he couldn't impress his teacher, but eventually, he understood that Snape would just be another adult in his life who hated him on principle.

He sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against the mirror's cold surface. He closed his eyes, letting himself have a moment. Helplessness and fear were what he felt most often these days.

The urge to cry washed over him again, like it had so many times lately. He wanted so badly to let it all out. It wasn't fair. He couldn't understand how so many people could despise him.

After a few moments, he gathered himself, straightened up, and took a deep breath. His reflection in the mirror looked tired but determined. He would make it through this stay with the Dursleys. He always did. He always found a way to get through the summer, and he would this time too.

He cleaned himself up, taking care not to aggravate the bruises, and, avoiding his own reflection, went out to face another day in the Dursley household.

Downstairs, the Dursleys were already having breakfast. Every so often, Dudley threw him a glance, and though Harry couldn't quite read his expression, it wasn't as hostile as usual. When he'd come downstairs and Dudley had seen his face, he'd thrown a disappointed look at his father, who promptly ignored it.

Dudley looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't seem to find the words. Harry thought it was probably for the best; he didn't want his uncle to lash out just because he tought Harry had confused his Son.

Breakfast was tense. Harry kept out of sight in the kitchen, serving the meal as carefully as he could, hoping not to draw attention. Vernon didn't acknowledge him, not even with a glance, and Harry was grateful. Petunia, however, seemed to blame him for what had happened, her cold looks making that perfectly clear.

Harry felt a surge of relief when he saw Vernon getting ready to head off to work.

"Don't think you're off the hook, boy. I don't want to see you idling around," Petunia sneered, holding out a list. "Finish this by tonight—or maybe I'll just let Vernon know you've been slacking off."

Harry loathed the self-satisfied smirk on her face, as if she knew she had him trapped. But, as always, he kept his anger in check. There was no point arguing; it would only make things worse.

He'd learned that the hard way last year. He'd tried standing up for himself, shouting and arguing, but all it had earned him was more pain. So, he swallowed his pride, yet again, and did what he had to do to survive.

The days passed, and Harry still hadn't heard anything from Sirius or his friends. He felt betrayed that even Dumbledore hadn't contacted him—the Headmaster had spent the entire year avoiding him. Harry could definitely add him to the list of adults who had let him down.

On the evening of the fourth day, just when he was beginning to lose hope, he heard a tapping at the window. With immense relief, he let Hedwig in, overjoyed to see her—but she wasn't alone. With her was another owl he didn't recognize.

He took the first letter and, with a surge of relief, noticed it was from Hermione. He read the contents and, frustrated, tossed the letter aside. There was no new information—Travis still hadn't woken up, and everyone was convinced he was responsible. The letter was short, unlike the usual detailed ones Hermione sent, and Harry wondered what was going on at Hogwarts.

He looked absentmindedly at the other letter. It wasn't signed, and he took it from the owl, giving the bird a quick pat in thanks. He turned the envelope over in his hands.

It was plain, unmarked. He wondered if it was wise to open it without checking for curses, but curiosity got the better of him.

The letter was harmless; inside was a single piece of parchment with a short, simple message written in neat handwriting: "Do not leave the wards."

A wave of worry washed over Harry. Why shouldn't he leave?

Something was happening, and the lack of information was starting to frustrate him.

He was distracted by the sound of a car door slamming. His uncle was back. The frustration and confusion faded.

For the past four days, his uncle hadn't given him a moment's peace, and Harry's whole body ached. Since his arrival, Harry had been made to clean and re-clean the house, while Aunt Petunia had grown irritable at the lack of chores to assign him.

When he finished each task, she simply sent him back to his suited him fine; being in his room meant he didn't have to endure his relatives' company.

He went downstairs, knowing he'd have to serve the meal Aunt Petunia had prepared. She liked cooking, but she seemed to enjoy having someone else do it for her even more.

He moved quickly into the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia gave him a sharp look before sitting down at the table.

Harry set the food down, noticing with horror that there were wine bottles placed on the table.

Back in the kitchen, he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. This was going to be bad. His uncle was violent enough without alcohol, but when he drank, things always got worse.

Thankfully, his uncle didn't drink often, but when he did… well, let's just say Harry's worst nightmares starred a drunk Vernon.

No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't calm his breathing. He could hear the Dursleys talking, their voices cheerful, and when he peeked out, he saw Vernon down a glass of wine in one go.

Harry desperately hoped his uncle would drink so much that he'd pass out, but experience told him that wasn't likely—not before a "little chat."

Time seemed to drag on agonizingly slow in the kitchen as he listened to the sounds coming from the dining room.

He counted the number of times his uncle refilled his glass and realized he had already crossed the "safe limit."

"Oi, freak, get your arse in here and bring me another bottle!"

Bringing over the very thing that would make his situation worse felt like a death sentence, but he had no choice.

He entered the room and caught Dudley's nervous glance. Harry handed the bottle to his uncle, feeling as though he'd just sealed his own fate.

Too soon for his liking, he finished cleaning the kitchen. He barely had time to retreat to his room when his uncle called out.

"Boy, get in here!"

Panic seized Harry's chest, and dread flooded his mind. His feet carried him against his will into the living room.

There was Vernon, sitting on the sofa, beer in hand, while Dudley sat in an armchair nearby, his eyes darting anxiously toward his father. Aunt Petunia was nowhere to be seen.

"Dinner was a complete disaster. The chicken was inedible," Vernon growled, his voice rising with rage. "Do you enjoy wasting good food, you freak?"

The unfairness of it all stung—he hadn't even cooked tonight. Acting on impulse, he said something he instantly regretted.

"But it was Aunt Pet—"

In a flash, his fat uncle was on him. A swift punch landed on the side of Harry's head.

"How dare you blame your aunt for your failures! You're useless, just like your father!" Vernon sneered, delivering another punch to Harry's cheekbone.

Pain was becoming a constant in Harry's life. He fell to the floor after the second blow and tried to get up, only to be met with two swift kicks to his ribs that left him gasping for air.

"DAD!" Dudley was still in the room; Vernon hadn't bothered to send him away this time.

Vernon seemed not to hear, continuing to kick Harry in the ribs.

A sickening crack echoed through the room, and the pain was unbearable.

Everything went black. Harry couldn't focus on anything. It felt like he was underwater, unable to breathe.

Time seemed to freeze, and Harry had no idea if seconds or hours had passed.

When he could finally make sense of his surroundings again, he noticed, with a sense of distant curiosity, that his uncle was lying on the floor, unable to get up. Maybe he'd passed out from the alcohol, Harry thought absently—at least that's what he assumed, until a hand appeared in his line of vision.

It was blurry—he must have lost his glasses—but the hand was unmistakably Dudley's.

He struggled to his feet, and Dudley pressed his glasses into his hands, which Harry quickly put on.

His cousin looked anxious but determined.

"You've got to leave. He won't stay like this for long. You need to get out."

Harry was confused; the pain was overwhelming, and he wondered if he was imagining all of this, maybe dreaming.

"Harry, focus… You have to go."

Harry tried to pull himself together, realizing how serious this was. He looked around, taking in the scene and understanding what had happened. Dudley had stopped his father from hurting him further.

He felt bewildered, shocked.

"Why… why did you do that?"

A nervous laugh escaped Dudley.

"Oh, come on… I know I haven't exactly been the nicest to you before. But even when I was a complete idiot to you, you still saved me. I was wrong, Harry, and I'm sorry."

Harry didn't know how to respond, didn't know what to feel.

"But now you've got to go, before he wakes up. Otherwise, he'll just keep going. Get out. Come back when he's asleep." Dudley hesitated for a moment, then added, "Maybe… maybe it's better if you don't come back at all. You can't keep living like this, Harry."

Harry cut him off, not wanting to explain why he had to go back.

"And you—he'll figure out it was you who did this."

Dudley let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, I don't think he'll remember anything after all the wine he drank." A noise came from the figure on the floor, and Dudley urged him on. "Now go."

So Harry took hesitant steps toward the door, limping as he went. The cold breeze hit him, making him shiver as he slowly walked down the dark streets of Privet Drive.

The warning letter was the last thing on his mind at that moment.

Chapter Text

Harry walked slowly along the dark streets of Privet Drive.

Breathing was agony, each breath a painful struggle. His chest burned—it was bad. He'd heard the sickening snap of the bone breaking.

He dragged one foot after the other, each step sending sharp, stabbing pains through his body. Several times, he had to stop to catch his breath, taking slow, measured inhalations.

Every time he breathed in, it felt as though needles were piercing his lungs.

There was no one around, and for that, Harry was grateful. He had no idea what a passer-by might think if they saw him in this state.

He reached the abandoned playground near the Dursleys' house and sighed with relief at the thought of resting for a moment.

The playground was mostly derelict; the equipment was broken and rarely used by local children. It had once served as a hiding spot for Harry during Dudley and his gang's "Harry hunting" games when he was younger.

Harry collapsed under a tree near the swings. Sitting there alone, he took stock of his situation.

His entire body screamed in pain—he needed help, proper medical attention.

He felt something wet on his face and, to his surprise, realised it was tears, spilling against his will.

Under the tree, bruised and battered, Harry cried. He cried for his situation, for his exhaustion, but most of all, for yet another reminder that the Dursleys would never feel like home. That night, Harry cried himself to sleep, his body exhausted and broken.

He woke with a start to the sound of a sharp crack. In his fogged mind, he vaguely recognised the sound of Apparition.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, momentarily eclipsing the exhaustion. He was sitting up in an instant, wide awake.

Harry tried to assess the situation. He was unarmed, defenceless. The only advantage he thought he might have over whoever had just arrived was his familiarity with the area.

Clutching his still-throbbing side, he tried to peer around, but saw no one. He knew better than to relax. In the magical world, seeing no one didn't necessarily mean no one was there. There were ways to make oneself invisible.

The sound had seemed close—too close for Harry's comfort. The sense of urgency rose within him, a desperate need to get away as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, he knew the area well. Over the years, he'd found countless hiding spots in his childhood attempts to evade Dudley and his gang. Now, those same hiding places would help him escape from whoever was looking for him.

Behind the tree he'd been sitting under was a fence with a loose wooden plank. He'd discovered it long ago. He slipped through as quickly as his injuries allowed, emerging on the other side.

Now in a street that was in the opposite direction of the Dursleys' house, he hesitated. As much as he feared Vernon's drunken rage, he feared far more what a Death Eater might do if they found him.

He began to run. His body protested with every step, the pain dulled only slightly by adrenaline. He stumbled and fell more than once, but each time forced himself to get back up.

He hid multiple times along the way, using shortcuts and passages only he knew, stopping to check that the coast was clear.

Harry paused for what felt like the hundredth time, panting, his chest tight with scanned the street ahead and froze. A dark figure was visible in the distance.

"Potter, I haven't got time for your idiotic games. Show yourself, or I'll drag you out myself."

Snape. Why did it always have to be him?

Knowing it was his Potions professor did nothing to calm Harry's nerves. After all, in Harry's eyes, Snape was still a Death Eater.

Dumbledore trusted him, but Dumbledore also thought the Dursleys were a safe haven. The old Headmaster wasn't infallible. So, while Harry trusted Dumbledore as a person, he couldn't bring himself to extend that trust to the people Dumbledore trusted.

He didn't respond to Snape's angry voice. Knowing who was after him only made Harry more cautious. He might not respect the man, but he knew Snape was intelligent and dangerously cunning—qualities that demanded extra vigilance.

Harry was far from home. The quickest route back was the one where Snape's voice had come from. To avoid being cornered, he'd have to run, revealing his position in the process.

He hated this situation. But there was no choice. Either he made a break for it, or Snape would soon close in on him.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, counted to three in his head, and sprinted in the opposite direction from the hated voice. He ran with every ounce of strength he had left, fuelled by the fresh surge of adrenaline brought on by knowing his pursuer's identity.

He knew he’d been spotted when jets of light streaked past him - Stunning Spells. Snape was clearly losing patience now, and he meant business.

Ducking into a hiding spot, Harry peered out cautiously. He couldn't see Snape anywhere and sighed in relief. Perhaps he'd managed to shake him off.

Leaning against a wall, bent over and gasping for air, Harry's pain was worse than it had been when he left the Dursleys.

Just as he was about to push himself upright, someone grabbed him roughly and slammed him into the wall. The hands gripping his shirt pressed too close to his neck for comfort.

And so, as had become routine these days, Harry found himself handled roughly yet again.

His already battered body protested, and he couldn't stop the scream of pain that escaped his lips. For a moment, he thought he might faint.

Snape loomed over him, his face shadowed by the dim light.

"Are you completely incapable of following instructions, Potter?" Snape snapped, shaking him. "What part of 'stay within the wards' did you find difficult to grasp?"

Through the haze clouding his mind, comprehension finally broke through, followed by a sinking feeling in his 'd completely forgotten the warning owl he'd received earlier that evening. It hadn't crossed his mind; he'd only wanted to escape whatever Vernon had planned for him that night.

"Do you have any idea the risk you've put yourself in, you reckless fool? This isn't a game—people's lives are at stake!" Snape's voice was cold and furious.

Harry didn't even attempt to respond. Frankly, the only thing keeping him upright was Snape's grip, though the man didn't seem to realise he was supporting most of Harry's weight.

He was relieved not to have to face Snape's angry expression. The hiding spot he had chosen was quite dark, and he wondered if Snape had found him using his bat-like senses. The pain was making him delirious, he realised. And that was exactly it — the thought made him laugh. Exhaustion and pain had pushed him to his limit, leaving him laughing hysterically at such a foolish notion.

Under normal circumstances, Harry would have realised just how thin the ice beneath him was and that his laughter, combined with his teacher's last remark, didn't go together at all.

Sure enough, Snape began shaking him again. "Oh, you think this is funny, do you?" he snarled. "Do you have any idea how many people are risking their lives for you? Selfish, arrogant—just like your father." He spat the words like venom. "Now move, before I do something Dumbledore will regret letting me live for."

With that, he was shoved out of the hiding place and into the open. The moonlight struck Harry, who had grown used to the dimness.In normal circumstances, Harry would have recovered and remained on his feet. But as things stood, his body refused to cooperate. Burning with pain, he collapsed to the ground.

He tried to push himself up quickly—he didn't like having anyone, least of all Snape, at his back—but he wasn't fast enough. Snape grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet like a ragdoll.

"There's no time for your theatrics, Potter," Snape growled, releasing him with a rough shove.

Humiliation flared, giving Harry the strength to fight back. They now stood face to face, Snape's hand recoiling as if burned. Harry knew exactly what Snape was seeing and refused to feel embarrassed. Straightening up, he met the man's gaze defiantly.

Snape's shock lasted only a moment before his expression twisted into a cruel sneer.

"Well, well, Potter. Someone's given you a proper beating, have they? How poetic. A bully finally getting a taste of his own medicine."

Harry didn't rise to the bait. He wasn't a bully, and he never had been. He refused to waste his energy arguing with someone who didn't want to understand. Turning to leave, he was stopped by Snape's iron grip.

"Oh no, Potter," Snape said coldly. "You're coming with me. I'll personally escort you back to your relatives' house. Wouldn't want you losing your way or getting into another fight you're clearly destined to lose."

Without waiting for a response, Snape yanked Harry forward by the arm.

They walked—or rather, Snape dragged Harry along.

Harry hadn't realised how far he'd wandered, but retracing his steps, injured and with Snape beside him, made him wish he'd stayed at the Dursleys', drunk Vernon or not.

He did his best to control his breathing. Every step toward Privet Drive made the fear tighten its grip on his chest.

To distract himself, Harry glanced around. Snape was wearing a grim expression.

"Why are you here? Did Dumbledore send you?"

Snape looked at him as though he were an irritating insect that he couldn't wait to squash, then didn't bother to reply.

Brilliant. Greasy oversized git, Harry thought furiously.

Before he knew it, they were outside the Dursleys' house. The sense of déjà vu hit him like a wave. Feeling awkward, Harry stopped, unsure what to do next. Snape shot him an exasperated look, sighed loudly, and, realising Harry wasn't going to move, reached over and rang the doorbell himself.

Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been gone, but judging by the noises coming from inside, it hadn't been long. The television was still blaring, loud enough to be heard outside.

With the sharp hearing he'd developed over years of survival at Number Four, Harry picked up on approaching footsteps. Too heavy to belong to Aunt Petunia, but not quite lumbering enough for Uncle Vernon—he knew a moment before the door opened that it had to be Dudley.

The door cracked open, and Dudley poked his head out. The moment he saw Harry, he quickly pulled the door almost shut behind him.

"No, Harry, you've got to leave! It's not safe here. He's still—"

Harry froze in panic. Dudley couldn't start spouting off about Uncle Vernon in front of Snape. Merlin's beard, the Slytherins would never let him live it down.

Stepping forward quickly, Harry cut across his cousin.

"Dudley, I've got to come in. They brought me back," he said, throwing a warning glance at his cousin, who hadn't yet noticed the tall figure looming behind Harry.

Snape stood a few paces back, arms crossed, looking supremely unimpressed. Dudley stiffened when he finally noticed the menacing dark-cloaked figure. His eyes darted nervously between Snape and Harry, and his pudgy face twisted in uncertainty, as though deciding what to do.

Whatever plan Dudley might have had was interrupted by a furious voice from inside.

"Dudley! What's taking so long? Who is it? Is that freak back?"

Dudley's face flooded with panic as he turned desperately to Snape.

"You've got to take him away—now!"

If Snape was surprised at being addressed, he didn't show it. His expression was unreadable, his look of boredom replaced by something much sharper.

Harry stepped forward hastily, cutting his cousin off before he could say anything else incriminating.

"Dudley, let's just go inside. Come on," he said firmly, giving Dudley a push back through the door.

As he turned to glance at Snape, he caught the professor's frown.

"Well, uh, thanks for bringing me back, sir," Harry said hurriedly before shutting the door. Later, he'd think about the fact that he'd just closed the door in Snape's face, but right now, it didn't seem to matter.

Snape could keep his hooked nose out of Harry's business. Better for him to assume Harry had been in a fight or something equally dramatic. Anything was better than the truth. Harry could already hear the sneers about pathetic little Potter who couldn't even stand up to a Muggle.

The hallway was clear, and Harry thought he might just make it upstairs without running into his uncle. But, as always, things didn't go as planned.

He'd barely reached the first step when Uncle Vernon came stumbling into view.

"Dudley, who was at the—"

The answer to his question was staring him in the face. For a long moment, uncle and nephew simply stared at each other.

Harry froze as Vernon's face turned an ugly shade of purple. He recovered from his shock quickly, his hand coming up. Harry's stomach sank when he realised his uncle was holding an empty beer bottle. Without a word, Vernon hurled the bottle straight at him. Somewhere behind him, Dudley let out a surprised yell.

Luckily, Vernon's drunken aim was off, and the bottle smashed into the wall inches from Harry's head. Harry hadn't even moved—he was too stunned. Vernon, enraged by his own miss, charged towards him.

Harry tried to dodge, but the narrow hallway left no room to manoeuvre. His uncle's massive fists struck out at him wildly.

"Wretched freak! How dare you attack me and leave me on the floor!"

Blame him for that, too, then. Of course Vernon wouldn't even consider Dudley as the culprit—not that it would've made any difference if Harry had said something,Even if he would never have sold his cousin, after all he had defended him.

Harry clenched his jaw, refusing to cower. But Vernon seemed to be focusing his blows on Harry's torso, as though he'd worked out where it hurt the most.

A particularly vicious punch landed squarely where Harry was sure he already had at least one broken rib, and he screamed.

He didn't think he'd ever felt pain like it—not since the Cruciatus Curse in fourth year, anyway.

The pain was so blinding that Harry collapsed to his knees, clutching his side. Breathing became agony—each breath short and shallow, every inhale like a knife twisting in his chest.

This was it, Harry thought dimly. His uncle was completely out of control. Another blow was coming, and there was nothing Harry could do about it.

"Dad, no! You'll kill him!" Dudley's frantic voice broke through the haze.

Then there was a loud bang from somewhere nearby, followed by what sounded like voices. But Harry couldn't focus on anything other than the pain.

Each ragged breath was a struggle, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and there didn't seem to be enough air. His vision blurred at the edges, and he fought desperately to stay conscious.

He stayed there, on his knees in the hallway of Number Four, Privet Drive, bracing for the blow that would never come, lost in a haze of pain and panic.

Chapter Text

That evening, the door of number four, Privet Drive, burst open with a thunderous crash that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

The tall, imposing figure of Severus Snape stood in the doorway, his wand raised high. His face was a mask of fury.

With dark, piercing eyes, he surveyed the room. Anyone who saw him in that moment would have no doubt—this man had once been a Death Eater.

The disgustingly overweight man turned towards the door, his face a mix of confusion and alarm.

"What the bloody hell…?" he stammered, his voice trailing off as his eyes fixed on the intruder—and, more importantly, on what the man held in his hand.

Realising the threat, which so clearly came from the magical world, the man—evidently Potter's uncle—grabbed the boy, yanking him roughly and holding him up as a human shield.

Potter didn't resist. A faint, pitiful sound escaped his lips. Severus doubted the boy even grasped what was happening; his head lolled limply to one side, and the only thing keeping him upright was the iron grip of the fat man.

For a moment, Snape hesitated. When he'd seen Potter's injured face earlier, he'd assumed it was the result of some trivial brawl within boys. He hadn't even denied the flicker of satisfaction at the thought of a Potter, for once, on the recipient's side.

But this was different. Snape did not abide abuse, no matter who the victim was—not even a Potter. He couldn't ignore it, not this.

When Potter's lumbering cousin had approached him earlier, practically begging him to take the boy away, a warning bell had sounded in the back of Snape's mind.

And that was why he hadn't been able to walk away from that doorstep. A large part of him had wanted to dismiss it all thinking that theatricality was a family custom. Perhaps the cousin was simply exaggerating to spare the boy punishment for running away from home.

What could they possibly do to Potter, spoilt brat that he was? Snape had thought bitterly.

But there had been another, quieter voice within him, whispering that something was terribly, inexcusably wrong.

The matter was decided when he heard the crash of shattering glass, followed by screams.

To say Snape had been startled was an understatement, though he had hidden it well.

He was furious. Memories of his own childhood flickered in his mind, only to be shoved aside, buried beneath Occlumency shields.

"Let him go," Snape growled, his tone low and deadly. The threat was unmistakable.

The Muggle ignored him. Instead, he tightened his hold on Potter, his words slurring as he spoke, the stench of alcohol thick in the air.

"You've no bloody right! Coming here—into my house—threatening me, under my own roof!"

Potter sagged in Dursley's grip as the man shook him violently. A pained whimper escaped the boy's lips, his head lolling forward, limp and bloodied. Even in the dim, flickering light of the corridor, the crimson streaks were impossible to miss.

A fresh surge of rage coursed through Snape.

He stepped forward, his wand aimed directly at Vernon. Every inch of him radiated menace.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, calm, and laced with cold fury.

"I said, let him go."

Vernon staggered slightly, torn between fear and blustering arrogance.

"You think I'm scared of you, freak? He's my nephew—mine! I'll do as I please!"

The silence that followed was oppressive, the air thick with tension that seemed almost tangible.

"You foolish Muggle," Snape said, his voice laced with venom. "Even you can't be ignorant enough to think abusing a child is acceptable. And rest assured—there are many who would happily see your miserable existence ended if they knew what you've done to the Boy Who Lived."

The man turned crimson, about to say something, when a shriek came from the stairs.

"You?!" Lily's sister stood halfway down the staircase, her face twisted in a mix of horror and disdain.

"How thoughtful of you to make an appearance, Tuney," Snape drawled. The woman's face tightened at the use of her childhood nickname.

Life had not been kind to Petunia. She looked older than her years, and her sour nature seemed untouched by time.

"What are you doing here? People like you aren't welcome in this house!" she snapped.

Snape raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with contempt.

"Surely even you can't be so dense, woman. I'm here to take Potter out of this pathetic excuse for a home. I can't believe you've subjected your sister's son to this treatment."

Petunia's lips thinned into a cruel line.

"This has nothing to do with you," she hissed. "You've no right to march in here and judge us! That boy's a menace-lazy, arrogant, always causing trouble. A freak, just like his mother was. He deserved everything he got."

Snape's wand was aimed at her in an instant. A flash of fury swept across his face as he resisted the urge to curse the woman who had dared to insult Lily-but Vernon's roar interrupted him.

"Don't you dare point…that…that thing at my wife, freak!" Vernon bellowed, his voice slurring slightly. "If you do, I swear I'll kill him!"

To punctuate his threat, Vernon tightened his grip around Harry's throat, his thick arm choking the boy.

Snape's gaze flicked to the boy's face, and for the first time, he saw it clearly: the sweat glistening on his forehead, and those vivid green eyes-now wide with confusion and pain.

It wasn't the boy himself that Snape cared about. It was those eyes. Lily's eyes, filled with pain...

The boy began to squirm, his feeble attempts to break free no match for his uncle's crushing grip.

Snape had seen enough.

He had a gravely injured Potter to deal with, and he wasn't about to waste any more time on these despicable Muggles.

With a sharp flick of his wand, Snape cast a non-verbal Stupefy at Vernon, taking grim satisfaction as the man collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

What followed was chaos.

Petunia screamed, hurtling down the remaining stairs to her husband. Potter fell to his knees, no longer held upright, while his cousin rushed to his side.

"Harry!" Dudley cried, skidding to a stop beside him.

The boy began to cough violently, his ragged breaths rattling with every inhale.

When the boy coughed up blood, it was an image Snape knew he would carry with him for the rest of his life-a vivid,terrible reminder of how close he had come to breaking his promise to Lily.

Snape moved in two strides, glaring down at Potter's Cousin, who was hovering near boy's hunched figure. The boy backed away quickly under Snape's glare, but before retreating completely, he stammered, "Please...help him."

Snape turned his full attention to the boy on the floor-his enemy's son.

For once, he was grateful Potter seemed too dazed to fully grasp what was happening. Severus wasn't sure he could maintain his usual stoicism otherwise.

Potter was in a pitiful state. His breathing came in laboured gasps, as though every breath were a battle. His face was already bruised and battered, but the few moments spent in Dursley's cure had left fresh injuries.

Snape's dislike of James Potter burned as strongly as ever, but the sight of the son of his enemy…Lily's son, in such a condition made him grip his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Potter," Snape said, his voice hard. "Can you hear me?"

The green eyes, so similar to Lily's, barely opened, as if trying to focus. He attempted to speak, but all that came out was a gurgling sound followed by another spurt of blood.

Then the boy collapsed to one side, coughing violently, and the blood staining the floor made Snape grit his teeth.

It was bad—he needed medical attention immediately. Merlin forbid that the golden boy die in his hands, Snape thought.

At least the boy seemed to understand for the moment.

"Can you stand, Potter?" Snape asked, not wanting to carry him like a bride—too much for his comfort, and certainly the boy's.

The boy seemed to realise speaking wasn't an option and nodded. He pushed himself up, leaning against the wall holding his side, refusing the reluctant help Snape offered.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and to that gesture Snape's disgust grew.

Potter staggered when he pushed off the wall, and Snape caught him by the arm. This was the limit of the contact he wanted with Potter.

At that moment, he turned to face the remaining onlookers, and a cold fury gripped him. He felt the boy stiffen at his tone.

"Don't think this is over, Petunia. I'll be back."

The woman flinched visibly but wasn't stupid enough to stay silent.

"Good. Take the freak and leave," she snapped at the boy. "And you… don't ever think you're welcome in this house again."

Potter flinched at that, but didn't respond. Snape wanted nothing more than to silence her forever, but there were more pressing matters at hand. With a final glare at Petunia, he dragged the boy towards the door.

The night air made Potter shiver. He glanced at Snape, clearly in no state to be out in it, and Snape knew they needed to hurry.

"Move it, Potter. No time to waste."

The boy shot him a glare, that was losing power because of how he looked.

He took two steps before stumbling, and Snape had to catch him to stop him from falling. They kept moving, with Potter stumbling every few steps, his face pale, slick with sweat, and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

They were moving far too slowly; the boy was deteriorating. Fortunately, they were soon outside the wards.

Snape suddenly stopped, and extended his arm to make the boy hold on

"What …" A cough, painful-sounding, interrupted Potter. He doubled over and vomited—blood, and a lot of it.

A sense of urgency flared in Snape, and he gathered the boy, who had his eyes shut, face even paler and lips blue.

He Disapparated in an instant. The world vanished, and they reappeared at their destination.

It only took a moment to decide.

The Hogwarts hospital wing wasn't an option. Dolores Umbridge controlled all the Floo networks. Not even the Order's headquarters was viable—it was in the middle of a meeting and wasn't equipped for this kind of emergency.

Not to mention, Potter's godfather and the werewolf would only get in the way.

This left Snape with very few options.

They appeared in a dark alley, no one in sight, and Snape hurried the final few steps to the house. Once inside, he wasted no time. He laid Potter down on the sofa and cast a diagnostic charm.

The damage was proof that Snape had failed in keeping his promise.

"Tippy!" A house-elf appeared, and seeing the unconscious form, immediately began to fidget.

"How may I assist you, Master?"

"Bring me the blood-replenishing potion, the pain-relieving potion, Skele-Gro, and the bruise balm."

Tippy was an efficient elf; this wasn't the first time Snape had needed his help, particularly after Death Eater meetings.

The elf glanced at the boy, still unconscious, blood drying on his face and disappeared with a pop.

With a shudder of disgust, Snape approached the child he hated so much , opening his shirt to assess the damage.

What he saw made his anger flare—no child should ever have to suffer like this.

Potter's chest was a patchwork of colours—reds, purples, even greenish hues. Not an inch of the boy's body had been spared.

Snape set to work. The most severe injury was clearly the lung, which, as the diagnostic charm had indicated, had collapsed.

He reset the broken rib with a swift flick of his wand and started to heal the internal damage.

"Vulnera sanentur," he repeated the incantation, while the potions appeared, neatly placed beside him.

Snape poured the potions into Potter's stomach. The boy had a broken cheekbone and a sprained ankle, both of which will be healed by the Skele-Gro.

Next, Snape addressed a makeshift bandage on the boy's shoulder. Without it, he could see that the wound had become infected, and Snape wondered curiously how it had been caused,it was clearly provocated by a spell

He closed the wound magically and continued working. Only the bruise balm remained.

He focused on the upper part of the boy's body—going beyond that would have been too much for him, and certainly for Potter. Merlin forbid the boy scream at him, accusing him of desecrating his innocence.

He healed every bruise—too many for Snape's taste. No child should go through this.

This didn't change the fact that Snape still hated Potter—the arrogant boy of Gryffindor. That hadn't shifted.

But after treating yet another bruise, Snape found himself wondering why Potter—the so-called golden boy of Gryffindor, always seeking attention—had never told anyone.

Snape sat at the kitchen table in his Spinner's End home, holding a glass of Firewhisky. He wasn't drinking it; he simply watched the amber liquid swirl.

In the next room, Harry Potter lay unconscious. Snape had sent a Patronus to Dumbledore, but hadn't received a response yet.

Potter needed rest. Snape was waiting for Dumbledore's instructions on what to do.

It was the weekend, so he wasn't needed until Monday morning, but he certainly didn't want to be stuck babysitting Potter.

Several hours passed before Dumbledore arrived.

He stepped out of the fireplace wearing a midnight-blue dressing gown, his expression serious, different from the usual jovial Headmaster.

"Severus, my dear boy, how is Harry?"

Snape described the injuries in precise, clinical detail.

The Headmaster seemed to age before Snape's eyes under the weight of the information, leaning heavily against the back of the chair.

"I never thought they… Of course, I knew he wasn't happy, but I never thought Petunia would do this."

The old man murmured, imploring Snape to believe him.

"Did you never think to check on him?" Snape asked sharply.

"I had Arabella Figg watching over him."

A bitter laugh escaped from Snape's chest.

"Oh, yes, that was a brilliant choice."

The pain on Dumbledore's face made Snape regret his words, but only briefly.

"I made a terrible, huge mistake. I don't know if he'll ever forgive me, and I certainly can't forgive myself."

Dumbledore stood and moved to the other room. He knelt beside the couch with surprising agility for a man of his age.

He murmured some words, gently pushing the boy's fringe back from his face before returning to where Snape was waiting.

Snape updated him on the situation at school, Umbridge's tyranny, and Potter's suspension.

Dumbledore seemed convinced that Snape was in the wrong. The old fool who preferred his Gryffindors refused to see the truth, and Snape let it go.

"Severus, I do wish you'd open your eyes and see that Harry has so much of Lily in him—if only you could really see him."

The mention of Lily made Snape stiffen. The pain only heard her name caused him was quickly masked beneath his usual shields.

"And I wish you'd stop seeing only what you want to see, old man."

Dumbledore chuckled softly, clearly accustomed to Snape's sharp, sarcastic remarks.

"Oh, if only you could see what I see."

Snape snorted but said nothing. The Headmaster then stood.

"Do you have everything under control, Severus?"

A flicker of surprise hit Snape, but he didn't show it.

"What should I do with the boy? Couldn't you stay with your precious Gryffindor?"

A deep sadness appeared on the old headmaster's face.

"You know as well as I do why I can't. Even being in close proximity to him for any length of time could open his mind to Voldemort."

With one last mournful glance towards the room where Potter lay, he left with a swish of his robes.

And here he was, two hours later, still furious at what the Headmaster had asked. He would have to keep watch over Potter and take him to Black's hellhole. At least, he thought, satisfied that he had managed to convince Dumbledore to have a private word with Petunia Dursley and his vile husband . He would be able to vent some of his frustration towards that despicable people, even though Dumbledore had imposed certain limitations. He rolled his eyes.

Still, in Dumbledore's eyes, he had seen the fury, and he knew the Dursleys wouldn't get off easily

Finding oneself on the wrong side of Dumbledore's anger was not something he would willingly risk. The fury of that man was truly terrifying.

Seated there on that chair, he continued to brood ,watch Potter like a babysitter? Every time he thought about it, his rage almost overtook him.

And there he sat, pondering the many insults at Dumbledore and the insufferable Gryffindors, when he heard noises coming from the living room.

Chapter Text

Harry woke gradually, the enveloping torpor clouding his thoughts. He already knew something was wrong even before he opened his eyes.

The surface he was lying on was far too comfortable to be his lumpy mattress at Privet Drive. There was a faint smell of dust, and somewhere to his right, he could hear the crackling of a fire. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might be at Hogwarts—until he opened his eyes and found himself in an unfamiliar room.

Panic overtook him, and dozens of terrible scenarios flooded his mind. He sat up quickly, his body protesting ,a sharp pain on the right side of his chest. Instinctively, he brought a hand to his side, as if to make the pain disappear.

He rose cautiously to his feet, every muscle aching. He remembered being injured but couldn't piece together what might have happened to bring him here. The extent of the pain didn't seem to match the injuries he knew he'd sustained in recent days. Looking down at himself, he realised someone had tended to his wounds.

A shiver ran through him at the thought of someone seeing the full extent of the injuries inflicted by his relatives. Normally, he would manage to patch himself up before anyone could notice. He'd need to come up with a good explanation for whoever had treated him.

Harry looked around, trying to learn more about the person who had healed him. The room he was in was a medium-sized sitting room. The sofa he had been lying on was flanked by two armchairs, and a fireplace stood in front of it. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls, interspersed with Muggle paintings.

The room's colours were muted, and the worn state of the furniture suggested that no one lived here very often. It wasn't dirty, but it had a certain gloomy air.

His inspection of the room offered no clues about where he might be, though he was at least certain he was in a wizard's house based on the book titles. Beyond that, he had no idea.

A noise drew his attention, and his finely tuned survival instincts alerted him that he wasn't alone. Someone was moving nearby.

Harry quickly lay back down on the sofa, regulating his breathing. He listened intently as footsteps drew closer, stopping somewhere nearby.

His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to keep his eyes shut and his breathing steady. The truth was, in his current state, there wasn't much he could do. He was sure he didn't have a wand.

His only hope was that whoever was here was on the side of the light.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to react, even as he felt someone's gaze fixed on him.

"Potter, you can stop pretending. I know you're awake."

Snape. Of course it had to be Snape, Harry thought bitterly. When had luck ever been on his side lately?

Abandoning his charade, he got to his feet as quickly as he could. The idea of lying vulnerable with Snape looming over him was unbearable.

His body screamed in protest as he stood, black spots swimming in his vision. He fought to mask his discomfort, knowing that Snape would pick up on even the smallest sign of weakness. Evidently, he hadn't done a very good job, because Snape's sharp voice cut through the air.

"Potter, you foolish boy! If you've any sense at all and don't want to undo all the work I've done, sit down immediately!"

Harry ignored him, refusing to put himself in such a vulnerable position.

They locked eyes for a few tense moments before Snape let out a frustrated sigh and sank into the armchair opposite the sofa. He gestured pointedly toward the sofa Harry had just vacated.

"Well? Are you going to sit down, or do you intend to carry on with this adolescent tantrum?"

Harry blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events.

Mechanically he sat back down, the situation feeling entirely surreal. He was sitting in what had to be Snape's living room, and Snape—of all people—had just told him to sit on his sofa.

"Where are we?" Harry asked, though he already suspected the answer. He just needed confirmation.

"Sir," Snape snapped sharply. "When you address me, Potter, you will do so with the respect I am due."

Harry bit back a retort. He needed answers, and antagonising Snape wouldn't get him anywhere. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Right, er… sorry, sir. Where are we, sir?"

For a moment, Harry thought Snape wouldn't answer. Then a derisive sneer twisted his face.

"Honestly, Potter, even you should have managed to figure it out by now. We're at my home."

Harry bit his tongue, resisting the urge to fire back.

"Yes, but… where exactly, sir?"

Snape studied him for a long moment, as though deciding whether or not Harry was even worth the effort of an answer.

"Spinner's End," he finally said.

Harry blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected a straightforward answer. In truth, he'd assumed Snape would refuse to tell him simply because he could.

"Sir… why am I here?" Harry asked, trying to keep his tone even.

A flash of anger lit Snape's dark eyes, and Harry flinched involuntarily. He had no idea what he'd said to provoke him already.

"You're here, Potter, because I dragged you out of that miserable excuse for a household after your so-called family left you on death's doorstep!"

It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of icy water over Harry. He froze, his breathing shallow and uneven.

In that moment, fragments of the previous day came rushing back: running from Snape, being forced back to the Dursleys, and finally, Snape seeing how they treated him.

Harry started shaking his head in denial, panic clawing at his insides. It was one thing for someone to notice his injuries—he could explain those away, come up with some excuse. But this? This was different. Snape knew.

The hated Potions Master, the head of Slytherin, who had made Harry's life hell at school, who had revelled in punishing him—he knew.

Harry struggled to breathe as panic gripped him, his mind racing. When he forced himself to focus again on his surroundings, he realised Snape was watching him, his head tilted slightly to the side.

"You don't know anything, Snape. They didn't do anything to me," Harry said quickly, his voice steadying as he deliberately refused to use the professor's title. He needed to turn the conversation away from this dangerous territory.

Snape didn't take the bait,his gaze turned predatory.

"Curious," he said, his voice silky. "You claim they didn't do anything, and yet I saw that fat excuse for a man try to throttle you with my own eyes."

Another wave of panic washed over Harry, though outwardly he tried to appear calm.

"You don't understand," he said. "Vernon was angry, but… but he's never done anything like that before."

Snape regarded him like a particularly difficult potion he was trying to analyse.

"Why do you defend them, Potter?"

"Why do you care, Snape?" Harry shot back quickly.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Snape replied with a sneer. "I couldn't care less personally. The Headmaster, however, has tasked me with finding out the truth."

A wave of shame and dread swept over Harry.

"Dumbledore knows?"

"Of course he knows," Snape said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Why else would I bother wasting my time with this conversation? Surely you don't think I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart?"

Harry barely heard Snape's biting remark. The fact that Dumbledore knew—And he didn't take care of him enough to stop and talk to him—hurt more than he wanted to admit. He felt disappointed, betrayed even.

Desperate to steer the conversation away, he blurted out the first question that came to mind.

"Has Trevis woken up?"

"No, but he will soon," Snape replied coolly. "Madam Pomfrey has requested my assistance in rousing him. Rest assured, Potter—this time, your cruelty won't go unpunished. I will personally see to it that you are expelled."

A cruel smile curled Snape's lips as he delivered the threat.

Harry fought the urge to wipe it off his face. For once, he could only hope that the truth would win out.

And so he sat, waiting for Snape to return with the verdict on his future. That tense conversation they'd had earlier had been the first time they'd spoken without tearing into each other.

Afterward, Snape had mostly ignored him, for which Harry was immensely grateful.

He alternated between sitting and lying down, not daring to wander around after the man's sharp warning about touching his belongings. Aunt Petunia had the same rule about her things, so Harry was well-acquainted with the concept.

It was the waiting that was unbearable. He hated sitting idle, his fate in someone else's hands.

It was Sunday. Madam Pomfrey had been tirelessly researching a remedy for Trevis, poring over ancient, heavy tomes. Harry had overheard from his friends mention that Madame Pomfrey discovered that the boy had been hit with an old and obscure curse, and she was trying to find the counter-curse.

Everyone at the school knew about it, just as they knew the supposed attacker was him. Harry wasn't truly surprised; the people at Hogwarts tended to assume he was guilty most of the time. What surprised him was the fact that they thought he was using Dark magic, as if he were on the verge of becoming a new Dark Lord.

That fact alone that was a dark curse made Harry wonder how anyone could believe he was responsible for putting Trevis in a coma. He didn't know spells like that and never would have used one even if he did.

Snape had left earlier, looking smug, clearly confident he had Harry cornered. Before departing, he'd ordered an elf to supervise him.

Harry rolled his eyes at the thought. As if he was going to destroy Snape's house or charge the door and escape.

Not that he could, even if he wanted to—his body ached, the potions helping only so much.

He glanced at the clock. It was eleven in the morning. Snape had been gone for nearly two hours now. Harry wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Distractedly, he wondered what would happened to him if the truth didn't come out. Would he end up back with the Dursleys? He sincerely hoped not.

Would he go to live with Sirius? His godfather hadn't responded to his letter yet, and Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He'd needed Sirius, had poured his heart out about the unfair suspension, but no reply had come.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? In a fair world, if you weren't guilty, you wouldn't be punished.

Harry sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He knew that if it hadn't been for Madam Pomfrey's urgent summons, Snape would have taken him straight to Sirius as Dumbledore had ordered. That's where he was supposed to spend his suspension, but Harry wasn't sure if that's what he wanted anymore.

Lately, Sirius seemed perpetually angry with him. Every time they spoke, he'd compare Harry to James, pointing out what James would have done or said, and then chiding Harry for not doing the same.

It was as if Sirius resented him for not being James.

Harry let out a bitter laugh at the irony. Sirius thought he was nothing like James Potter, while Snape seemed convinced he was James reincarnated.

The truth was, Harry didn't want to be either. He didn't want to be James's son or Lily's son. He just wanted to be Harry.

He sighed again, frustrated by the direction of his thoughts. Just as he was about to let himself drift off again, he heard the unmistakable sound of flames roaring to life.

He sat up quickly, watching as Severus Snape stepped out of the fireplace, his black robes billowing dramatically as always.

The man's expression betrayed nothing, and Harry felt a surge of frustration rise within him.

After an agonisingly long pause, Snape finally spoke.

What he said left Harry utterly stunned.

Chapter Text

Harry tried to decipher the man's expression, but as usual, it was unreadable. He clenched his fists, bracing himself for the worst.

He was on the verge of speaking—the anxiety gripping him, desperate to break the oppressive silence—when Snape, after staring at him for what felt like an eternity, finally spoke. His voice dripped with venom.

"Potter," he drawled deliberately, his tone slow and disdainful, "it seems I must do something that disgusts me profoundly."

Harry frowned, perplexed. Do what?

"Information has come to light suggesting that you are not responsible for what happened to Mr Trevis," Snape said, pausing as though the words physically burned his mouth, "and that you even… attempted to defend him."

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "Trevis has woken up?"

Snape fixed him with a glare of irritation and snapped angrily, "Tell me, Potter," he began, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "did you hear a single word I said, or are you so dense that you can't comprehend even the most basic concepts?"

He paused, letting the venom in his words settle before continuing, a cold, cruel smirk spreading across his face.

"Then again, I don't know why I ever thought, even for a second, that someone as blatantly incompetent as you could cast a spell of that level. You're weak, Potter. Weak and pathetic."

Harry felt his face flush, anger bubbling in his chest. "I'm not—" he began, but Snape silenced him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Nevertheless," Snape growled, his face taut with anger, "new information has come to light that demands immediate clarification. Can you at least name the three attackers, Potter?"

He stepped closer, his voice rising with every word. Harry stood up in response, unable to remain seated in the presence of such an angry and dangerous man.

"Mr Trevis couldn't recall them," Snape continued icily, his tone now laced with derision. "But since you faced them so… valiantly, surely you saw them!"

Snape's black eyes glinted with sharp impatience.

Harry was furious—how dare the man treat him like this after everything That he caused him

He wanted to walk out, but two critical problems prevented that plan: first, he'd never willingly turn his back on an angry man, and second, just as important, he was in Snape's house and had no way to escape.

Not to mention, this little argument had already pushed his healing body to its limits. He was doing everything in his power not to clutch his side, not wanting Snape to see his weakness.

Harry had an idea who the attackers might be, but telling Snape would be suicide.

He clearly remembered the house colours of those three bullies, and given his history with Snape, he knew the man would never believe him. In fact, he'd likely assume Harry was lying just to get his precious Slytherins into trouble.

No, Harry decided. He wouldn't trust Snape. He knew the man too well and could already predict his reaction.

"I don't know who they were," Harry said, his voice calmer than he felt inside. He avoided meeting Snape's eyes, not wanting the man to read the lie there.

He stole a glance at the Potions Master. Snape's eyes were blazing with fury.

"You're lying, Potter," Snape said, his voice cold and unyielding. "And not only lying but doing it so clumsily that I wonder how you could be foolish enough to think I wouldn't notice!" A look of disgust crossed his face. "Are you protecting someone, Potter?"

He advanced on Harry menacingly.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he stammered, "No… what? No, of course not! I just didn't see their faces clearly—it was dark, and—"

"Stop playing games with me, Potter. This is your final warning," Snape barked, his fury evident as he raised his wand. "Tell me who they were!" he ordered furiously.

Harry's mind went into overdrive. He was trapped. Panic twisted in his gut. What was Snape going to do to him? He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He was too terrified.

A cruel smile spread across Snape's face as he clearly revelled in Harry's discomfort. Before Harry could prepare himself, Snape moved. Harry barely managed half a step back.

"Legilimens," Snape spat angrily, and Harry was immediately brought to his knees by the sheer force of the spell.

He felt an invasive presence in his mind. His thoughts were a chaotic storm, and something was pushing relentlessly to access them.

The pain was blinding. Feeling Snape rifling through his mind left Harry feeling violated. And this intrusion was neither gentle nor restrained.

Desperately, Harry tried to raise a shield, to force the greasy-haired man out of his mind, but Snape was everywhere, overwhelming him.

He knew he was speaking through the agony, repeating the same words over and over: "Please," "Please stop."His voice sounded distant, as though coming from another world.

But Snape showed no mercy. He didn't stop, no matter how much Harry begged, no matter how pathetic he became.

Images raced by, too fast to grasp. Desperate to end the pain that felt like it was splitting his skull in two, Harry tried to think quickly of a solution.

After the disaster with Snape's Occlumency lessons, he'd done his own research, trying to improve in what had seemed a hopeless task.

He had studied theory, though he'd never practised it. Much of what he'd read had been too complex for him to fully understand.

Harry had always been better at practical work than theory.

While he didn't mind studying, being deprived of the magical world for eleven years had instilled in him a hunger for knowledge.

It wasn't on Hermione's level, and Ron often dampened his enthusiasm, but sometimes, when sleep eluded him in the middle of the night, he'd find himself reading extracurricular books.

He'd grasped the basics of how to expel a presence from his mind. The problem was, he didn't know how to execute it.

He'd often wondered how he had managed to hide memories of his abusive family from the man during Snape's lessons

Over time, he realised the answer must lie he'd been with his relatives and faced a beating or cruel words, he had learned to detach himself—to distance himself from the pain, to make it something far away.

With the pain in his head, currently being invaded by Snape, Harry tried to replicate what he had done when he was at the Dursleys.

In that house, it had been a defence mechanism, a way to survive, and today he would try to distance himself from the suffering of this unwanted intrusion.

He had always wanted to try this tactic, but back when he had his epiphany, his lessons had been brutally interrupted.

He focused on the present and saw that Snape was reliving the memory; it was just the beginning. The three boys were visible from behind, Trevis pressed against the wall.

"You're a disgrace to our own house…"

He put all the energy he had into distancing himself from the presence. It was easier said than done; the desperation he felt helped to some extent, he could feel a surge of power, and a moment later, Snape was no longer occupying his mind.

Harry gasped, kneeling on the floor, his hands clutching his head as it pulsed painfully.

His body was still hurting, not yet fully healed. He realised his face was wet – he was crying.

He furiously wiped his eyes with his sleeve, staggered to his feet, trembling with rage.

He looked at Snape, and with a bitter satisfaction, saw that Snape wasn't fairing any better. He had his hand on his forehead, as though trying to soothe his own pain.

"You had no right, Snape!" Harry yelled, his voice torn by the anger eating away at him. "Who do you think you are? You have no right to rummage around in my head!" His hands were trembling with fury, and he felt the need to strike something, someone.

"First you accuse me for no reason, you have me suspended, and then, when my innocence is finally proven, you… you attack me!"

Harry glared at the man and, at that moment, realised he hated him. He had always despised Snape, but he had never felt hatred for him before.

He hated his relatives, yes, but that was because they had hurt him in so many ways.

Hatred was a deep emotion, one reserved for someone who had wronged you deeply, and that day, Severus Snape had crossed a line – he had gone too far.

He savoured the new feeling, letting it wash over him, allowing it to flow through every fibre of his being. He felt powerful.

Snape was glaring at him, likely ready to snap back with one of his usual sharp retorts, when something strange happened.

The man's expression shifted abruptly, a look of worry and urgency flooding his features. His eyes widened slightly, as though he had just seen something terrible.

He moved towards Harry so quickly that Harry couldn't help but flinch.

"Potter!" Snape said, his voice sharp. Harry flinched as the man grabbed his shoulders, shaking him urgently. "Potter, look at me!" Snape seemed to struggle to keep control of his voice, but there was an emotion in it that Harry couldn't quite place.

Harry stared at him, confused and furious, his breath heavy. "What—?" he began to say, but stopped when he noticed his own reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, behind Snape.

For a split second, just a moment, his eyes weren't green. A red light had passed through them, like a fleeting, unsettling flash. It had disappeared so quickly that Harry wondered if he had imagined it.

Snape, however, had seen it, and didn't seem at all willing to believe it had been an illusion.

"Potter, answer me!" Snape insisted, his face tense. "Are you aware of what's happening?" His grip on Harry tightened, but Harry was too confused to understand what had shaken his professor so much.

"I'm fine!" Harry shouted, jerking himself free from Snape's grip. "Let me go! You have no right—"

"You don't even realise what's just happened, do you, Potter?" Snape hissed, his voice dripping with contempt and disbelief. "You're so thick, so blind, that you can't even see what's happening right under your nose!"

Harry backed away from the man, trying to put some space between them.

He felt tense. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his anger now mixing with growing unease.

"Your eyes, Potter!" Snape hissed. "What were you feeling in that moment?"

Harry stared at him, a mix of confusion and frustration on his face. "What do you mean?" he retorted, his brow furrowing. "I was feeling angry, I don't see how that matters! You attacked my mind, what was I supposed to feel, you tried to—"

"Don't try to distract me with your childish indignation," Snape interrupted, his tone biting. "Answer the question. What, precisely, were you feeling when—" he gestured sharply towards Harry's face, or more precisely, his eyes, "—it happened?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply but stopped, the memory overwhelming him.

The hatred ,burning and relentless, like a fire filling every fibre of his being. The feeling of power he had experienced, almost pleasurable, mixed with the desire to hurt the man who had tormented him so many times…

"I don't know," he lied, looking away.

Snape stepped forward again, his eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me, Potter. You can't afford to do that this time. It's not just your safety at stake."

"I told you I don't know!" Harry snapped, his anger flaring again, he felt again the sensation of hatred ,though this time it quickly shifted to discomfort.

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his black eyes seemingly digging into Harry's face as if searching his very soul. Then he tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a cold, humourless smirk.

"Oh, we've finally got there, Potter," he said, his tone full of venom and disdain. "Don't strain that underdeveloped brain of yours too hard, it might be too much for you. It's hatred, of course. Hatred, Potter, pure and simple. You wear it on your sleeve like you do with all your emotions."

Harry clenched his fists, his face flushed with frustration, but Snape interrupted before he could reply.

"What pathetic irony. I thought Gryffindors were too 'pure of heart' for something as contaminated as hatred. But no, even you, the glorious Chosen One, seem unable to escape failure."

He stepped forward, lowering his voice but making it sharper. "And don't worry, Potter. Whatever you feel towards me doesn't matter in the least. Your hatred doesn't touch me, nor do I care."

He straightened up, his gaze cold and distant. "What should matter to you," he continued, "is that allowing yourself to be consumed by such a raw, destructive emotion makes you vulnerable. The Dark Lord feeds on emotions like that. If you don't learn to control it, you'll be nothing but a puppet in his hands."

The anger drained out of Harry, the full weight, the meaning of what Snape had just said hitting him like a slap in the face.

He didn't even care about being insulted anymore.

If what Snape had said was true, then his hatred, his anger, made him a danger.

Not just to himself, but to everyone around him.

The thought made his stomach twist with fear. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville… what would happen to them if Voldemort got into his mind? And what if he hurt them?

No, he couldn't let that happen.

Harry looked at his professor, who was still glaring at him with disdain. He swallowed his pride, swallowed the fact that he had been humiliated and hurt by the man.

He was the only one around who could help him; there was no Dumbledore, and apparently, he didn't matter enough for the Headmaster to be here.

"How can I stop it?" His voice was tired in his own ears.

"Occlumency, of course. But, as you've already demonstrated, you're completely incapable of mastering the art," Snape's tone was mocking.

But then his expression changed.

"I'll talk to the Headmaster… about these new developments," he said slowly, as if emphasising his reluctance. "If anyone can offer a concrete solution, it's him."

Harry nodded slowly, relieved but not entirely at ease. He was about to thank the professor when he remembered what he had done to him, and so, he said nothing.

"However," Snape resumed, a wicked grin colouring his features, "There is something you need to tell me, if you wish for me to report this to the Headmaster" He paused, his gaze satisfied. "A trade, I'd say."

Harry clenched his fists, trying to stay calm. "What?" he asked, his tone betraying his irritation.

Snape moved closer, invading his personal space again. "The names, Potter," he said deliberately, "I want the names of the three attackers."

A wave of rebellion surged through Harry. He clenched his fists tighter, trying to stay calm, and with a tone that left no room for doubt, he replied, "If you think this information is vital to the war, Snape, Dumbledore will know regardless, whether I give you the names or not. So I fail to see why I should tell you."

A flicker of surprise passed over Snape's face, but it was quickly masked.

Then Snape adopted his usual sneer, a smug smile twisting his features.

"Are you certain, Potter?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Well then, this exchange is off. You'll have to manage without it."

He stepped away from Harry as if distancing himself would end the conversation.

Harry didn't hesitate for a second before snapping back, his voice full of defiance.

"You're bluffing, Snape," he said, staring him straight in the eyes.

Snape stopped, turned back, and loomed over Harry once more.

He glared at him with contempt, his voice cutting.

"Alright, Potter, you've made your point," he said sarcastically.

"You don't want to tell me those names, and you couldn't care less about Travis's fate, could you? You know full well those three will fix him as soon as he's out of the infirmary. I didn't think a Gryffindor would be cowardly enough to do nothing to stop them."

Harry met his gaze with determination, his voice betraying a hint of frustration.

"The point, Snape, isn't that I don't want to tell you the names. The point is that you won't like them, and you'll end up accusing me of lying."

Snape stared at him for a moment, his gaze as cold as ice.

"Test me, Potter," he said, his tone hard. "You'll see I don't tolerate bullies."

Harry was absolutely exhausted, his body aching for some rest. He was struggling to keep his breathing steady, trying not to clutch at his side.

He was worn out, and at that moment, he decided he didn't care anymore. What could Snape possibly do to him that he hadn't already?

With a sigh, he gave in and sat down, finally letting his hand rest on his ribs for a bit of relief.

Harry let out a bitter laugh, glancing at Snape with a mixture of contempt and defiance. "For someone who thinks he has everything under control," he said, his voice sharp, "you really don't notice when something's right under your nose."

Snape moved quickly, grabbing Harry by the shirt and nearly lifting him off the ground, his eyes full of menace. "Watch your tone, Potter," he hissed, tightening his grip. "Don't forget who you're speaking to. The next time you address me like that, it won't end the same way." His voice was low and icy, dripping with fury that seemed to make the very air around them crackle.

Harry did his best to hold his ground, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but flinch. His violent childhood had caused these reflexes, and he hated them—hated feeling weak.

Snape noticed, and, as if Harry had burned him, he released him abruptly. He studied him with an unreadable look before continuing, as if nothing had happened.

"Carry on, Potter. This time, think carefully about how you speak to me."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady the slight tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat a couple of times.

He looked Snape in the eye, trying to mask his vulnerability. "I don't really know who they are," he said, his voice betraying some uncertainty. He took another deep breath. "But the one who hurt my shoulder… I've seen him before. They're older, seventh years, and… they're Slytherins," he finished, dropping the bombshell. He was still unsure, but if Snape wanted the truth, here it was.

"Good, Potter," Snape replied stiffly, clearly displeased, but he didn't say anything else—no insult, no sharp remark.

Harry was taken aback—so much so that his mouth fell open.

"Don't look so surprised, Potter. It doesn't matter what house they're from. This kind of behaviour—attacking a child—will never be tolerated. Not by me." His eyes glinted with a suppressed fury. "I won't stand for bullying, Potter. And if you thought I'd let it slide just because they're from my house, you're even more foolish than I thought."

Harry didn't have much of a response. He was simply tired and sore. He just wanted the conversation to end. So he changed the subject.

"Will Trevis be all right?"

Snape scrutinised him for a moment, then sighed and said,

"Mr Trevis, Potter, will be fine, and for reasons I can't fathom, he's attributing the credit to you, insisting—quite forcefully—that I convey his sincere thanks." Snape's voice was flat, as if the words were physically painful to him.

Harry wondered, just for a moment, how much it had cost Snape to deliver that message, given how stiffly he spoke.

Snape didn't speak again, and Harry almost felt compelled to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Uh… thanks?" A smirk twisted on Snape's face, seizing the opportunity to mock him.

"Eloquent as ever, Potter," Snape continued, not waiting for a response. "Now, after wasting enough of my time, it's time to take you to your charming godfather. This evening, Professor McGonagall will collect you, and you'll return to Hogwarts to continue—or at least attempt to continue—your studies." A nasty grin tugged at Snape's lips. "Unless, of course, there's a reason for a permanent expulsion, which, given your talent for trouble, seems entirely plausible."

With that, he turned and swept his robes dramatically. He returned shortly after, handing Harry a vial of potion he recognised at once.

"Pain-relieving potion," Harry said, accepting it.

Snape seemed surprised by Harry's recognition and gave a curt nod.

"I don't want, Potter, that flea-bitten excuse of a godfather you've got coming after me once you've complained to him."

A wave of discomfort settled in Harry's stomach. "Sir… um, would it be possible to return to Hogwarts right away?"

The surprise flashed in Snape's eyes, but he quickly masked it with his usual sneer.

"Trouble in paradise, Potter?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, um… just, I'm behind on my studies, and I don't want to waste any more time… sir."

Snape gave him a look that clearly said he didn't believe a word of it, but didn't comment further.

The truth was, Harry wasn't entirely comfortable with Sirius. He loved him, certainly, and he was sure his godfather loved him back, but right now he had too many mixed emotions. The fact that Sirius hadn't helped him when he needed him, or the fact that Sirius want him more like James…

He had gotten lost in his thoughts, and Snape was staring at him again, as if he were some complicated potion to decipher. Harry didn't like the feeling one bit.

He was walking back to the tower. He had appeared with Snape at the outskirts of Hogwarts. Snape had agreed to his request, seemingly deriving some satisfaction from denying something to his godfather, and denying him the chance to see Harry right now was something Severus Snape, a Slytherin through and through, simply couldn't resist.

They hadn't spoken at all during the journey. Harry felt uneasy with Snape so close and was relieved when they finally reached the gates of Hogwarts and their paths diverged.

The glares he received in the corridor were hostile. He wasn't popular, as everyone thought he was a liar, but this latest rumour had struck another blow to his image—though, in truth, he didn't care.

It felt like he was back in his second year, when everyone suspected him of being the heir of Slytherin. He walked faster, eager to avoid the unwanted attention.

He was nearly at the entrance to his common room when he heard the unmistakable and irritating sound of throat-clearing from that pink toad.

He closed his eyes.

Damn it, why couldn't life just be simple for once?

"Ahem… Mr Potter, a word, if you please."

Chapter Text

Following the disgustingly pink woman through half the castle with his body still aching wasn't something Harry would have added to his to-do list upon his return.

But it was becoming increasingly clear that life wasn't going to smile on Harry.

He instinctively knew the woman had been waiting for his return, and he snorted at the thought of her standing there, poised in some alcove of the castle for hours on end, waiting to catch him passing by. To Harry, it seemed utterly ridiculous.

They soon arrived at her office, and the garish décor felt like a punch to the eyes. The last time he'd been in this room, he'd nearly been expelled, and Harry had no desire to repeat that experience.

"Mr Potter, do you know why you're here?" Her voice was sickeningly sweet, dripping with false kindness.

"I assume it's not to apologise for the misunderstanding?" Harry asked sarcastically.

The woman didn't flinch. In fact, her smile widened, but there was something sinister glinting in her eyes.

"Oh, Mr Potter," she said, her tone syrupy, though her gaze now predatory. "I think you and I both know there's been no misunderstanding." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming. "You think you've fooled everyone, but I am not so easily deceived, Potter. I know you've lied. I know you've threatened Travis, or altered his memory in some way. Isn't that right? All to hide the truth. I know what you are—a liar. I won't believe a single word that comes out of your mouth."

Harry's eyes widened. How could that toad even think—

"You're mad. Completely mad," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Umbridge stared at him, her sickly-sweet smile still plastered across her face, but her eyes glittered with pure malevolence. She leaned in slightly, as if about to share a great secret. Her voice dropped to a near whisper.

"How strange, Potter," she murmured, her tone deceptively soft. "Last I checked, the one who's mad around here was you. The boy who lies, who makes up stories to get attention. The boy who would do… anything… just to have all eyes on him."

Then she straightened up, her smile twisting into something bigger, almost sadistic, her eyes cold and filled with malice.

"Oh, but I have the perfect solution, Potter," she said, her voice now sing-song, each word dripping with mock affection. "I think I can teach you how to be an honest young wizard. One who respects the rules. One his parents could be proud of. And do you know what?" She leaned toward him again, so close Harry had to fight the urge to step back. "You'll thank me for it. Oh yes, Potter, you'll thank me."

Her gaze hardened abruptly, the façade of kindness vanishing in an instant. The darkness in her eyes sent a chill down Harry's spine.

"Detention tonight, seven o'clock sharp," she said, her tone clipped and triumphant. "And don't be late."

She regarded him for a moment, her expression smug, revelling in the power she held over him.

"It'll be… educational."

The promise behind her words made Harry's stomach churn.

He left her office as quickly as he could, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and that woman. She seemed to have made it her personal mission to turn his life into a living hell.

When he finally made it back to the Gryffindor common room, he let out a long breath of relief. He was almost surprised to find it empty, but his attention was drawn to one of the windows.

Of course, there was a Quidditch match on. Brilliant. Another painful reminder of something she had taken from him.

It stung particularly because Quidditch was one of the few things Harry excelled at naturally. Beyond being an outlet, it was a time when Harry felt alive.

Flying had always been that way. When he was on a broomstick, all his other worries faded. In those moments, it was just him and the Snitch—no Voldemort, no Dursleys, no other problems.

He gazed wistfully at the banners visible in the distance, the little figures darting through the air, then sighed and turned away.

There was no point dwelling on what had been taken from him. Harry was used to to being deprived of things, particularly after his childhood with the Dursleys. He almost expected things to always end that way.

He remembered his first year at Hogwarts, how his eleven-year-old self had been stunned by the abundance of food during meals in the Great Hall. Back then, he'd been afraid it might all disappear.

With the Dursleys, it wasn't just material things he'd been deprived of, but even what he now knew to be basic necessities.

Reaching the dormitory, he took advantage of the empty room and headed to the bathroom, relishing the chance for a long, hot shower—a luxury he'd never had at Privet Drive.

Seeing his school things neatly placed at the foot of his bed brought a small sense of relief. He quickly grabbed his wand, savouring the familiar sensation of power coursing through him at the touch. He'd missed it.

Thankfully, nothing seemed to be missing, though he didn't really want to know how his trunk had been retrieved.

He gathered the clothes he needed to change into, along with the small tin box he always relied on after his stays with the Dursleys, and made his way to the bathroom

As he undressed, he noticed that most of his bruises had faded, leaving only faint traces. Only a few remained visible—the worst ones, like the one on his right side near his broken rib, or the one on his elbow.

Thankfully, there didn't seem to be anything left on his face. Or rather, there were faint marks if you knew where to look.

He was grateful he wouldn't have to explain them to his friends, though the thought of Snape knowing stole the breath from his lungs, making it hard to regain it.

He recognised the signs of a panic attack—he was far too familiar with them. He tried to calm himself, to think of something else, but all he could focus on was the fact that someone knew the secret he'd kept guarded all his life.

Looking into the mirror, all he saw was a pathetic boy. The sight made his blood boil, and before he could think, he lashed out, punching the mirror.

The pain pulled him from the spiral of panic, the throbbing in his hand forcing his mind to focus solely on it.

He was almost grateful for the distraction, if not for the blood now dripping from his hand.

"Brilliant," he muttered. "Absolutely brilliant."

Muttering a quick Reparo, he fixed the mirror with a flick of his wand, then turned his attention to his hand. Luckily, he hadn't broken anything in his impulsive outburst.

His healing skills had improved, though they weren't as advanced as his potion-making. Fortunately, this wasn't complicated.

With two simple spells, he removed the shards of glass and sealed the cuts he'd inflicted on himself so foolishly.

As he sat down, Harry took a deep breath, stood up again, and resumed his inspection, trying to avoid thinking about how foolish his actions sometimes were.

Looking at the rest of his body, he realised two large bruises still hadn't been treated. Harry was silently grateful that Snape hadn't checked beyond his upper body; he didn't think he could survive the embarrassment if he had.

Opening the box he kept securely hidden at the bottom of his trunk—protected with spells to ensure only he could open it—Harry felt a familiar twinge of relief. Inside lay his collection of potions. It wasn't fully stocked, given the "unscheduled holiday" he'd endured, but it would suffice. These potions were usually prepared in advance to help him cope with his time at the Dursleys, where injuries were common. Harry knew he might not always have access to them if his uncle locked his belongings away, so he made sure they could also be used in emergencies before returning to Hogwarts. He remembered one particularly bad summer during his third year, when he had to sneak into the bathroom on the Hogwarts Express to tend to his injuries, healing himself in private.

He found what he needed. Though his supplies were limited, they'd be enough, especially now that he'd been partially healed.

Picking up a jar, Harry turned it over in his hands, warmth blooming in his chest as his eyes fell on the inscription he'd etched long ago: Lily's Balm.

His gaze shifted to the battered journal lying at the bottom of the box.

He'd found it long ago, during the summer of his second year. Aunt Petunia had ordered him to clean the attic from top to bottom, and he still remembered his outrage at the sheer scale of the task. But that frustration quickly gave way to astonishment when he'd opened a dusty box and discovered this same tin container.

Back then, he'd been overwhelmed by emotions he hadn't quite understood. He'd known so little about his mother, but finding something that had belonged to her had left him breathless with excitement.

The journal had been among her belongings. It was a potions diary, and perhaps that was what had ultimately sparked his love for the subject. The thought of practising something his mother had cared for so deeply made him feel closer to her, more connected to her.

The journal was packed with improvements to recipes Harry had encountered during his years at Hogwarts—and so much more. There were tips, tricks for handling ingredients, and thoughtful notes scattered throughout its pages.

To Harry, reading the journal felt like being taught directly by her. It wasn't the same as having her there to stroke his hair in praise or gently scold him when he made mistakes, but it was something.

The journal was unfinished, with notes on recipes and improvements that had never been tested, perhaps left incomplete because of her untimely death.

That made Harry feel an overwhelming responsibility to finish it, as if it were his way of honouring her legacy. It was his way of repaying her, in the smallest of ways, for the sacrifice she had made for him.

It was in her diary that he'd found the improvement to the bruise balm. He didn't know why she'd wanted to enhance the original recipe, but the improved version had been a lifesaver.

With just one application, it could erase bruises entirely, whereas the standard version required three or four for deep ones.

The potion Snape had used on him was proof of that difference. Harry grinned at the thought that his mother's work had outshone Snape's. He felt a surge of pride for her.

Her diary had helped him in ways he was sure she could never have imagined. Many summers, when he felt he couldn't endure any more, it had been her notes and potions that kept him going.

Harry knew it wasn't logical—she hadn't written the diary with the intention of helping him survive the Dursleys—but the connection he felt to her through it was undeniable.

He opened the jar of enhanced balm and began applying it to the remaining bruises, even the faint ones that had already started fading. He watched with satisfaction as the discolouration melted away.

Taking a deep breath, Harry looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a normal boy—or almost. Perhaps he was still too thin, but at least there were no visible signs of Dudley's treatment anymore.

Afterward, he indulged in a long, hot shower, letting the water soothe his aching muscles. It felt like a luxury he hadn't experienced in years.

By the time he returned to the dormitory, the room was still empty. With nothing else to do, Harry lay on his bed, unwilling to watch a match he should have been playing in. Sleep came quickly; his exhausted body welcomed the rest.

Harry was jolted awake by someone shaking his shoulder. The dull ache in his body flared, and he suppressed a wince as he gradually opened his eyes.

"Harry, Harry—you're back!" Ron's freckled face swam into view.

At first, Harry was annoyed at being woken up so abruptly, but that quickly dissolved when he saw the genuine happiness on his best friend's face. Relief flooded through him.

It felt like he'd been away from Hogwarts far longer than he actually had. Sitting up, Harry tried to shake off the grogginess of sleep. Ron was staring at him like he might vanish at any moment.

"I wasn't sure you'd make it this time," Ron admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Without Dumbledore and with her…" His voice trailed off. "Well, I'm just glad it's all sorted now."

The truth was, Harry had doubted more than once that things would end well himself.

"So am I," he replied with a tired smile.

Ron's expression turned serious, an unusual look for his typically carefree self. "Are you alright, mate?"

Harry hesitated. Was he alright? No, not really. Everything was a mess—the Dursleys, Snape, Umbridge. But he forced a smile anyway. "Yeah, just knackered."

Ron didn't seem entirely convinced but let it go. "I'd let you rest, but Hermione's been on my back about dragging you downstairs. You know how she is."

Harry nodded, deciding it was better to face Hermione on his own terms than wait for her to storm up and drag him down herself.

No sooner had he entered the common room than he was nearly bowled over. Hermione flung herself at him, her bushy hair tickling his face.

"I'm so glad everything's been cleared up!" she exclaimed.

They sat by the fire, talking as though it had been years since they'd last seen each other. Ron and Hermione filled him in on everything that had happened: Umbridge tightening security, every letter being inspected before it could be sent, and the Inquisitorial Squad growing larger by the day.

When Harry recounted his meeting with Umbridge upon his return, his friends' outrage and fiery words made him feel less alone.

Hermione immediately set to work brainstorming solutions for the injustice Harry had faced. But even she had to admit, grudgingly, that there was no one to appeal to—Umbridge held all the power.

Harry avoided mentioning the Dursleys altogether. The memories were too raw.

"Are you sure you're alright, Harry?" Hermione asked for what felt like the hundredth time since they'd reunited.

Though her concern was beginning to grate on him, it also warmed him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"Yes, Hermione," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "I'm fine."

Satisfied for the moment, Hermione launched into a discussion about schoolwork, listing everything Harry had missed.

Harry exchanged a comically exasperated look with Ron, who rolled his eyes so dramatically that Harry couldn't help but laugh—a deep, liberating laugh that felt long overdue.

For the first time in days, he felt safe. Looking at his best friends, he knew that, despite everything, he would be alright. He was home.

They talked for the rest of the afternoon, about everything and nothing, wrapped in the quiet stillness of the common room. Their house had lost the match, so there were no boisterous celebrations echoing around them.

The closer it got to the time of Harry's detention with Umbridge, the more his mood darkened, and he grew quieter. His friends seemed to notice and did their best to distract him, but the weight of the evening ahead loomed too heavily over him.

That evening, Harry decided to skip dinner. There was no way he could force food down with the anxiety twisting in his stomach.

Now, he was on his way to face his punishment. His friends exchanged words of encouragement, but they did little to soothe his nerves.

As he walked through the castle, he passed several familiar faces, but none greeted him as warmly as Ron and Hermione had. Only Neville, Ginny, and the twins seemed genuinely happy to see him back. He was used to people disliking him for no apparent reason, but it still stung every time.

The walk to the Defence Against the Dark Arts office was far too short for his liking.

When he arrived, he was greeted by the sight of Umbridge, her unpleasantly sweet smile plastered across her toadlike face, and her air of false maternal care.

Harry glanced around the room, searching for the dreaded quill that had already caused him so much pain. It was nowhere to be seen. He stood there, uncertain, unsure of what to do.

Umbridge seemed to relish his hesitation, her sickly-sweet grin widening as she watched him squirm under her gaze.

"Well, Mr Potter, it seems we've reached something of an impasse," she began, her syrupy tone grating on his nerves. "My usual punishments… they don't appear to have had much effect, do they? What a shame. But don't worry…" She paused, her smile sharpening into something far more menacing, a dark gleam flickering in her eyes. "…I've come up with something far more effective to correct your disgraceful behaviour."

A sickening feeling settled in Harry's stomach at the thinly veiled threat in her words.

"The Minister has given me free rein to deal with… delicate cases such as yours. He understands the absolute necessity of a firmer hand when it comes to you." She stopped again, her eyes gleaming with an undisguised malice that her sugary voice couldn't conceal. "And I intend to make full use of that opportunity."

Harry's mouth went dry, and an overwhelming urge to flee surged through him. He turned instinctively toward the door.

"Oh no, Mr Potter, I don't think so."

With a sharp flick of her wand, the door slammed shut.

Terror flooded Harry's veins as he turned back to face her. There was something truly twisted in her expression now, something sick and gleeful.

He raised his wand instinctively, but before he could utter a spell, she disarmed him with a swift Expelliarmus. His wand soared from his hand, landing neatly in hers.

"Oh, Potter," she cooed mockingly. "You didn't think I'd let you catch me off guard, did you?"

Harry was trapped, and he couldn't see a way out.

The only thing left to do was face whatever she had planned for him. And he'd do it with his head held high, refusing to show this twisted excuse for a teacher even a flicker of fear or discomfort.

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

If only he'd known what she had in store for him, he might never have shown up for detention. To hell with the consequences. To hell with whatever she would've said or done in response.

There was a limit to what he could endure, and tonight, Dolores Umbridge had crossed it.

Chapter Text

The vile woman pointed her wand at him, a malicious smile on her face devoid of any pretense of sweetness. Harry felt a cold shiver run down his spine, but he kept his gaze fixed on her.

He stood there stoically, determined not to show any reaction. His breath was tense, unsure of what was coming next but ready to avoid showing even the slightest discomfort.

A surreal stillness hung in the air as they locked eyes for those brief moments. Harry saw in the witch's eyes that there was no hesitation, only a frightening glimmer—something very dark.

Instinctively, Harry knew, a second before she uttered any spell, that it would be painful. However, he hadn't expected what she cast next.

For all the prejudice Umbridge had shown towards him, Harry never would have imagined that a Ministry official would resort to an Unforgivable Curse. So when the word "Crucio" left her lips, Harry had only a brief moment of utter surprise.

He had not thought the woman capable of stooping so low. But the shock was short-lived, because the pain that followed emptied Harry's mind of every thought. Every fibre of his being was consumed by a suffocating agony.

It felt as if every nerve was on fire, an all-encompassing torment. He used all his strength not to scream, biting his tongue hard.

Time became relative—every second felt like an eternity. Harry wondered if he could hold out much longer without breaking his silence.

Just as he thought he might not be able to endure it any longer, the pain left him as abruptly as it had come.

He found himself on his knees. He didn't know when he had fallen, and he didn't care. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably.

He slowly lifted his head, furious, and locked eyes with the woman now watching him with evident amusement. Harry was stunned, but the rage he felt far outweighed his shock.

"It's—it's against the law! You can't do this!"

He could hear the indignation and disbelief in his own voice.

Umbridge didn't flinch. Instead, her smile widened.

"Don't you understand, Potter? The Minister has given me free rein to do whatever is necessary. This is the result of your lies, your deceit. The heinous act you committed against that poor child is just more proof that you require harsher punishments."

Harry wasn't sure if he was trembling from anger or the lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse. He stood shakily, looking at the woman with utter disgust.

"You can't seriously think I won't tell anyone about this—this is—"

A cold laugh escaped Umbridge's lips, cutting him off abruptly.

"Potter," she said, her tone dripping with contempt, "I didn't think you were foolish enough to believe anyone would believe you. You're nothing but a filthy little liar."

She paused, looking at him with smug superiority.

"And let's not forget that I hold all the power here. Or have you forgotten there's no longer Dumbledore to run to for help?"

Harry was about to retort—more likely to insult her—but she didn't give him the chance.

Her face suddenly softened, though the malice in her eyes betrayed the facade. That sickly sweet voice Harry loathed returned.

"Harry, I don't want to do this, but you've left me no choice. If only you didn't behave this way, you wouldn't force me to act. If only you'd stop telling lies… but one day, you'll thank me. I only want what's best for you."

The nausea Harry felt at this mockery of affection was almost overwhelming. She sounded like a doting mother chastising her child for forcing her to administer a light punishment.

But this was no mere scolding—it was torture. Harry wasn't naive enough to ignore the fact that casting the Cruciatus Curse required intent.

You had to truly, consciously want to inflict pain on someone to succeed in casting it. Intent was crucial. Without a deliberate desire to cause such immense suffering, the spell wouldn't work.

Harry wondered where this woman found the will to inflict such excruciating pain on a child.

He thought that Umbridge would fit right in among Voldemort's ranks. She'd probably be commended and rewarded for her cruelty.

That night, he was hit with the Cruciatus Curse repeatedly. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth from biting his tongue so many times, but he took pride in not screaming in front of that woman.

He had to endure this ordeal because there was no escape, but he would endure it on his terms. He'd sooner die than give her the satisfaction of seeing him broken.

The woman in question was visibly frustrated by his lack of reaction, prolonging each subsequent curse in an attempt to break him.

Harry thought he might lose his mind. He had lost count of how many times the spell had been cast on him.

He realised his memory had betrayed him. In his fourth year, he had already experienced the Cruciatus Curse, but he didn't remember the pain being this intense. Perhaps his mind had erased the full extent of the agony to protect him.

He tried to detach himself from the pain, as he used to do with the Dursleys—to disassociate from the blows his uncle dealt him—but it was futile.

This pain was all-encompassing. Wherever he tried to hide within himself, he could still feel it. It was everywhere.

Every nerve, every joint, every muscle felt like it was on fire.

He tried to count the seconds to distract himself, to do something, but it only made him more aware of the passage of time.

How long would it take before he went mad? Hours? Minutes?

Harry thought the latter was more likely.

He already knew Umbridge had what it took to be a Death Eater, but he now wondered with detached curiosity if she was becoming more like Bellatrix Lestrange at this point.

He knew what Bellatrix had done to Neville's parents, and he prayed desperately that the same wouldn't happen to him.

He had endured too much to end up like that, to have his life end in such a way.

He wondered if, should he meet that end, he'd be reunited with his parents immediately or if he'd have to wait for his physical body to die to find peace.

Just as these thoughts crossed his mind, he realised the curse had ceased. Not that it made much difference at this point—his body still felt like it was on fire, as though the curse was still active.

He was lying on the floor, unable to control his body. Moving it seemed an impossible task.

Staring at the ceiling, at the ancient castle stones, he braced himself for the next Cruciatus Curse.

"Well, Potter? I trust the message has been received… for tonight, at least?"

Harry heard the woman's voice from somewhere to his left and turned his gaze tiredly. He could see the irritation on her face.

Harry felt a small sense of satisfaction at having annoyed her. Even though suppressing his agony had cost him greatly, he was glad.

He would not bow to Voldemort, and he certainly wouldn't bow to this excuse for a woman.

He knew his spirit wasn't broken; after everything the Dursleys had put him through, he had been hardened by years of suffering, and this latest trial wouldn't be the one to break him.

He looked at her and tried to put as much arrogance and defiance into his expression as possible. To hell with self-preservation. If this woman wanted to keep torturing him, she would, no matter what he said. So he might as well get a few things off his chest.

"I think… I think you can go to hell," he said, his voice low but resolute. Harry was pleased to hear it didn't tremble.

"You're a pathetic excuse for a witch. You pretend to wield power, but you're so insecure about having it that you need to torture a child to convince yourself."

He paused, the effort taking its toll, but he felt compelled to continue.

"You disgust me. And one day, you'll pay for all the pain you've caused."

Umbridge's eyes narrowed to slits, her hand gripping her wand so tightly it looked painful.

Harry almost closed his eyes, sure another curse was coming, but in the end, Umbridge stepped back.

She lowered her wand and looked at Harry maliciously.

"Well, Potter, it's a real shame you feel that way. But, if anything, it only proves how necessary these… punishments are. For now, Potter, return to your dormitory. I'll let you know when your next detention will be."

With that, she turned away, as though there wasn't a severely injured Harry Potter lying on the floor of her office.

Harry almost gave in to the urge to collapse and sleep right where he was. The only thing stopping him was the thought of doing so in the presence of that toad. That thought alone gave him the strength to get up.

He didn't look back; he didn't want to see the smug smile undoubtedly on her face.

Every step was agony. After a few faltering paces, he realised walking back to his dormitory would be a monumental task.

His legs refused to cooperate, spasming painfully and trembling constantly. His body still felt aflame, as if he were still under the curse's effects.

Each step he took felt as though it would be his last.

His body had already been sore before the detention; now, it felt as though every old wound had returned.

Before long, he leaned against the cold stone wall of the castle. The chill was a welcome relief to his burning body.

He didn't know how much time passed. He didn't know what time it was. He stopped multiple times along the way, gathering his strength.

He didn't even know where he was going, he was just walking.

Turning another corner, he bumped into something—or more likely, someone.

Harry bounced back, his shoulder hitting the wall, and a low groan escaped his lips.

He looked up and sighed heavily when he saw Draco Malfoy illuminated by the dim torchlight.

Bloody hell, why was it always a Slytherin when he found himself in situations like this?

At least it wasn't Snape, he thought irritably.

"Potter," Malfoy spat, brushing his robes as if they had touched something filthy. "Why don't you pay more attention instead of—" He stopped, eyeing Harry more closely.

Surprise was clearly visible on Malfoy's aristocratic face.

"What happened to you?" His voice held astonishment, then something changed as he stepped closer, getting a better look.

His expression shifted into something hard to read. "Merlin, Potter, did you decide to duel blindfolded with a mountain troll?"

Harry lifted his gaze, shooting him a glare, but with the way he looked, it probably wasn't very intimidating.

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, his vision was darkening at the edges; he needed to leave before he passed out in front of his nemesis.

"Go to hell… Malfoy."

But Malfoy didn't move, hands in his pockets feigning indifference. But his eyes were scanning Harry's condition, his grey eyes settling on Harry's trembling hands.

Malfoy's eyes widened like saucers, his gaze darting from Harry's shaking hands to his face.

"What the…"

He stiffened, and for a moment, Harry no longer saw the arrogant boy he had always hated.

He could tell Draco was conflicted, the usual mockery in their interactions replaced by something else.

At one point, Draco spoke, and Harry could clearly hear his uncertainty, tinged with a hint of disgust.

"I can't believe I'm about to do this."

He moved toward Harry, who was leaning against the wall trying not to collapse, but Harry didn't even have the strength to pull away before Draco grabbed his arm roughly.

"Come with me, Potter."

Harry couldn't find the strength to fight back.

He was being dragged along without ceremony, confused by Draco's behaviour, but too weak to resist.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

Draco didn't even look back as he answered.

"It's obvious, Potter. I'm making sure the Golden Boy doesn't die in a dark corridor."

His voice was laced with sarcasm and mockery.

Harry was confused. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe this was all an awful nightmare.

But Harry knew better. The amount of pain he was in made the possibility of being in a dream seem unlikely.

"Why are you doing this?" It was a question that kept nagging at him, it made no sense. Malfoy never wasted time not mocking or attacking him—why was he helping him now?

A sigh escaped from the Slytherin.

"Potter," Draco began with a frosty tone, "you may seem stupid, but I'm not, unlike you."

Harry hesitated, unsure whether to be offended and insult Draco back or to wait for him to explain. He chose the latter, since even speaking was difficult.

"I know this was done to you by Umbridge." Draco's voice became more serious, almost bitter. ""And contrary to what you think, we Slytherins don't tolerate her. She's not the kind of ally we like to associate with…" He trailed off.

Harry was sceptical. Draco scoffed, sensing Harry's disbelief, a hint of annoyance crossing his face.

"Recognising who holds power and not making an enemy of them is a good way not to end up… like you." He paused, casting a meaningful glance at Harry's battered form.

"Don't get me wrong, Potter. I'm not doing this because I care about you. But Umbridge is a problem for us too. Anyone willing to torture a student is out of control. And if she can do it to you, she can do it to anyone. That's not acceptable. As they say, Potter… the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Harry stared at him, stunned. He had no idea what to think. He was too confused to make any coherent sense of it.

"Now stop fussing and let me take you to someone who can do something about this… situation. I don't have all night, Potter." Draco said with disdain.

Harry, too exhausted to argue, allowed himself to be dragged along.

Anyone who had seen the unlikely pair walking through the corridors of Hogwarts wouldn't have believed their eyes.

There were people who would never have believed that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could stand in the same room without tearing each other apart.

And before that day, Harry had been one of those people.

He foolishly wondered what Ron would think. He probably wouldn't have believed it.

The walk was relatively short, with Harry mostly being dragged along and Draco bearing most of Harry's weight.

Harry focused on putting one foot in front of the other, not really seeing where he was going, his body screaming in pain, all he wanted was to sleep.

Then, suddenly, they stopped.

Harry looked up, and when he recognised where they were, it felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him.

He turned to Draco, breathless.

"You're mad, what are we doing here?" All of a sudden, he wished he'd paid more attention to where Malfoy was taking him.

He had thought of the infirmary, though he'd hoped it would be his dormitory, but the place Draco had brought him was somewhere he would never have willingly gone, not now, nor in a million years.

He stared at the dark wooden door, terror filling him as he tried to move away as fast as possible, but Draco wouldn't let him. He grabbed his arm once more and dragged him back.

"I don't think so, Potter," he said, interrupting Harry's awkward attempt to escape.

Before Harry could do anything, Draco knocked on the door.

"Enter," came the stern voice of Severus Snape from inside.

Harry closed his eyes. Hadn't he already said that life hated him? Yes, well, now he was certain.

Draco opened the door, still holding Harry's arm tightly, and Harry, honestly, wouldn't have been able to escape even if he had wanted to.

"Draco," came Snape's surprised voice, and Harry was taken aback by how different it sounded when it wasn't filled with hatred and anger, as it usually was when Harry was around.

"Is there a problem?" Snape sounded confused, not yet seeing Harry from where he stood, but he was getting closer.

"Professor," Draco greeted politely. "I think you'll want to see this." He said, then, without ceremony, pushed Harry into Snape's line of sight.

Harry stumbled, the push unsettling him, but he quickly recovered with effort and pain, shooting a glare at Draco, who looked at him with superiority.

Well, any semblance of humanity in Malfoy had just disappeared, as if he'd switched off a button and returned to playing the same old arrogant Slytherin prince.

There was a udibile jolt, and Harry lifted his gaze to see Severus Snape, visibly surprised, staring at his trembling form.

The shock passed so quickly across the professor's face that Harry almost thought he imagined it.

It was swiftly replaced by an anger and fury Harry thought he'd never seen in all his years at Hogwarts. He was slightly frightened by the look in Snape's eyes, but he did everything he could to hide it.

Then, all of a sudden, Snape turned towards his Slytherin student and, in a voice barely hiding his fury, said, "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. You may go now."

Harry felt a new wave of terror at the thought of being left alone with the man, who looked absolutely furious.

Malfoy seemed uncertain, casting a glance at Harry, then at Snape, as though he wanted to say something.

Then, as if his self-preservation instinct took over, he quietly exited the room.

For all those moments, until Draco Malfoy left, Snape's piercing, furious gaze was fixed on Harry.

Harry swallowed loudly, still tasting the coppery aftertaste of blood. He was certain that if he weren't shaking from the lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse, he would be trembling from sheer terror at the fury Snape was directing at him.

Chapter Text

The silence that followed Draco Malfoy's departure was thick with tension.

Harry was trembling, sporadic spasms shaking his body—he was terrified.

He was relieved that he hadn't moved from his desk; the space between him and the Potions Master offered him a shred of comfort, however slight.

Snape's gaze was full of pure fury, his features distorted by something dark and menacing.

Harry squirmed under the heavy silence, his wounded and exhausted body tense, the strain only worsening the pain in his already aching joints.

He had no intention of breaking this silence—not with a foolish joke, not with a defiant remark. His mouth was dry; he doubted he could have spoken even if he had wanted to.

Time seemed to stand still as Snape's cold, furious eyes stayed fixed on him, unblinking, as though watching a prey caught in a trap.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, moving more than once.

When he finally thought he was about to lose his mind, Snape spoke.

His voice was calm, but Harry could feel the danger in it, he would have preferred the man to shout. The words were steeped in a coldness that sent shivers down his spine.

"What happened this time, Potter?"

Harry was terrified. He cleared his throat several times, even though the motion brought him pain.

When he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded fearful, and he knew there was nothing he could do to change it. He was utterly terrified.

"Uhm… I don't feel very well." He paused, catching the full force of Snape's threatening glare.

Lie? Well, there was no way he would willingly tell the truth to this man, who had already witnessed one of the most pathetic moments of his life. So, he continued:

"I think I might've caught… some kind of flu."

Even to his own ears, it sounded like a pathetic excuse.

A dangerous glint appeared in Snape's eyes, and Harry instinctively took a step back.

Snape slammed his hand furiously on the large wooden desk, making Harry jump.

In two strides, he was in Harry's space, and even the faint relief of distance disappeared.

"Are you truly this utterly stupid, Potter?" he spat his name like an insult, "Or do you think I'm one of the dim-witted sycophants in your fan club, hanging on your every word as if it were sacred truth?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, but suddenly it shifted, losing all traces of derision.

The voice became a whisper, cold and deadly, and Harry wished more than ever that he had never opened his mouth.

"Unlike your little fan club, I am neither stupid nor ignorant. Do you think I can't recognise the effects of a Dark Curse? An Unforgivable, no less." His gaze swept over Harry's trembling frame, inspecting him more closely. "The Cruciatus Curse. And cast more than once."

Snape looked at him with something Harry couldn't quite identify. It wasn't concern—it was more like unease.

He stepped closer, grabbing Harry roughly by the shoulders.

"How many times was it cast, Potter?"

Harry was stunned. He hadn't thought Snape would get to the truth so quickly and without him even opening his mouth.

The humiliation of the situation hit him, drowning out his fear and replacing it with something else.

He felt weak—incapable of defending himself in the Muggle world, incapable of defending himself in the magical one.

He filled his voice with the arrogance and bravado he knew Snape hated.

He refused to show weakness to this man or to anyone else ever again.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Snape," he said, pausing to muster the courage to continue, "but I suggest you keep your abnormally large nose out of my business."

The silence that followed his blatant insult was charged with tension, but Harry didn't regret saying it. He needed to appear strong, to be provocative.

Snape moved like a storm. Before Harry could even register it, he was backed up against the cold stone wall.

Snape didn't touch him, but his looming presence blocked him in, leaving him trapped in an uncomfortable position.

A bitter laugh escaped the Potions Master's lips.

"You think I can't see through your pathetic little act, Potter?" Snape hissed, his dark eyes boring into Harry's. "The great Harry Potter—so weak, so frightened."

He paused, his voice dripping with scorn. "Drop the act and tell me what I want to know, or shall we repeat what happened the last time?"

Harry froze. He knew exactly what Snape meant: Legilimency.

When Snape raised his wand, pure terror coursed through Harry's body. There was no way—no way—he could relive the torment he'd just endured. No. No, and a hundred times no.

He raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"Alright, alright, Snape. You win. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

But Snape didn't lower his wand. Harry's eyes widened, staring at the man in shock.

Was Snape going to proceed with the threat anyway, no matter what Harry told him? Or was he simply relishing the fear Harry knew was written all over his face?

In truth, Snape looked terrifying enough to make any other student run screaming, and would probably reduce a first-year to tears on the spot.

Snape stayed exactly where he was, watching him with an unyielding glare. If Harry had to guess, he was enjoying the power he held over him at that moment.

He was probably enjoying it immensely—the ability to strike fear into the son of James Potter, to have him trembling at the end of his wand.

And Harry was sick of it. Why did every adult he encountered seem determined to make it their personal mission to intimidate him?

First his uncle, who relied on brute force to terrorise him; then Umbridge, with her blood quills and Unforgivable Curses; and now Snape, who wielded his menacing presence and invasive mental spells like weapons.

He'd had enough. Enough of all of them. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself. He felt hollow, drained, resigned to enduring yet another injustice.

He stood there, trembling and aching, resigned to the fact that Snape was about to forcefully extract his memories.

Then, all of a sudden, Snape's stance shifted. He lowered his wand, something inscrutable flickering in his eyes.

"Very well, Potter. But don't think me naive enough not to see through your lies," he said, his voice turning more menacing. "However, be warned—if you fail to answer my questions fully and to my satisfaction, I will be compelled to use more… effective measures."

Harry's mouth went dry. He understood the threat. After all, Snape was a Potions Master—it wasn't difficult to grasp what he meant.

"Veritaserum…" Harry said in a frightened tone.

The thought of being forced to divulge every single detail against his will terrified him. Not just the details of his punishment, but everything else, too.

No, if Harry had any choice, he would never voluntarily agree to that.

For a moment, surprise flitted across Snape's face, quickly replaced by his usual derisive sneer. A cold smile curved his lips.

"Yes, Potter. Just a few drops, and you wouldn't be able to withhold even the most insignificant of your secrets. If you continue to play games with me, I will use it."

That was incentive enough for Harry. Snape already knew what had happened to him; Harry had no intention of baring his soul with the potion for information that had already been uncovered. And he certainly wasn't about to risk blurting out his deepest secrets because of Umbridge.

Harry suspected it was a bluff. Veritaserum was illegal, especially on minors. While the potion itself wasn't outlawed, its use was strictly controlled by the Ministry, and Snape wouldn't risk it.

But he didn't call Snape's bluff aloud. He wasn't entirely sure, after all. Legilimency, too, wasn't entirely legal if misused, and Snape had no qualms about employing that against him.

So, while Harry was fairly confident Snape wouldn't use Veritaserum, he wasn't confident enough to challenge him. Not tonight. Snape was unpredictable, especially where Harry was concerned. And tonight, Harry was too exhausted to push his luck. He just wanted it to be over.

So, in the end, he gave a weary nod of agreement.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Snape loomed over him, and the silence only heightened the tension in the room.

Snape's cold gaze lingered on him for another moment before he stepped back. Harry exhaled shakily, realising only then that he had been holding his breath.

He watched as Snape strode toward his desk and gestured curtly for him to follow.

Harry hesitated, glancing longingly at the door. He knew he wouldn't get far before Snape stopped him.

So, like a man walking to his execution, Harry made his way slowly and deliberately toward the chair Snape indicated.

The tremors in his hands hadn't subsided, nor had the pain coursing through his body. He wondered if it would ease soon or if he'd need to brew a potion to alleviate it.

He knew for certain that his mother's old potions journal contained what he needed: a pain relief draught and a nerve-repairing tonic.

Harry was aware of the serious effects of the Cruciatus Curse—the nerve damage inflicted by that woman was severe, and if left untreated, it could lead to lasting complications.

But brewing the potions would be a challenge in his current state. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and the precision required for volatile ingredients made the task daunting. The potions themselves were complex and unforgiving.

He considered the logistics. He could use the Room of Requirement; he'd brewed there before. Hermione might help, though she'd likely lose her mind when she found out why he needed them.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the hand waving in front of his face. He flinched and looked up.

Snape was holding out several vials, which Harry recognised instantly. He stared at his professor in surprise, but Snape's expression gave nothing away.

Harry accepted the vials, relieved that he wouldn't have to find a way to brew the potions himself. He looked at them, summoning the courage to thank Snape. After all, the man wasn't obligated to help him, and the ingredients were costly.

Just as Harry was about to express his gratitude, Snape interrupted,misreading his silence .

"Don't be a fool, Potter. If I'd wanted to poison you, you'd already be dead. Now stop dithering like an idiot and take the potions before I make you."

Snape's voice was glacial.

The moment for thanks passed. Harry downed the potions without sparing Snape another glance, grateful for the immediate relief from his pain.

"So, Potter," Snape began, his tone unforgiving, "how many times was the curse cast?" His piercing gaze made it clear there would be no room for lies.

"I… I really don't know," Harry admitted, shame colouring his voice. "I lost count after a while—it just made it worse."

He couldn't tell what effect his words had on Snape, as the man's expression remained stony.

"Who?" Snape asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Who, Potter?"

Harry lowered his gaze, taking a deep breath. It was time to say it.

"Umbridge."

The silence that followed was broken by a quiet curse. Harry didn't catch the words, but the look of fury on Snape's face was unmistakable.

"Tell me, Potter, haven't you been warned about that woman?" Snape's cold voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Seeing Harry's surprised look, Snape continued, "Oh yes, Potter. I know McGonagall warned you not to provoke her." He paused, his lip curling. "But no, of course not. The famous Chosen One can't keep his mouth shut. Always seeking attention."

Harry's anger flared. How dare Snape imply it was his fault? He opened his mouth to protest, but Snape pressed on.

"Arrogant, spoiled Gryffindor, just like your father. You can't even hold your tongue when it's clear that speaking will do you no good."

"You don't know anything, Snape!" Harry shouted, furious. "She wasn't going to teach us anything! Someone had to—"

"And naturally, the Golden Boy took it upon himself to save the day. How noble," Snape sneered.

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Was it his fault now?

"You know what? This is ridiculous!" Harry exploded. "I didn't ask to be tortured by that woman! I didn't ask to be the Chosen One! And I certainly didn't ask to be dragged here so you could blame me for the hundredth time!"

Shaking with anger and exhaustion, Harry pushed himself to his feet, intending to leave.

"Oh no, Potter. I don't think so." With a flick of his wand, Snape sealed the door.

Harry stood frozen in the middle of the office, staring at the heavy oak door in front of him. He felt a deep exhaustion, teetering on the edge of his limits. He wanted to scream, cry, or lash out, but all he could do was stand there, motionless, watching his last chance of escape vanish.

Unaware of Harry's turmoil, Snape continued, his voice icy.

"This isn't just about you, Potter. Contrary to your belief, the world doesn't revolve around you." He paused, and Harry turned, unable to keep his back to the furious man. "As much as you personally disgust me, that woman has gone too far. I cannot, as a teacher of this school, ignore such a disgraceful act. Especially as there is a chance that her punishments will escalate or extend to other students."

Harry hadn't considered that. He'd naively thought she would only target him. But remembering the look of pleasure she'd taken in torturing him made him doubt that assumption.

"However," Snape continued, "given the delicate situation we find ourselves in, and the power that woman currently wields, I'll need to consult the headmaster and the other staff. In the meantime, it is imperative that you do nothing else to provoke her. Am I clear, Potter?"

Snape's voice was dangerously low. Harry hesitated, debating whether to inform him about his upcoming detention with Umbridge.

Snape must have seen it in his expression, because he sneered.

"Typical of you, Potter. I couldn't have expected anything less from the illustrious son of James Potter," Snape sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "No sense of self-preservation whatsoever—how utterly Gryffindor of you."

Harry opened his mouth, indignant, but Snape silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Do not speak, Potter. I assure you, there is no need."

As if coming to a sudden decision, Snape seized Harry's arm in an iron grip and marched him towards the fireplace.

"The infirmary. Now," Snape snapped, before shoving Harry unceremoniously into the green flames.

Caught off guard, Harry barely managed to keep himself from falling flat on his face as he stumbled out of the Floo, his body still trembling and aching from the ordeal.

Snape emerged moments later, entirely unruffled, his robes pristine, and with a smooth grace that made Harry's every awkward movement feel even more humiliating.

Harry shot Snape a furious glare, which the professor ignored with infuriating ease.

The infirmary was quiet, no sign of Madam Pomfrey.

"Poppy," Snape called, his tone sharp and imperious.

Harry hated the infirmary. Over the years, he had spent far too much time there for his liking. Ron had even joked in their fourth year by sticking a sign on Harry's usual bed, declaring it his personal property.

Madam Pomfrey didn't take long to arrive, looking surprisingly alert despite the late hour—a clear sign that she was no stranger to emergencies.

She examined the two figures now in the middle of her infirmary, and her gaze lingered on Harry, as if assessing him for possible injuries.

Harry blushed under her scrutiny, embarrassed by the fact that she didn't seem remotely surprised that he was the one who'd gotten hurt.

Snape brought attention to himself. "Poppy, if I may have a word…" He moved towards the woman and passed her, who followed him, giving Harry a brief nod.

Spending so much time in the infirmary had earned him Madame Pomfrey's favour. During his stays, she would sometimes chat with him or keep him company when she had nothing else to do.

He moved closer to try and hear what they were discussing; after all, it was about him, he thought angrily.

He could see them but couldn't make out their words—Snape had cast a spell to prevent him from eavesdropping. The man was truly infuriating.

Though he couldn't understand the conversation, Harry could tell from their body language and lip-reading that Madame Pomfrey was not happy.

He watched with interest, trying to pick up any hint of information, and quickly moved when he saw Snape glance in his direction.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

"Spying , Potter?"

"No, I wasn't—"

"Spare me your excuses, Potter. It's late, and I have matters to attend to.

Madame Pomfrey will take care of you. Your situation is quite delicate and requires the utmost discretion. This won't be a normal stay; I'll find a solution for the mess your stupidity has created."

Without waiting for a response, Snape swept out of the infirmary with a flick of his robes.

Madame Pomfrey was furious, though it wasn't obvious—only someone who knew where to look could see it.

Her lips were pressed tight, her shoulders tense, and unlike usual, she didn't try to ease Harry's discomfort by talking to him while examining him. Instead, she muttered under her breath, phrases like, "I can't believe that woman…" or "Impossible, I can't believe someone would tell me what to do in my infirmary."

They were whispered so softly that if Harry hadn't been paying close attention, he wouldn't have caught them.

He was surprised when she handed him a set of potions, instructing him to come to the infirmary every day until the following week.

He had expected the usual stay, with Madame Pomfrey scolding him and insisting that he wouldn't leave until she was satisfied with his progress, but this was different.

Looking into her eyes, Harry could see that this situation disturbed her deeply. Not being able to provide the right care for a patient was clearly tormenting her.

He understood even more clearly now how delicate the situation at Hogwarts was, with the Ministry having taken root so deeply in the castle that every action had to be taken with utmost caution. His friends had updated him on the worsening conditions within the walls of Hogwarts, but he never thought that the strong and stern Madame Pomfrey would ever be controlled by authority of the Ministry.

Dolores Umbridge had infected every part of the castle like a disease, starting quietly and subtly, then revealing her true intentions when it was already too late.

By morning, Umbridge would know if Harry had been admitted, and that would complicate things further, especially since she acted with the Ministry's authority. She could punish Harry simply for sharing details about his punishments or even dismiss Madame Pomfrey for standing up to the Ministry.

These were dark times at Hogwarts, Harry thought as he left, glancing back at Madame Pomfrey. She was turned away, clearly troubled, and Harry felt sorry for her.

He knew how much she loved caring for her patients; it was her life's calling.

It was a struggle to return to the tower, having to stop several times, and when he finally reached his bed, it didn't take long for his exhausted, aching body to fall into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

He was abruptly awakened by the sound of voices; someone nearby was shouting.

His mind, still groggy from sleep, took a moment to fully grasp the words being spoken – they were angry words.

"You can't seriously think we want him to stay here after what he's done."

He recognised Seamus's voice.

"For once, why don't you stop being an idiot, Seamus? Harry isn't guilty, and it's been proven. So why don't you stop spouting rubbish?"

"Of course you'd defend him. You never see anything he does wrong! Maybe it's time you opened your eyes – or you might end up like Cedric," Seamus spat, his voice acidic and full of rage.

Harry heard a commotion at this, and knowing Ron, he guessed someone had to hold him back from physically attacking their dorm mate.

"No, Ron, calm down," came Neville's unmistakable voice, trying, and failing, to soothe the red-haired Gryffindor.

Then, unexpectedly, Neville spoke in a tone very different from his usual mild and gentle one. "You know, Seamus, maybe you're the one who needs to open his eyes. In case you haven't noticed, you're the only one who thinks this way around here."

Harry was astonished by Neville.

He remembered the shy, insecure boy, but lately, Neville had begun expressing his opinions more often without worrying about the consequences. They weren't best friends, but recently Neville had shown such loyalty that Harry regretted not getting to know him better sooner.

Harry decided it was time to reveal he was awake. He wasn't afraid of facing people who hated him; he'd been doing that his whole life, and it wasn't about to change now.

The curtains of his four-poster bed were closed, so there was no way for them to know he was awake. He pulled them open, and the room fell silent when they saw him standing. Seamus glared at him angrily, showing no shame for being caught.

Harry greeted Neville and Ron with a look of gratitude. He knew he must look terrible – the tremors were still obvious, and his whole body ached with fatigue and dull pain. He hadn't missed the concerned expressions on his friends' faces, but he ignored them and quickly made his way to the bathroom.

The face staring back at him in the mirror was a disaster – dark circles under his eyes, a sickly complexion, and an overall unhealthy look. Harry didn't think much of himself at the best of times, but today he was certain he wouldn't impress anyone with this appearance. He looked like death warmed over.

Walking through the corridors had only confirmed it. Everyone stared at him and avoided him as though he were contagious. He moved slowly, with Hermione and Ron by his side.

They had tried talking to him throughout the walk, but Harry had said very little. He felt drained and exhausted, as if the night's sleep hadn't been enough for his body.

He now understood why prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse required recovery time. His body didn't feel properly rested, even after sleeping. His muscles were tense, and painful spasms coursed through him every few moments. He was truly unwell.

He didn't even feel guilty about mostly ignoring Hermione, who had been fretting over him since she saw him come down to the common room. She had repeatedly asked how he was feeling and scolded him for not staying in bed, but all he could manage were half-hearted replies and grunts. Even speaking felt like a monumental effort.

Harry could tell from the not-so-subtle glances Ron and Hermione exchanged that they were worried, but he couldn't do anything about it. He was focusing all his energy on just getting through the day; anything more felt impossible in his current state.

The potions helped, but they weren't miraculous. His body was going through trauma, and he knew recovery would be slow. At least the thick robes helped conceal the constant trembling.

He was relieved that Hermione hadn't connected his symptoms to the truth of what had happened. It hadn't even crossed her mind that he might have been tortured. She'd believed his mumbled excuse about having the flu, though he could see a flicker of suspicion in her eyes.

He didn't want to burden his friends with the truth about what the woman in pink had done to him, especially since he didn't think he'd be able to stop Ron this time. They would only get into unnecessary trouble.

He'd handle it – he always did, somehow.

Breakfast had been quiet. His friends kept glancing at him from time to time. Ron had tried to involve him in a conversation about Quidditch with Ginny but, seeing Harry's lack of interest, eventually gave up.

He had no appetite. Just looking at the porridge Hermione had insistently placed in front of him made his stomach turn. He didn't think he could eat anything right now. All he wanted was to return to bed and sleep forever.

The thought of staying in bed had occurred to him, but the idea of giving that woman the satisfaction had given him the strength to get up.

Now, as he sat at the Gryffindor table, he could feel her eyes on him from the staff table. She wasn't the only one watching him – Snape was staring at him too, with an intense, penetrating look.

Harry quickly averted his gaze, suddenly finding his plate very interesting. He felt ashamed that the man had seen him at his worst, not once but twice in just two days.

He sat there, hands hidden to conceal their trembling, just waiting for the moment he could leave. His mind was lost in a fog of exhaustion and pain. He couldn't concentrate on anything; the conversations around him were just a meaningless hum in the background.

Because of this, he didn't notice the owl that had flown to him and was now perched on the table, trying to get his attention. Not until a hand shook him abruptly, sending pain flaring through him as though his nerve endings were on fire. He barely managed to suppress a groan.

He turned to see Ron, his friend looking visibly worried. Harry could see Ron's lips moving, but through the haze of pain, he couldn't make out the words.

He forced himself to focus and eventually caught what Ron was saying.

"Hey, mate, are you alright?"

It wasn't just Ron who looked concerned. Looking around, Harry saw that all the Gryffindors within earshot were watching – some with worry, others with curiosity.

He tried to compose himself quickly, adjusting his expression to something neutral.

"Yeah, Ron… uh, I'm fine… sorry, what were you saying?"

Ron didn't seem convinced, his eyes filled with concern. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it when he noticed the audience they now had.

Instead, he gestured sharply towards the owl, which was now ruffling its feathers in irritation at being ignored for so long.

Harry looked at it in surprise and hesitantly took the envelope it was offering.

All eyes were on him now. Ron and Hermione seemed curious about who the mysterious sender might be. Harry shrugged to show he was just as clueless as they were.

There was no way – absolutely no way – he could open the letter in front of everyone with his hands trembling so badly. It wouldn't go unnoticed with all the attention he currently had.

So, he got up, mumbling a vague excuse, and headed for the doors of the Great Hall, telling Ron and Hermione he'd see them in class.

He walked slowly until he found a secluded alcove in the castle, his mind racing as he wondered who the letter could be from.

Perhaps Sirius? A flicker of hope ignited in his heart – maybe Sirius hadn't forgotten about him after all.

He turned the envelope over in his hands; it was anonymous, with no writing or identifying marks. Carefully, he opened it, his trembling hands making the task difficult. The constant shaking caused the letter to slip from his grasp several times.

Once opened, he found a piece of parchment inside. The neat handwriting, unfamiliar to Harry, brought a pang of disappointment—it wasn't from his godfather.

'Potter,

The Headmaster has a plan. Sit in the front row and don't ruin it with your idiocy. And for the occasion, ditch your fan club.'

It wasn't signed, but as he read it, the author became clear. The handwriting was unmistakable now—it was Snape's. Years of snide comments scrawled in the margins of his Potions essays had made it all too recognisable.

The thought stung. That man probably wrote insults on his essays without even reading them. Once Harry realised this, he'd lost interest in putting effort into writing them. He preferred studying and taking notes that wouldn't be ridiculed simply because he'd written them.

This was why he kept a private Potions notebook, which he guarded carefully—not quite as much as his mother's, but enough to store it in the tin box with his most prized possessions.

The note was cryptic. Why was he supposed to sit in the front row? In all his years at Hogwarts, he'd never voluntarily sat at the front in Snape's class.

Walking to his first lesson of the day—Potions—he felt a mix of anxiety and anticipation. He spent the entire walk trying to decipher the note. Dumbledore had a plan? What kind of plan?

It frustrated him to once again have so little information. And why wasn't he allowed to sit near Hermione or Ron? Was he supposed to trust Snape's words?

Well, if it was Dumbledore's plan, he had to trust it.

But even that thought lacked the certainty and faith it once would have carried. Lately, the Headmaster had let him down too many times. Not enough to completely turn his back on him, but enough to tread cautiously. Enough to stop blindly trusting him like he once had.

Life had taught Harry the hard way that adults were far from reliable.

Still, for today, he would follow this part of the plan. What harm could come from simply sitting at the front?

Well, apart from the joy of having the dungeon bat looming over him for the entire lesson.

Fantastic. Truly fantastic.

He sighed in frustration and realised, before he knew it, he was standing outside the Potions classroom. He was grateful that this new puzzle had managed to distract him from the pain coursing through him.

Outside the classroom, many students had already gathered. He spotted Ron and Hermione and was about to warn them of the change of plans when Snape swept in with a dramatic swirl of his robes.

Snape barked out an order for them to enter. Harry could only exchange a brief glance with his friends before he went to sit in the designated seat.

He stole a quick look back at them and saw their expressions of utter surprise. Ron's face was a picture of bewilderment, staring at Harry as though he'd grown another head.

Hermione, on the other hand, was studying him with her puzzle face, the one she wore when solving something particularly tricky. Then, as if making a decision, she took the seat directly behind Harry's.

Harry's seat was a single workstation, and he wondered idly if Snape had rearranged the classroom just for this 'plan.'

Ron remained standing, torn between joining his friends in the madness of sitting at the front in Snape's class or obeying his survival instincts and hiding as far away as possible.

Hermione was giving him a pointed look, subtly gesturing to the seat beside her. Ron hesitated even more.

"Having trouble finding your seat, Weasley?"

Snape's voice cut through the room, low and venomous. His lips curled into a sneer, and with derisive emphasis, he continued, "I wouldn't have thought even the simple act of sitting would prove such a challenge for your brain."

He paused, letting the insult linger, before adding, "I suppose I was expecting too much from a Weasley."

The Slytherins snickered; some even laughed outright. Ron's face flushed a deep shade of red as he quickly slid into the seat next to Hermione, muttering under his breath—though likely insults.

"Five points from Gryffindor for disrupting my lesson," Snape said coolly before turning on his heel and flicking his wand. Instructions for the day's potion appeared on the blackboard.

Harry's brow furrowed. The potion wasn't part of the fifth-year curriculum. It was advanced—complex, requiring meticulous care with the ingredients.

He glanced back and saw Hermione's face clouded with confusion.

The other students flipped through their textbooks, but Harry didn't bother. He knew the recipe wouldn't be there. He was certain this potion wasn't standard material for their year.

"Today, you will have the privilege of attempting the Draught of Living Death," Snape announced. His voice dripped with disdain. "With your OWLs fast approaching, I thought it appropriate to test your… competence. Although, judging by the consistently abysmal results from most of you, I wonder why I bother wasting my time."

He fixed a particularly scathing look on Neville before letting his cold, disdainful gaze fall on Harry.

Harry met Snape's glare head-on, trying to infuse his own expression with as much defiance as possible. He'd prove that man wrong.

"For today," Snape continued, "the ingredients have been prearranged on your workstations. One can only imagine the catastrophe that would arise if I left you to gather them yourselves—some blundering fool would undoubtedly select the most toxic combination possible, and I, of course, would be tasked with scraping what's left of you off the dungeon floor."

He paused to let the words sink in, surveying the room with a sharp, critical eye.

"What are you waiting for?" With another flick of his wand, the ingredients appeared on their desks.

Harry examined the ingredients on his workstation, mentally cataloguing them. He squinted at the instructions on the board; Snape's narrow, elongated handwriting made them hard to read.

He had brewed this potion before. His mother's diary contained tips for perfecting it, and he had already mastered this particular concoction. However, making it in his current condition would be a challenge; the hands he had pulled from under his robes were trembling uncontrollably.

Fortunately, sitting at the front had one advantage—his position partially concealed the tremors. His body shielded his hands from view, and he hoped the potion's complexity would distract his classmates from noticing.

Indeed, most of his peers were staring at their textbooks with varying degrees of horror. The Draught of Living Death demanded such intense focus that even a moment's lapse could ruin the potion—or worse, cause it to explode.

Of course, this position didn't hide his condition from Snape, but then, Snape already knew. Looking up, Harry caught the professor watching him—or, more specifically, watching his hands—with a flicker of anger in his dark eyes.

Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but before he could dwell on it further, Snape's expression shifted into one of thinly veiled disgust. Harry held the professor's gaze, trying to discern anything about the "plan" in motion, but those obsidian eyes gave away nothing.

He looked away. If he couldn't glean any answers, he'd focus his energy on brewing the potion. Sitting in the front row, with his friends behind him, he could only hope no Slytherin would try to sabotage his work.

Perhaps, for once, he might even impress Snape. The thought almost made him laugh. How ridiculous and far-fetched that idea seemed.

Still, the idea of silencing the greasy-haired git, even for a moment, had its appeal.

He chopped and diced the ingredients meticulously, though not without difficulty. Twice, he nearly cut his fingers due to sudden spasms in his hands.

He could feel the Potions Master's eyes on him repeatedly. He tried to ignore it, but the persistent sense of being watched unsettled him.

He worked relentlessly, determined to prevent his trembling hands from ruining the potion. He took extra care when adding ingredients to the cauldron, terrified that the constant shaking might cause him to spill something.

It wasn't an ideal situation, he realised, but he was reasonably satisfied with his progress so far.

His body protested from being hunched over the cauldron for so long; cold sweat dripped from his forehead, and chills ran through him. He genuinely wondered if this last ordeal would make him ill.

Checking the potion multiple times, he felt reassured by its colour—it matched what it should be. For the moment, at least, he could afford a brief pause.

He stole a quick glance at Hermione and noticed her struggling. Across the room, Ron looked visibly alarmed, staring at his cauldron with something akin to horror.

Curious, Harry leaned slightly to get a better view of what had caused such a reaction. Ron's potion had turned a peculiar greenish colour and was emitting strange noises.

Bubbles began to form, and Hermione noticed them too.

"Ron… move back!"

Before the potion could explode or spill over, Snape swept in with his signature billow of robes, his expression cold and severe.

"Evanesco," he said sharply, vanishing Ron's potion with a flick of his wand. Ron stood there awkwardly, his ears turning scarlet.

"Really, Weasley, it's hardly surprising. A truly pathetic performance, as always. Clean up this mess," Snape sneered.

Ron's ears burned redder still, his embarrassment evident.

"Oh, and I nearly forgot," Snape added, a cruel smile curling on his lips. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for your complete display of incompetence."

Snape turned and resumed prowling around the classroom, his dark robes sweeping menacingly behind him.

Harry shot his friend a sympathetic look; he knew all too well what it felt like to be humiliated by the Potions Master.

He quickly returned to his own work before Snape could find an excuse to deduct points from him too. Stirring the potion with his ladle, he prepared to add the final ingredient: valerian root.

Lowering his gaze to his ingredients, Harry noticed something odd. The valerian root was wrong—or, rather, it would seem correct to an untrained eye.

But Harry had learned to spot the subtle difference between valerian and wolfsbane. The two looked almost identical, but while valerian would create the Draught of Living Death, wolfsbane would ruin the potion entirely.

Was this a mistake? He glanced at Hermione's workstation and saw she had the correct ingredient.

Turning his attention back to his potion, Harry debated what to do. This couldn't be an accident—he hadn't selected the ingredients himself; they had been provided.

Looking up, he saw Snape busy berating Neville, his back turned to the rest of the class.

Harry wasn't sure what to do, but one thing was clear: Snape had given him the wrong ingredient.

But why?

It couldn't simply be because the man hated him. For all his cruelty, Snape would never endanger his own classroom intentionally.

It wasn't to make him fail, either—Snape already considered him a failure and treated his grades as average no matter what Harry handed in.

So what was the reason? Could this be part of the plan?

Harry didn't know, but one thing was certain—he would not knowingly sabotage his own potion. Taking advantage of Snape's distraction with Neville, Harry turned to Hermione for help.

"Hermione," Harry whispered as quietly as he could, knowing all too well about Snape's bat-like hearing.

It took a moment to catch the attention of the bushy-haired girl, who wasn't at a critical stage of her potion but seemed deeply engrossed in the textbook instructions.

"Oh, Harry… do you need something?" she asked, as ever ready to help.

"I could use a bit of your valerian root," he said, holding up the aconite in his hand.

Hermione frowned in confusion.

"Why would you have…" she began aloud, but then stopped herself, throwing a glance in Snape's direction.

Without another word, she handed him the correct ingredient. Harry gave her a grateful smile.

Now that he had the valerian root, he could finish the potion. He smiled in satisfaction as the potion turned the desired dark colour.

Pleased with himself, he glanced around the classroom to see how his classmates were faring. When he looked over at his friends, he saw Hermione busy with her cauldron. One glance was all it took for Harry to realise her potion wasn't right—it was far too thick and the colour was completely off.

Hermione looked up, her expression clearly one of defeat.

Harry knew she took every failure too hard. She was brilliant, excelling in everything she set her mind to, but she never forgave herself when she made a mistake. She was the most intelligent and talented witch he knew, but she was far too harsh on herself.

Hermione caught his gaze and quickly masked her disappointment. She was about to speak when her eyes fell on his cauldron.

"Wow, Harry, it's perfect!" she exclaimed, clearly pleased for him and showing no resentment at being outdone.

They often studied potions together, and Hermione frequently asked for his advice. Many times, they worked on improving their skills by brewing potions in the Room of Requirement.

She gave him a pleading look, one he immediately recognised as a request to help her recreate the potion later. He nodded silently, and she seemed comforted by the promise, even though a shadow of self-reproach lingered in her eyes.

Harry turned his attention back to the room. No one else seemed to have successfully brewed the Draught of Living Death. A swell of pride filled his chest, and he couldn't suppress the small, spontaneous smile that came with it. He had done it—something no one else had managed.

Snape had begun his inspection of the potions, starting from the opposite end of the classroom. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the thought that Snape had done this intentionally, saving his 'grand finale'—which, in Snape's mind, would mean his most cutting humiliation—for last.

He waited anxiously, staring at his trembling hands. They hadn't stopped shaking and, now that the distraction of the potion was over, he was paranoid someone might notice. He tucked them back into his robes, feeling exposed.

Snape was systematically tearing down one Gryffindor after another, while turning a blind eye to the disasters brewing at the Slytherin benches.

When he reached Hermione, Harry saw her stiffen. Failure was rare for her, and it was clear Snape wouldn't hold back. A malicious smile appeared on his face as he peered into her cauldron.

"Well, well, Miss Granger. We've finally reached the point of exposing your mediocrity. I had expected something… minimally competent. And what do we have here?" Snape's tone was poisonous. "A complete failure. The result of an ego that outpaces ability. Truly disappointing."

Hermione went pale, visibly shaken by his words. Harry clenched his jaw to keep himself from shouting something unspeakable at the greasy git.

This was a sixth-year potion, and almost no one had managed to brew it correctly. He doubted Hermione's was the worst in the room. What right did Snape have to humiliate her like this?

Harry saw Ron, red-faced with fury, starting to rise from his seat, hands trembling.

"Something to say, Weasley?" Snape sneered, his lips curling as if daring Ron to speak.

Hermione, trying to protect him from punishment or the loss of house points, kicked him under the table—or at least that's what Harry assumed, given Ron's pained expression.

Ron sat down, muttering sullenly, "No, sir," though his tone betrayed his anger.

Snape gave one last cruelly amused glance at Hermione before turning to the final cauldron—Harry's.

Harry saw the exact moment Snape realised he had brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death.

The expression on Snape's face was priceless. Harry almost wished he had a camera to capture the moment.

It wasn't overly dramatic, but the slight widening of Snape's eyes and the faint parting of his lips spoke volumes.

Harry couldn't suppress a smug grin as satisfaction washed over him. Snape, however, remained silent, which only made the moment more delicious.

Snape approached the cauldron, though it was clear from his expression he already knew it was flawless. His face twisted as though he'd bitten into a lemon.

Picking up the ladle, Snape leaned in as if to examine the potion more closely. But Harry caught the subtle flick of his hand.

He froze in disbelief. Snape had just sabotaged his potion. The man had deliberately poured something into his cauldron, ruining his work.

No one else seemed to notice. His own body had blocked the view of the rest of the class.

Harry stared at the changing colour of his potion, watching it shift from the correct dark hue to a disgusting brown sludge.

He looked up at Snape, too stunned to speak.

Snape, however, wasted no time. His derisive smirk returned in full force.

"Well, Potter, I must say I expected no better from you. A complete failure. Aren't you ashamed? Oh, no, of course not—the great Harry Potter struts about, basking in undeserved glory, despite being utterly mediocre."

Laughter rippled through the classroom, and Harry winced as he realised some of it came from his fellow Gryffindors.

Snape wasn't finished, his tone dripping with malice.

"I wonder what your father would think of you. Perhaps it's for the best he's not here. Imagine seeing his son so weak, so devoid of talent. Imagine the disappointment. But then again, James Potter was an imbecile, so perhaps it's in your blood."

Harry's anger boiled in his veins. He struggled to keep his composure, but the humiliation and injustice threatened to overwhelm him.

"Even that pathetic man would have managed to defend himself from—"

A wave of icy terror swept over Harry. He felt as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him.

He couldn't let Snape finish. The man was on the verge of exposing the truth about the Dursleys or Umbridge.

"Shut up! Shut up, Snape!" he shouted impulsively.

He heard Hermione gasp, and Ron muttered a barely veiled curse under his breath.

The silence that followed his outburst was deafening. Harry's breathing was ragged, panic coiling tightly in his chest. Snape's smile turned predatory, and his cold, biting voice cut through the tension.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention for the rest of the year, Potter."

Harry stared at him, utterly stunned by the turn of events. He could barely process the words before Snape's sneer deepened. With one last look of disdain, the Potions Master turned to the rest of the class.

"Lesson dismissed. Get out."

The class erupted into a flurry of movement as students scrambled to collect their belongings and escape the looming storm. Even the Slytherins seemed eager to disappear. Harry's hands shook as he fumbled to pack his books into his bag, desperate to leave the dungeon as quickly as possible. But, of course, Snape had other plans.

"Not you, Potter. Stay behind."

A heavy sigh of resignation escaped Harry's lips. He glanced at his friends, hoping for some sort of intervention. Hermione's lips were pressed tightly together, clearly torn between saying something and holding back, while Ron looked as though he was about to hurl his bag straight at Snape's head.

The last of the students filed out, but not before throwing curious glances over their shoulders, eager to catch a glimpse of what was sure to be a brutal dressing-down. Only Hermione and Ron lingered, visibly unsure whether to stay and support their friend or leave him to face Snape alone.

"Weasley, Granger," Snape's voice was low but laced with unmistakable menace, "if I find either of you still here in the next three seconds, Gryffindor will lose one hundred points each. And trust me, that won't be the extent of your punishment."

That was incentive enough. Still, Harry could see the hesitation in their eyes, and he gave them a pointed look, silently urging them to go. Reluctantly, Hermione grabbed Ron by the arm and pulled him away.

Now he was alone. Alone with a furious Snape. Harry suppressed a shiver as the realisation settled over him like a lead weight.

Snape wasted no time, storming towards him with dark intent in his eyes. "Potter, I expect you in my office tonight at eight o'clock. And I suggest you do not be late. You will regret it if you are."

The words were sharp and final, but Harry's indignation surged, momentarily eclipsing his fear. "You were the one—you ruined—"

Snape was on him in an instant, grabbing the collar of his robes and cutting him off mid-sentence. "I would strongly advise you not to finish that thought," he hissed, his voice low and menacing.

Harry's discomfort spiked as Snape leaned in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "After all, one never knows who might be listening."

The sinister tone sent an icy jolt of fear through Harry's veins, but beneath the terror, confusion bloomed. What did Snape mean? Harry's eyes searched Snape's face for any clue, but his expression had already shifted back to impassive coldness.

Was this the plan all along? What exactly was the meaning behind the Potion Master's cryptic words?

Lost in thought, Harry almost missed the man's next command.

"Now, Potter, get out of my sight."

Harry cast one last glance at Snape, who had already turned away, and hurried out of the classroom as fast as his legs could carry him. The corridor outside was empty, and he wasted no time distancing himself from the dungeons as much as possible.

Herbology that day had been a quick affair. Arriving late to class meant he hadn't had the chance to speak to his friends, which seemed to greatly annoy Hermione. It was a relatively short lesson, though Harry, still preoccupied with the mystery surrounding Snape's supposed plan, hardly noticed when it ended.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way to the Great Hall, with Hermione fuming all the while. She was ranting about Snape, completely indignant on Harry's behalf.

Harry was surprised by her reaction, though he supposed he shouldn't have been. Hermione's love for academics was no secret, and the sabotage of a perfect potion—by a teacher, no less—must have felt like a personal affront to her.

As they entered the Great Hall, Hermione was still going on, but Harry noticed that news of his run-in with Snape, as well as his detentions for the rest of the year, had already spread. For not the first time, Harry marvelled at how quickly gossip travelled at Hogwarts.

Everyone seemed to be staring at him. He shrank under the attention, wishing he could become invisible, though he knew such a thing was impossible.

The looks ranged from curious to pitying, as though he were condemned to some terrible fate rather than mere punishment. Knowing who his punisher would be for the remainder of the year, Harry couldn't help but wonder if they were right—perhaps it was a death sentence of sorts.

He sat down to eat in a foul mood, feeling the weight of every gaze on him. His appetite was nonexistent. His body ached, and the added tension from being observed only worsened his discomfort.

He couldn't bring himself to eat. His stomach felt tied in knots. Offering his friends an apologetic glance, he stood and left the table, intent on escaping the attention.

The relief was immediate. He exhaled deeply, grateful to be away from the prying eyes, and headed to the place that had recently become his sanctuary.

On the seventh floor, he paced three times, focusing his thoughts on a space that could help soothe his nerves. When the door appeared, he stepped inside to find a cosy room, complete with a welcoming fireplace and comfortable chairs.

It resembled the Gryffindor common room in structure, but the colours were softer, more subdued. Harry appreciated the warm red tones of his common room, but at times, it felt like…too much.

He pulled out his books, relieved that he had no classes scheduled for the afternoon. It wasn't long before Ron and Hermione joined him, bringing an absurd amount of food with them.

Harry felt a warmth in his chest at their concern and care.

They didn't talk much that afternoon. Ron and Hermione seemed to sense his quiet mood and gave him space, something he deeply appreciated. He felt lucky to have such good friends.

He knew Hermione, especially, was itching to find out what had happened with Snape. Still, her restraint in not pestering him for answers when she saw he wasn't in the mood meant the world to him.

They both understood that Harry would talk to them when he was ready, as he always did. It was an unspoken agreement forged long ago.

He noticed Hermione's worried glances at his trembling hands when she thought he wasn't looking. He was sure she had picked up on something.

Harry was grateful she didn't voice her suspicions, as he was far too exhausted to engage in a conversation so heavy.

He allowed himself to enjoy the peaceful afternoon, his anger at Snape nearly forgotten.

The time flew by, and before he knew it, it was time for his detention.

Having eaten enough during their private dinner in the Room of Requirement, Harry and his friends shared the meal in relative silence, though the tension in the room was palpable—primarily emanating from Harry's worsening mood.

When the hour came, Harry rose to leave, offering a farewell to Ron and Hermione. He tried not to let his anxiety show, though he was certain his friends could sense it. They knew him too well by now.

As he stepped out of the room, it felt as though he were leaving behind a haven of calm, only to step back into the storm that awaited him.

Like a man walking to the gallows, Harry made his way to the dungeons.

Far too soon for his liking, he found himself in the cold, damp corridor outside Snape's office.

He knocked hesitantly on the door, and the sharp reply came immediately.

"Enter."

The menacing tone promised nothing good.

Swallowing his instincts to turn and flee, Harry stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Snape's gaze, full of disdain, met his own.

The professor's wand was already in hand, and before Harry could react, Snape raised it towards him.

A wave of panic swept over Harry, but before he could move, he saw the wand flick.

With a swift, deliberate motion, Snape locked the door and cast a silencing charm, ensuring no one outside could hear what would transpire in the office.

Bloody hell.

Harry's mouth went dry, a primal panic settling in his stomach. This was bad—very, very bad. Why would Snape feel the need to silence the room?

Suddenly, Harry felt an overwhelming urge to escape. The sensation of being trapped in a room with someone as menacing as Snape hit him in full force.

His hand moved instinctively towards his wand. Just holding it might calm his rising anxiety.

Snape's icy smirk only widened as he noticed the movement.

Harry's grip on his wand tightened, his hand trembling slightly, a lingering effect of the Cruciatus Curse.

He knew there was no chance of winning a duel against Snape—the man was far too skilled—but that wouldn't stop him from defending himself. He was done being a passive victim.

Dozens of spells raced through his mind, ready if he needed them.

They stood there, facing each other. Harry tried to appear unyielding, while Snape's expression fluctuated between utter disgust and dark amusement.

And then, suddenly…

Chapter Text

"Oh, really, Potter? Go on, raise your wand. Give me a good reason to have you expelled. After all the efforts made to keep you here, it would be an absolute pleasure to see you ruin it all with a stupid, pathetic move like attacking a teacher. Umbridge would be thrilled to have an excuse, and I would be more than happy to grant her that immense pleasure. Just one spell, Potter, and I'd finally have the pretext to strike you… and believe me, every single move I made would be perfectly justified as self-defence. I can't wait to put you in your place once and for all, you arrogant little brat."

Snape's voice did little to calm his panic, but at least it made Harry angry enough to control it, giving him something else to focus on.

"Well, it'd be rather foolish of me to lower my wand when a wizard who has repeatedly demonstrated his hatred for me is pointing his at me," he said, putting as much defiance as he could into his voice. He lifted his chin, determined not to show how uncomfortable the situation was making him.

The Potions Master's expression darkened, and he stepped closer, his voice icy, almost a whisper.

"For your information, Potter, if I had really wanted to harm you, you wouldn't even be holding that wand right now. In fact, you probably wouldn't even be standing—more likely, you'd be begging for mercy at my feet. So, go ahead, Potter, cast even a feeble little spell. I'm dying to teach you a lesson and wipe that arrogant smirk off your face. I can assure you it would be a very educational experience."

The same words, spoken earlier by a certain hideously pink person, echoed in Harry's mind, and the memory of what had followed that promise made his wand lower instinctively. He shuddered at Snape's cruel tone, at the veiled promise of a painful punishment, as if he hadn't been through enough already.

"Wise choice, Potter. Now, if you're done with your theatrics, we have matters to discuss."

With his signature dramatic sweep of robes, Snape stalked over to his mahogany desk.

Harry rolled his eyes at the theatrical gesture. The man was such a hypocrite, accusing him of theatrics when every single movement he made seemed straight out of a Muggle movie.

Harry had once seen a Muggle superhero film—Batman, it was called—and he stupidly wondered if Severus Snape had secretly taken inspiration from it. He pictured the professor practising that dramatic robe-sweep in front of a mirror over and over until he'd perfected the effect.

He sighed at the absurd direction of his thoughts, earning a glare from the man in question. Harry quickly tried to cover it with a cough. He really needed to stop letting his mind wander so much.

He sat down in the chair almost automatically, his panic now under control since he was no longer staring down the barrel of a wand.

"Do you know why you're here, Potter?" Snape's piercing gaze made him shift uncomfortably.

Well, that was odd. Snape's punishments usually didn't start like this. Harry cleared his throat a few times, trying to figure out what to say.

"Uhm… to serve detention?" It sounded more like a question than a statement, and for a moment, he wondered if Snape would facepalm at his painfully obvious answer. It sounded stupid even to Harry's own ears.

But Snape simply glared at him, his expression dark.

"I must admit, Potter, I didn't think even you could be this thick. If your underdeveloped brain can't even comprehend that these detentions are actually part of a much larger plan, then you're even more foolish than I believed. But I suppose that's too much to expect from James Potter's son. After all, even that man didn't have two functioning brain cells, and—"

Harry ignored the insults. The mention of a plan had piqued his curiosity. He interrupted the man without thinking about the consequences, tired of hearing him insult his father.

Well, he used to defend his father's memory with everything he had, but after seeing how the Marauders had treated Snape, he couldn't entirely blame the man. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of bullying—thanks to Dudley and his gang.

"What plan?" Harry quickly added, "sir," when Snape shot him a particularly nasty glare.

Snape seemed to let the cheekiness slide for the moment, though the vein on his temple visibly began to throb. His tone was furious as he continued.

"Potter, the message I sent you this morning informed you of a plan." Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, but the glare Snape sent him made him snap it shut immediately.

"Interrupt me again, Potter, and you'll regret it deeply," Snape growled.

Duly noted.

Harry closed his mouth, waiting for the man to finish.

Snape threw him one last menacing look before speaking again.

"The Headmaster, Dumbledore, has concocted this brilliant plan to keep you out of the clutches of that… woman. Unfortunately for me, I'm the only one who could plausibly ensure the plan's success. Which other professor would give the famous Harry Potter detention for the entire school year?" Snape's voice dripped with sarcasm. "So, to my utter misfortune, I'll have to spend my evenings in your company. These won't be proper detentions… but don't doubt for a second that they'll become so if I see fit. You will report here every evening, Potter, for the rest of the year. Bring your homework or anything else that will keep you occupied—and most importantly, stay silent. I will not tolerate your teenage melodramatics or your arrogant behaviour. Is that clear?"

Harry was horrified. Was Dumbledore trying to get him killed?

Snape was watching him with a growing smirk, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Harry thought over Snape's words. Well, it wasn't all bad, at least the woman wouldn't be torturing him. But… he looked up and saw the man's menacing smirk. Would this really be any better?

Well, it wasn't like he had much of a choice. He'd survive this too. He'd try not to annoy Snape, make himself invisible like he did with the Dursleys, and he'd get through it. How hard could it possibly be?

"Potter! A verbal response!" Snape barked, looking murderous.

It was going to be very difficult, Harry realised.

He sighed internally, steeling himself and trying not to let his anger show. Getting on Snape's bad side wouldn't help, not when he had to spend the rest of the year with him.

"Yes, sir," Harry said calmly, and he caught a flicker of surprise in Snape's eyes.

What had the man expected? That he'd start yelling and throwing a tantrum?

The surprise quickly vanished, replaced by a malicious smirk on Snape's face.

This was not a good sign.

"Good, Potter. Now that we've established what's expected of these detentions, you can go to that corner. You'll find fifteen cauldrons. I want them spotless," Snape ordered.

Harry blinked in confusion.

"But sir, you just said—"

Snape interrupted, the dark amusement still present in his tone.

"Yes, Potter, I'm quite aware of what I said. However, I still need to punish you for cheating on today's potion."

Harry's jaw dropped, indignation and disbelief hitting him at once.

"That's not fair, Snape! I didn't cheat—you ruined my potion!"

A dark flash crossed the Potions Master's face.

"Really, Potter? Do you take me for a fool? I know exactly what kind of brewer you are, and I can say with absolute certainty that you could never have brewed the Draught of Living Death. Not even on your best day, let alone now."

He cast a mocking glance at Harry's trembling hands. "No fifth-year could possibly succeed at it… and certainly not a wizard as inept, as pathetically mediocre as you."

Total indignation settled over Harry, but then an idea slithered into his mind.

The Potions Master was wrong, and Harry was determined to show that idiot just how wrong he was. He suppressed the smile that threatened to break across his face. If he wanted to convince Snape, he would have to be shrewd. Acting arrogant would only make the Slytherin less inclined to listen.

"I can prove it to you," he said, trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion, carefully hiding how confident he felt.

He saw Snape's reaction—surprise, perhaps even scepticism—but that wasn't enough. Harry knew he needed to do more, to plead his case if he wanted to convince the Slytherin.

"Come on, Snape, what do you have to lose? If you're so certain I cheated and that I'm incapable of making this potion, you'll only prove your point. So what's there to lose, sir?"

Harry said it all in one breath, and for a moment, he wondered if he had overstepped. But he knew instantly from the look on Snape's face that he had piqued his curiosity.

"Potter, you seem to labour under the delusion that I am remotely interested in watching you waste precious ingredients to prove something I already know."

Harry racked his brain for something that might convince Snape. He was desperate to show the man how wrong he was.

"And what if you could gain something from it?"

Snape looked mildly entertained by the suggestion. The fact that he was continuing the conversation was evidence enough of his interest.

"And what, pray tell, could the Golden Boy possibly offer me that might even slightly interest me?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"If I manage to brew a potion acceptable by your standards, I'll prove my point. If I fail, as you so adamantly believe I will, I'll do all the dirty work you want without complaint, and you can take as many points from Gryffindor as you please."

Harry was convinced that Snape was intrigued, even though he masked it beneath his impenetrable facade. Suddenly, a calculating look appeared on the Potions Master's face, as if he were sizing Harry up.

"Do you realise what you're proposing, Potter? This could cost your house any chance of winning the House Cup." A mocking smile tugged at Snape's lips.

"Well, I bet that by the time the potion is finished, Gryffindor will still be ahead of Slytherin."

A dangerous gleam entered Snape's obsidian eyes.

"Are you really betting with me, Potter?" His silken voice continued, "All of this just to prove something I already know you cannot do?"

Harry thought quickly. What he was about to say was a gamble, given Snape's volatile nature.

"Well, sir, if you're so sure you're right and I can't brew the potion, why not just take advantage of it and be done with it?"

The total surprise in Snape's expression was something Harry would never forget, nor the predatory glint that followed it.

"Very well, Potter. But if you fail to brew the potion, the consequences I demand will be… shall we say, more creative."

Too pleased at having convinced Snape to agree to anything, Harry almost missed the veiled threat in his words.

"Alright, I'm in," he said. For a brief moment, he had the urge to extend his hand, as if to seal the deal, but he quickly realised what a suicidally idea that would be.

Snape's smirk widened, and Harry belatedly realised he had agreed without truly knowing what he was getting into if he failed to brew the Draught of Living Death.

Well, it was too late now.

Hadn't he always said he could be too impulsive at times? He decided to use that as extra motivation not to mess up the potion.

It was going to be tough—it had been difficult that morning, too—but he was determined to try. Despite the pain and exhaustion wracking his body, he was buzzing with anticipation.

He was nervous but resolute, and a certain thrill surged at the thought of the challenge ahead.

They moved to the adjoining Potions classroom, and Harry took the same seat he had that morning.

Harry nearly bounced on his feet in agitation. He could do this—he knew he could.

Externally, he tried to compose himself. His determination to finally silence that greasy idiot made him eager to begin.

He found himself standing at the workbench, looking at the professor. Snape wore a mocking expression, as though expecting Harry to embarrass himself.

Harry smiled inwardly. Snape had no idea what was coming

"Well, Potter," Snape began, his voice dripping with disdain, "the instructions are clearly written on the board. Although, personally, I consider this a waste of time and, most importantly, precious ingredients. But since we are here, I suppose you might as well… begin."

With a flick of his wand, the ingredients appeared. Harry inspected them carefully, checking to ensure they were correct. First, he examined the valerian root.

He picked it up with still-trembling hands, verifying that it was indeed the correct ingredient—Snape hadn't swapped it with wolfsbane this time.

He inspected every ingredient, and once satisfied they were all correct, he looked up. Snape was watching him with a derisive smirk.

"There's no cheating, Potter," Snape sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I am absolutely certain you'll ruin your potion with your… shall we call them? Ah yes, remarkable abilities."

Harry ignored him, focusing instead on what he had to do.

He took a deep breath and began.

Snape seemed genuinely convinced that Harry must have cheated somehow, because he didn't take his eyes off him or his work.

Harry felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny but shrugged it off. This potion was difficult enough without distractions.

He methodically chopped and ground the ingredients, not even glancing at the instructions on the board.

The process was etched clearly in Harry's mind. He wasn't following the recipe in the textbook entirely. His mother had written notes in her diary about this particular potion that made it more effective, and Harry was using all the information he had to optimise the final result.

His trembling hands were still a problem. Occasionally, he had to stop due to spasms, but he pressed on.

His concentration was so intense that he almost missed the fact that Snape had moved.

Harry noticed when he reached a non-critical point in his brewing. Looking up, he saw the Potions Master seated at his desk, marking something.

Harry was certain Snape was watching him, though. Every few moments, he felt the burning sensation of being stared at, but he ignored it.

He checked his potion—it was going well. The colour and consistency were just right.

The time came to add the valerian root, and he double-checked it to be sure. It was definitely the correct ingredient.

He added it to the cauldron, and to his immense satisfaction, the potion turned the proper colour. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, he grinned almost stupidly.

He had done it. For the second time in a single day, he had brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death.

Pride swelled in him, and his grin stretched so wide it made his cheeks ache.

Unbeknownst to him, he had an audience.

"Well, well… a Potter smiling at a potion. When will the surprises ever end?"

Snape's sarcastic voice broke through, and Harry stiffened, the smile vanishing from his face. Yet a deep satisfaction surged within him, and he had to fight the urge to plaster an arrogant grin across his features.

Snape hadn't yet looked at the potion. He approached the cauldron, and Harry focused intently on the Potions Master's expression. The man's sneering countenance remained, but as he reached the cauldron, his expression shifted.

Take that, greasy git! Harry thought triumphantly. Not so sarcastic now, are you? Where are all your sharp quips and cutting remarks?

The prolonged silence from Snape was pure music to Harry's ears. If he dared to guess, it seemed like Dumbledore himself might have raided Snape's wardrobe and replaced all his sombre black robes with flamboyant canary-yellow ones.

Well, he certainly wasn't happy about having to admit he was wrong. He silently wondered if he'd rather become the Head of Hufflepuff House than admit his mistake to James Potter's son.

The feared and menacing Severus Snape, comforting his students with hugs, kisses, and kind words—it was almost too ridiculous to picture..

Harry was so caught up in his daydreams that he almost missed Snape's voice when it finally broke the silence.

Snape was studying him like a particularly vexing puzzle, his gaze simmering with restrained fury.

"What's your game, Potter?"

What? What the hell did he mean?

"Uhm… I don't think I understand," well, now he was truly confused.

"Have you ever actually tried to apply yourself during Potions lessons, or are you just so lazy that you think your name is enough to get you out of the slightest effort?" Snape's voice held a fury Harry couldn't fully comprehend.

"You're joking, right?" Harry asked, outraged.

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. Snape swiftly crossed the counter that separated them and grabbed him by the collar of his robe, the vein on his temple throbbing ominously.

"Do you think I'm joking, Potter?" he continued in an icy voice. "You, Potter, disgust me. You're just like your filthy father, who thought everything was owed to him. You are…"

Harry was furious, in fact, livid.

"You don't know anything about me, nothing!"

A dangerous look crossed the professor's face, followed by a bitter laugh that sent chills down Harry's spine.

"Actually, I think I know you quite well, Potter," he said, his hands shaking. "You're just a spoiled, arrogant brat who thinks he's superior to everyone else and doesn't miss an opportunity to draw attention to himself." Snape's eyes held a dark light, his hands trembling, and Harry had to concentrate to avoid spiralling into panic.

"You, however, don't know a damn thing," Harry's voice was firm. "You were convinced I couldn't brew this potion, and you were wrong. You thought I was a bully who had hurt Trevis, and you were wrong. Just like you were wrong about me being spoiled," he continued, his voice cold. "As I see it, Snape, you don't know a damn thing. You're just a man full of prejudice and preconceived ideas, and based on that, you've built up my image. And let me inform you, you're completely wrong. You don't know anything about me."

Instantly after his outburst, Harry regretted speaking. Snape was a mask of fury, his obsidian eyes holding a threat so intense that Harry wondered if this would be the moment he was finally killed.

The grip on his collar tightened, and for a moment, Harry thought Snape would lose control.

When Snape spoke, his voice was low, sending shivers down Harry's spine.

"If I were you, Potter, I'd watch how you speak. I've had enough of your arrogance."

As much as Snape was intimidating him right now, as much as his heart was pounding in his chest, as much as the panic was building up, Harry had no intention of backing down.

"It's not arrogance to speak the truth," he retorted, his voice steady. "It's not about me. You hate me because you see me as a carbon copy of my father, but I'm not. You don't really see me for who I am, but for who you want to see. You look at me and only see James Potter. And I get it, I accept it. I don't need reasons or explanations. Usually, people who hate me don't give them. But you can't expect to be angry with me and furious over something you would have understood long ago, if only you had bothered to open your eyes."

He couldn't understand how Snape had taken those words. The professor's face was a constant mask of fury, so Harry thought it wouldn't change much.

"You like to think you're right, don't you, Potter?" Snape said in a cutting, venomous tone. "You like to believe you're different. That you're better. But you're not."

Harry felt his anger rise again, ready to explode, but he forced himself to stay calm, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"I'm not like my father," he retorted, his voice firm. "You don't have the right to treat me like I'm him. You don't even have the right to hate me for something I didn't do. I understand why you hate him, and I'm sorry for how he treated you… I truly am. But I'm not responsible for how he treated you… I'm not him."

Harry finally released a weight that had been pressing on his heart for a while, since he had seen Snape's memories during the Occlumency lesson.

Seeing his father as a bully had disturbed him greatly, and he had asked Sirius and Remus for explanations.

They said it was a joke, but Harry knew better. He knew what it felt like to be in Snape's shoes; he had been there all through his childhood.

He could easily see the similarities between James Potter and the Marauders, and Dudley Dursley and his gang.

So, even though he never thought he would ever say it to the sarcastic, stern Potions Master, it was true that he felt sorry for what his father had done.

Well, this confession didn't seem to sit well with Snape. He had a murderous aura, and if possible, he seemed even angrier, though something else unusual flashed in his eyes. Harry couldn't figure out what it was, but soon it was completely overshadowed by pure fury.

Snape tightened his grip on Harry's collar, almost lifting him off the ground, and moved closer menacingly, his enraged face only inches from Harry's. Harry felt panic rise.

"How dare you, Potter… how dare you even mention what you saw that day!" Snape hissed, his voice so venomous it seemed to poison the very air.

His hands trembled slightly, a sign of an emotion so intense it was overwhelming him, and his eyes glinted with burning fury. It seemed Snape was struggling to express what he wanted to say, which was quite concerning considering Snape rarely had trouble with words. His face was terrifying, the fury unmistakable.

Harry had to concentrate to avoid sinking into a panic attack.

"You… little, insignificant… how dare you even speak of…" He didn't think he had ever seen Snape so furious, so when he raised his hand as if to strike him, Harry wasn't all that surprised.

He flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. He wasn't surprised; he certainly wouldn't be the first adult to strike him in a fit of rage.

The blow never came, and he slowly opened his eyes to see what had stopped the professor.

Snape was still visibly angry, but there was something else in his eyes that Harry couldn't identify, not that he had time to psychoanalyse Snape at this moment.

"Leave, Potter, before I do something that Dumbledore will make me regret in the future."

And with that, he shoved Harry toward the door. The shove wasn't forceful in itself, but his body wasn't cooperating with his will yet. It still ached, and his legs felt like jelly.

To steady himself from what would have been an inevitable fall, Harry leaned heavily against the desk behind him, slamming his right side into it—the very side where a rib had been broken not long ago. He had to do his best to swallow the groan that threatened to escape. He turned his head to glare at Snape for his rough handling, but the man had already turned away.

Without wasting another moment, Harry moved as quickly as his aching body would allow, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Snape. Relief washed over him as he finally found himself in the corridor, where he could breathe more easily and push the rising panic back down.

As he walked back toward Gryffindor Tower, his thoughts circled endlessly around what had just happened. On one hand, he was relieved—he now had an excuse to avoid further detentions with Umbridge. But on the other hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just made things worse for himself.

Thinking back on his 'detention' with Snape, Harry felt mostly confusion. Things had gone well at first—he'd managed to brew a perfect Draught of Living Death. But after that, everything had fallen apart. He shuddered internally at the memory of the sheer fury on Snape's face.

Looking back, he realised it hadn't been the best idea to mention something he'd learned by invading Snape's Pensieve—a violation of the man's privacy. In hindsight, he thought bitterly, perhaps it would've been better not to mention it at all. Shaking off the lingering fear conjured by the memory of Snape's raw rage, Harry focused on the present.

When he finally reached the Gryffindor common room, he was surprised to find it still crowded. It was already eleven o'clock, and there usually weren't this many people around at such a late hour.

He spotted Ron and Hermione and started toward them, intending to mumble a quick excuse and head straight to bed—he felt utterly drained, both physically and mentally. But as he approached, he noticed something unusual. The two of them were deep in conversation, and they weren't alone.

"Hey, Harry. How was detention?" Ron asked the moment he saw him.

Harry dodged the question, his eyes scanning the room. Something was definitely going on. When Gryffindor gathered like this, it was usually to plan some elaborate prank. But tonight, the atmosphere felt different. The faces around the room weren't mischievous—they were serious, solemn even. Alarm bells began ringing in Harry's mind.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, and after a silent agreement seemed to pass between them, Hermione spoke up.

"We told you before that things have been getting worse while you were away. Umbridge… her tyranny, her punishments—they've gotten worse," Hermione said, her voice a mixture of concern and fierce determination. She cast a meaningful glance at Harry's trembling hands. "All the houses are in turmoil. The prefects and house leaders have had meetings. We've decided something has to be done. We can't go on like this."

The intensity in her eyes startled Harry. For a moment, he didn't see just Hermione—he saw a young woman ready to fight for what she believed in.

Harry swallowed hard. Of course Hermione had figured it out. She always did.

"Even Slytherin?" he asked incredulously.

Hermione nodded, her expression unwavering. "It actually started with them."

For a moment, Harry was stunned. Then he remembered the look in Draco Malfoy's eyes and the words he'd spoken.

It was clear that both Hermione and Ron wanted to say more, but the crowded room made it impossible to speak freely. Harry felt a pang of guilt—this should have come from him. He sighed and gestured toward the common room exit. It wasn't curfew yet, so they still had time to talk in private.

The walk to the Room of Requirement felt long and exhausting. Harry longed for the warm blankets and soft mattress of his bed, but he knew this conversation couldn't wait.

Once they were seated in front of the fireplace, Harry cleared his throat several times, unsure of where to begin. His friends waited patiently, giving him the time he needed.

"What exactly have you heard?" he finally asked, deciding it would be easier to fill in the gaps once he knew what they already knew.

Ron and Hermione exchanged another glance, hesitating. As always , it was Hermione who spoke first.

"We heard things were spiralling out of control," she said in a rush, her brown eyes filled with concern. "That a student was tortured during one of Umbridge's detentions." Her voice trembled slightly, and Harry could see the unspoken plea in her gaze—she was desperate for him to deny it.

He didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't know how to say the truth either.

When he didn't respond, Hermione's voice grew more frantic. "We thought it might be you. This morning you looked awful, and last night you had detention with her. And, well… let's be honest, Harry. Trouble tends to find you." She let out a nervous laugh, a clear attempt to lighten the mood, but it didn't disguise the worry written all over her face.

Harry took a deep breath and looked at Hermione, then Ron. They were his best friends. He could do this.

"Umbridge used the Cruciatus Curse on me," he said quietly.

There. He'd said it.

He kept his gaze on the floor, not wanting to see their reactions. But after a moment of silence, he risked a glance.

Hermione was crying silently, her hand pressed against her mouth. Ron, on the other hand, was furious—his face red, his hands trembling with rage.

"How… how could she… that old hag!" Ron bellowed, jumping to his feet as if ready to storm out and confront her then and there.

"No, Ron! Stop!" Harry shouted. He glanced at Hermione, but she seemed frozen, still processing what she'd just heard.

He stood up, following the red-haired Gryffindor,that he wasn't listening to him,and grabbed him by the arm.

"Hey, Ron, stop, listen to me!"

Ron stopped, turned to look him in the eye, pure fury and anger like Harry had never seen in his friend's eyes before.

Ron looked at Harry's hand, resting on his arm. Seeing it tremble seemed to make him even angrier.

Then he looked him in the eye, a mixture of desperation and rage.

"You can't ask me to do nothing, not after what she's done to my mate … to my brother."

Harry was deeply touched by this display of affection; they didn't show it often, but it was true that he considered Ron the brother he'd never had.

Hearing the protection and care in his friend's words, despite the chaotic and messy situation, made him feel a little happier.

"Listen, Ron, someone's already taking care of it."

This seemed to wake Hermione up.

"Who?" Her voice was calm, but there was a great turmoil hidden behind it.

Harry sighed, already knowing this was going to be long and difficult to explain.

"Snape," he said almost resignedly.

"Snape?!" Ron's reaction was immediate, and Harry almost laughed at the comically stunned look on his red-haired friend's face.

"Yeah, well… I didn't have much choice… Malfoy found me in the…"

"Malfoy?!" Harry rolled his eyes; at this rate, he'd never finish telling the story.

He looked at his red-haired friend's face and wondered if it was possible for a wizard to have a stroke. Surely if he mentioned another Slytherin, Ron would drop dead.

"Can I finish?!" he said, and Ron immediately snapped his mouth shut, scepticism clearly written all over his face.

Harry foolishly wondered if Ron would have believed his story more if he had said that Voldemort himself had helped him.

He sighed and tried to start explaining again.

"As I was saying, Malfoy found me in the corridor and took me to Snape. From there, Snape informed Dumbledore, and the Headmaster came up with a plan that…"

"What plan?" Ron interrupted immediately.

Oh, Merlin, Harry shot him a cutting glance. As much as he loved his best friend, sometimes Ron made him want to feed him to the giant squid in the Black Lake.

This time, Ron looked slightly embarrassed, but before Harry could continue, Hermione, began.

"Of course…" she moved closer to them. "The detentions, right? Is that Dumbledore's plan?"

Harry was always amazed at how sharp and clever Hermione could be.

"Yeah, it was sent to me by post…" Harry began, but with great irritation.

"How can Dumbledore's plan be to leave you with that greasy idiot? He'll kill you!" Ron interrupted again.

"Ron!"Both Hermione and Harry shouted, exasperated.

Ron turned scarlet, and Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. Harry, despite his irritation, chuckled.

Soon Hermione joined in, perhaps finding his laugh contagious, and before long, even Ron, despite his embarrassment, followed suit.

And just like always, in that moment, Harry realised that he could get through anything with his friends. He looked at them and felt a renewed sense of affection.

They laughed until they were in tears, releasing the tension for a while. Once they had calmed down, they sat back down in front of the fire.

Harry reassured them that someone was already taking care of it and that there was nothing they could do at that moment.

Yet, many hours later, on his way back to the common room, he wondered if it was really true that they couldn't do anything.

The wind of rebellion could be felt in every corner of Hogwarts. Now that he knew, he could perceive it. His mind had been occupied by other things before, but now that he knew, he couldn't help but notice.

There were people out there, even though curfew had passed. Harry watched in surprise as groups of students from different houses spoke to one another.

The wind of rebellion, the spirit of unity, was palpable among the students, from the youngest to the oldest, and even the teachers—whether they were aware of it or not, no one was excluded.

And Harry knew that when all the houses agreed, they were a force not to be underestimated. Who would have ever expected that all it would take to unite the houses was an unbearably pink Ministry official?

It was when he saw Gryffindors speaking quietly with Slytherins that he realised there was no longer rivalry between the houses—only a united front against something greater.

The words Malfoy had said echoed in his mind, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," and Harry thought he finally understood them.

He arrived in the dormitory, thinking about the implications and meaning of it all.

He finally lay down in bed, but despite his exhaustion and the pain he felt, he couldn't sleep, his mind still racing with thoughts about what was happening at Hogwarts.

Well, if Gryffindor and Slytherin were willing to call a truce, then things were serious.

It was with that last thought that, eventually, he finally drifted off to sleep.

However, in Harry's life, there was a constant that didn't always allow for relaxation. It didn't take long after he finally found rest before the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead began to tingle.

It started as a slight tingling that Harry could ignore, but it soon turned into a burning sensation, gradually increasing in intensity until it became unbearable.

And so Harry found himself immersed in a vision—one of the worst he had ever witnessed…

Chapter Text

It was horrible, dreadfully horrible. Harry woke with a start, his breathing ragged and laboured, the horrors from his vision still etched into his mind as if carved there forever.

He sat upright, his heart pounding in his ears, and his body felt feverish. Quickly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to get up, he tangled himself in the twisted sheets and fell to the floor with a thud.

The other boys in the dormitory remained asleep; even Ron hadn't stirred. Harry figured it must be due to the Silencing Charm he always cast on his bed before going to sleep.

The dormitory floor was cold beneath him. He scrambled up hastily, his anxiety and panic teetering on the edge of taking control. The only thing keeping him from a full-blown panic attack was the sheer necessity of doing something. He had to warn someone about what he'd seen.

He bolted out of the dormitory, charging through the door and flying down the stairs two at a time. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. In what felt like no time, he had reached the exit to the common room, finding it empty.

He hadn't brought his Invisibility Cloak or the Marauder's Map, items that would have been incredibly useful now. In hindsight, he wished he had stopped to grab them, but he couldn't afford to waste a single second. Every moment was precious.

He half-expected Umbridge to appear, ready to catch him in the act, but the corridor beyond was deserted. In that moment, Harry almost wished someone—anyone—would appear. Even Snape would be a welcome sight.

He had no idea what time it was, but judging by the pitch darkness surrounding him, it had to still be the middle of the night.

As he hurried through the castle, he stopped in front of Professor McGonagall's office door, clinging to the hope that what he had seen wasn't true. He pounded furiously on the door, though deep down, he knew no one would answer. But his heart clung to the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

Normally, an alert spell would notify his Head of House if someone knocked on her office door during in case of an emergency. But there was no response.

His heart grew heavier as he realised what he had to do. He needed to find an adult—this was far too big for him to handle alone.

His mind raced, trying to think of anyone he could turn to, but the answer was obvious. He had known it all along.

Bloody hell.

Snape. Snape was the only other adult he knew for certain was a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry ran, ignoring the sharp sting in his side. His body, still recovering from the Umbridge's torture, protested against the exertion. But adrenaline and desperation drove him forward.

He dashed through the corridors, ignoring the reprimands of portraits as he sped past. When he reached the staircase to the dungeons, he nearly stumbled but caught himself just in time.

Two steps at a time, he descended the stairs, his single thought propelling him forward: I have to move. I can't be late.

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry found himself standing in front of Snape's office without feeling fear or dread.

For a brief moment, he considered how strange it was to feel relief standing outside the Potions Master's door.

He stopped abruptly, gasping for air, but didn't hesitate. He pounded on the door, his fist slamming against the dark wood repeatedly.

Harry wondered briefly what Snape would say—especially after the fury the man had unleashed on him during their last encounter. But he didn't have time to care about Snape's temper or hatred. There were far bigger concerns.

Harry's desperation grew as the seconds dragged on. It felt like an eternity since his vision, and he silently prayed it wasn't already too late.

The door suddenly opened, and Harry stumbled forward, nearly falling. Strong hands grabbed him before he could hit the floor, steadying him.

Harry almost collapsed into Snape's robes, but he was too consumed by worry to feel embarrassed. Snape, holding him firmly by the shoulders, pushed him upright and fixed him with a piercing glare, recognition flashing in his dark eyes.

Despite the late hour, Snape was fully dressed in his teaching robes, looking perfectly composed—not a hair out of place.

The man's expression shifted to one of fury and disgust.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the night, Potter? Out on one of your little escapades, I presume?" he spat, his voice cold and venomous, practically making Harry's name an insult.

Harry couldn't believe it. If he really were sneaking out for one of his so-called "escapades," why in Merlin's name would he go straight to Snape's door?

Snape opened his mouth to continue, but Harry cut him off. He didn't have time for one of Snape's tirades about his arrogance or rule-breaking.

"It's Voldemort… he… I had a vision—" Harry managed, still gasping for breath. He looked into Snape's eyes and saw the sharp alarm that flashed there for a split second before the Potions Master masked his expression with his usual unreadable demeanour.

Snape glanced over Harry's shoulder, scanning the empty corridor, then gestured him inside. Harry began to explain, but Snape silenced him with a curt gesture.

"Not now," Snape muttered sharply. He began casting Silencing Charms and wards around the room.

Harry fidgeted impatiently, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. Snape was taking far too long—time they didn't have.

Just as Harry was about to yell at him to hurry, Snape turned to him, his expression expectant.

"Speak," Snape ordered.

Harry swallowed hard, his body still trembling as the adrenaline faded, leaving only the ache of exertion behind.

"Voldemort… he has Professor McGonagall. You have to do something—you have to tell the Order. Please." Harry's words tumbled out in a rush.

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he moved quickly, retrieving a small, gleaming medallion from a shelf. He clenched it tightly, murmuring something under his breath—too quiet for Harry to make out.

The device reminded Harry of the fake Galleons Hermione had created for the D.A., though he had no idea if it connected all Order members or just one specific person.

Harry's curiosity briefly overtook his anxiety as he edged closer. The medallion seemed almost like a wizarding version of a Muggle walkie-talkie.

Snape, however, seemed completely oblivious to Harry's interest. He continued speaking urgently into the medallion before turning back to Harry, his face cold and severe.

"Potter, are you certain about what you saw? Details. Now," Snape demanded.

Harry nodded frantically, the words spilling out of him. "…It was… it was a dark place. I don't recognise it, but there were spheres everywhere. Professor McGonagall was checking something… maybe guarding it, when he arrived. And then… Voldemort found her. He wanted something, I don't know what… then he ordered her to bring me to him, but she refused… and he started to… torture her." Harry's voice broke on the last word.

The image of McGonagall being tortured because of him—writhing on the ground—was burned into his mind. He clenched his fists, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. He refused to cry in front of Snape.

Snape stood tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes locked on Harry, as if weighing or calculating something. The tension in the room was suffocating. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his anxiety and frustration mounting.

Finally, Snape moved. With a swift, deliberate motion, he grabbed a cloak from a hook near the door, swirling it over his shoulders with practised ease. "Listen to me carefully, Potter," he said, his voice low but commanding. "What you saw could be real, or it could be a manipulation of the mental connection between you and the Dark Lord. Either way, we will not take any risks. You will remain here until we have confirmation."

"But—" Harry began, his heart racing as anger surged within him, the image of McGonagall writhing on the floor flashing in his mind again.

"Silence!" Snape snapped, raising a hand to cut him off. "You will not leave this room. I'll seal you inside if necessary."

Snape strode over to his desk, quickly scribbling something on a piece of parchment. He rolled it up, inserted it into the enchanted medallion, and murmured an incantation that sent it vanishing in a flash of light. Most likely, the message had been sent to the Order.

Turning back to Harry, Snape fixed him with a cold glare. "You will stay here, Potter. Do not even think about leaving."

Frustration boiled over within Harry. "But I want to help! I can—"

Snape cut him off again, his gaze so icy and sharp that Harry froze. "Stop being so arrogant, Potter. A group of adults—trained, skilled, and far more competent than you—has been informed of the situation. They will use their abilities, which you clearly do not possess, to resolve it. You, on the other hand, are just a… petulant child who believes himself superior to people far more capable."

Harry's fists clenched tighter, his body trembling with anger and helplessness. "I never said that! I just—"

"Silence!" Snape roared, his voice laced with authority so sharp that Harry instinctively stopped mid-sentence.

Snape took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself. "The Order has been informed, Potter. There's no time to waste. But before anyone is sent to investigate, I need to verify this isn't a trap. I must confirm that McGonagall isn't here. So, for Merlin's sake, stop wasting my time with your insufferable stubbornness!" His glare hardened. "Wait here."

Despite his anger, Harry had to admit—though he'd never say it aloud—that Snape might have a point. So, he snapped his mouth shut, watching as the professor swept towards the door, his black robes billowing behind him. A heavy weight settled in Harry's chest as he silently prayed that his Head of House was alright.

The door closed firmly behind Snape, and Harry heard the distinct sound of a locking spell being cast. His frustration surged again, though he grudgingly admitted that the man probably had a valid reason for doing it.

If the door remained unlocked, it would be too tempting for him to go off and handle things on his own.

It was just in his nature. After years of being forced to fend for himself and not rely on adults, it had become second nature to throw himself into danger headfirst without asking for help.

Hermione was always saying he had some sort of hero complex or something. Harry didn't know if that was true, but he did know he wasn't built to sit around doing nothing.

The waiting was unbearable. He felt useless.

His thoughts returned to the vision he'd had.

To how McGonagall, despite the agony, hadn't broken. To how, even through the torment she endured, she had held onto her fierce determination. Her strength and defiance were etched into her face, unwavering.

Harry's respect for her grew tenfold that night.

He could only imagine the pain she must have felt—it hadn't been just Voldemort torturing her; there had been a group of Death Eaters as well.

Harry silently pleaded for the Order to reach her in time. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself otherwise.

Nagini had been different. With the snake, Harry had been nothing more than a observer. But this time, it was different—Voldemort was torturing her to get to him.

She hadn't given in, not once. There had been no trace of hesitation or doubt on her face, only unrelenting determination.

Harry knew, as clearly as he knew his own name, that Professor McGonagall would die before giving him up to Voldemort.

The thought filled him with both immense gratitude and a deep, aching dread. He desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The realisation that someone might die to protect him made him feel strange.

It was an alien feeling—something he had never experienced before. Certainly not with the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't have hesitated to hand him over to Voldemort if they'd had the chance. In fact, Harry was fairly certain they'd have actively sought Voldemort out to strike a deal.

Harry imagined, somewhat absurdly, Petunia using a Muggle telephone to call Voldemort, exchanging pleasantries before having an animated discussion about where and when he could come to pick Harry up.

But McGonagall… She had stood her ground, enduring unspeakable pain for him.

Harry clenched his fists, the image of her lying on the ground, writhing in pain, flashing in his mind again. She had been tortured for protecting him.

The thought was unbearable, Harry didn't stop from feeling strange about someone being willing to die for him. Of course, his mother had died for him, but growing up, he'd never experienced the kind of love that made someone willing to sacrifice themselves..

Sure, McGonagall would likely do it more for the cause than for him personally, but it didn't lessen the odd warmth rising in his chest.

Harry paced back and forth in the man's office, each passing moment stretching into pure agony. He couldn't sit still. His heart pounded in his chest, and his eyes darted around the room, desperate to find something useful to do.

The office was filled with jars of varying sizes containing all manner of things, and there were also bookshelves packed with volumes. He approached one, looking for something to occupy his mind. Most of the books looked old, the majority focused on potions. Despite his growing anxiety, Harry felt a twinge of curiosity.

Scanning the shelves, he noticed a few darker titles, though nothing too macabre. Harry figured Snape probably kept the more gruesome books elsewhere, avoiding the possibility of letting "a bunch of hormonal students" get their hands on them.

His gaze swept across the titles until it stopped on a particular book: Alchemy of the Elements: The Secret Interactions of Magical Ingredients.

It was a rare book, nearly impossible to find. Harry knew about it and had been searching for it for ages.

This book might hold the answers to many of his mother's unfinished recipes. Some of her notes were incomplete—ingredients scribbled down with no measurements, leaving Harry puzzled over what she had intended to create.

In some cases, he could make an educated guess based on the properties of the ingredients she'd used, but others remained a complete mystery.

Harry had spent countless hours researching, poring over every book he could find, but some of her combinations were simply… odd.

He had agonised over what she might have been trying to make, wanting desperately to finish what she had started, but it had all been in vain. And to think, the answers might have been mere inches away all this time…

Harry's hand moved towards the book, but he stopped himself. What would Snape say if he dared touch his belongings?

Then again, a flicker of rebellious Gryffindor courage flared within him. The man had locked him in here; surely, he couldn't expect Harry to just sit quietly.

It was either this or ramming the door until he broke through, and he needed something—anything—to distract himself before he went mad.

Deep down, though, Harry knew the real reason he wanted to read that book wasn't some petty act of rebellion.

From the moment he'd seen the title, a wave of anticipation and excitement had surged through him. He felt guilty for feeling that way when his Head of House was in danger, but what could he do for her now? He was powerless.

The thought of finally understanding what his mother had been working on was so consuming it nearly drowned out the guilt.

Harry ran his hand over the book's spine, a mix of curiosity, anticipation, and reverence washing over him. For a moment, he half-expected an alarm to blare or some other dramatic consequence, but nothing happened.

He was about to pull the book from the shelf when he was interrupted by a noise from outside.

Damn it.

He sighed in frustration, quickly shoving the half-pulled book back into place. Moving to the centre of the office, he did his best to plaster an innocent look on his face.

When the Potions Master entered, the dark expression on his face reignited Harry's anxiety, which he'd briefly managed to forget.

Snape's expression was grim—not that it ever wasn't, Harry thought wryly.

The man didn't say a word, simply staring at Harry for a moment, his face betraying nothing.

Was she dead?

Harry felt like he was going to be sick. Why did Snape always have to drag things out, making everything more difficult than it needed to be?

Harry preferred things straightforward. Rip the bandage off quickly and get it over with.

He was about to speak when Snape finally broke the silence, his voice cold and precise, each word sounding as though it was dragged out of him against his will.

"The Order has received the message. The Deputy Headmistress is not here. And while we waste time talking, they are out there fighting to save her."

"Is she alright?" Harry asked, struggling to keep his tone calm.

Snape gave him a withering look, a smirk of cruel mockery tugging at his lips.

"Oh, of course, Potter. She's perfectly fine. At this very moment, the Deputy Headmistress is enjoying tea and biscuits with the Dark Lord and his beloved Death Eaters. Torture? Nothing so vulgar. They're simply exchanging pleasant conversation—such a… relaxing meeting, really. I imagine she's having a far better time than you could possibly imagine."

The words hit Harry like a slap, and he found himself unable to respond. He fought to keep his emotions in check, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

His gaze drifted to the door; the book was now completely forgotten. He wanted nothing more than to get away from this man. The message had been delivered, and there was no reason for him to stay.

"I hope you understand, Potter," Snape continued, his voice dripping with icy disdain, "that I would rather be anywhere else than here with you. But I know you well enough to be certain that leaving you unsupervised is not an option."

The man's tone oozed superiority and cynicism, and Harry fought the urge to throw something at the greasy git.

It wasn't like he was about to charge into the night and rescue McGonagall himself—he didn't even know where she was. But he stayed silent, knowing Snape wouldn't listen.

Snape regarded him with thinly veiled disgust.

"Now, Potter, if you're quite done with your idiocy, follow me."

Harry could feel his anger boiling. Only Snape could make him this furious.

He followed the man reluctantly, who practically dragged him by the arm to the nearest Potions classroom.

Harry was confused, but before he could wonder why he'd been brought there, Snape flicked his wand, and a dozen filthy, crusted cauldrons materialised before him.

Harry turned to Snape, incredulous, only to find the Potions Master wearing a smug, taunting smirk.

Harry realised, with a sinking feeling, that he was about to endure another one of Snape's injustices.

"I want to see them shine, Potter!" Snape said, his smirk widening.

Even for Snape, this was cruel, Harry thought bitterly.

"Why am I being punished, sir?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

He spoke with forced calm, determined not to give Snape any pretext to punish him.

Derision and malice were the dominant emotions etched into Snape's face.

"You see, Potter, as I see it, being out of bed at such an ungodly hour after curfew is a clear breach of the rules."

Harry felt his jaw drop. He couldn't believe his ears.

"But… I had to! I had that vision! How else was I supposed to warn anyone?"

He was trying to remain calm, but the injustice of it all, the smirk on Snape's face, and his own temper were making it near impossible.

"Were you, or were you not, out of bed after curfew?"

Harry couldn't believe it. The more he looked at the sneering expression on the Potions Master's face, the more he felt an overwhelming urge to punch him.

"Yes, but—"

"Then you must surely understand the necessity of this punishment, don't you, Potter?" Snape drawled mockingly.

"Oh, then you must surely understand the necessity of having this information, don't you, Snape?" Harry shot back, mimicking his words with a sharp, defiant edge to his tone. Then, with a determined gleam in his eyes, he continued, "And, hypothetically speaking, if I were to have another important vision… well, there's no guarantee I'd bother to tell anyone what it contained. After all, if this is the consequence, what's the point in risking it?"

His voice was steady, and even Harry surprised himself with how cold it sounded.

He braced for Snape's wrath. He expected shouting, fury… anything but what actually happened. Snape tilted his head, studying him with those dark eyes, as though reassessing him.

"Well, well, interesting… I never thought I'd see such manipulation from Gryffindor's golden boy," Snape said, almost amused, as though Harry's response had sparked some malign curiosity in him. "However, since you have chosen to address me with such impertinence and lack of respect, you will still clean the cauldrons, Potter."

His tone was less cutting than usual, but the smirk twisting his face betrayed an unsettling satisfaction.

There was a flicker of intrigue in Snape's eyes, though the hatred that still lingered there made it hard for Harry to fathom what the man was really thinking.

Harry was baffled. He was so shocked that he moved to the table of cauldrons without another word. He had expected rage, fury—not that reaction.

As he scrubbed the cauldrons absentmindedly, he found himself replaying the exchange in his head. He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the growing burning sensation in his scar until it was impossible to ignore.

When he realised, he froze, gripping the edges of the cauldron tightly with one hand while his other instinctively went to his forehead.

The pain was increasing, as though his skull was about to split open. He couldn't suppressed the groan that escaped him, no matter how much he wanted to.

Before he could say or do anything, he collapsed to his knees, clutching his head. The pain was all-consuming.

In an instant, he was no longer in the dungeons with the dreaded Potions Master. Instead, he was inside Voldemort's dark, twisted mind.

His awareness of his physical body vanished. All he could do was witness what was happening in the vision.

It was the same place he had dreamed of before. Voldemort's fury was palpable, his rage directed at the Order of the Phoenix for having interrupted the torture he had orchestrated.

Harry could sense the intense anger radiating from Voldemort—anger at his Death Eaters for their incompetence, for allowing the Order to thwart his plans.

Harry only caught a few moments of Voldemort's seething fury before being wrenched back to his own body. Even that brief time in Voldemort's mind had left him aching and utterly drained.

His body, still bearing the marks of Umbridge's earlier torture, sagged, and though he was barely aware of himself, he immediately noticed two things:

First, someone was calling his name—not gently, but harshly.

Second, rough, calloused hands were pressing against his forehead.

The third thing he noticed—and which put him on high alert—was that Snape was kneeling beside him.

Harry, realising he was sprawled on the floor, tried to get up quickly, but the sudden movement made black spots dance before his eyes.

"Calm yourself, Potter," Snape said, his voice oddly calm and devoid of its usual bite. His hands were raised, palms out, as though trying to soothe a skittish animal.

The gesture allowed Harry to see Snape's palms—and the crimson liquid staining them.

Harry belatedly realised it must be his blood. He reached up to his forehead and felt the sticky wetness there.

Everything seemed to slow down. Harry knew he was in shock. He could see Snape's lips moving, but he couldn't connect the sounds to meaning.

Before he knew it, Snape was hauling him to his feet. Harry had no idea how he had gotten there—it was all so confusing.

Then he noticed the hands holding him upright.

He forced himself to focus on Snape, doubling his efforts to hear what the man was saying.

"Potter, can you hear me?" Snape's expression was unusually urgent. "Was it him?"

For the always composed Potions Master, Snape seemed alarmingly agitated.

"Potter! There's no time for this. Was it him?" Snape shook him slightly, more forcefully.

"Yes… but I don't think he knew I was in his mind. He was angry… angry at his Death Eaters for losing to the Order," Harry said, reflecting and realising it was true. Voldemort hadn't deliberately shown him the event.

"This is worse than we feared," Snape murmured, almost to himself.

"This cannot wait, Potter. I have brought your case to the Headmaster, and he thought to instruct you himself at a later time. However, what I saw tonight convinces me that the link between you and the Dark Lord is growing stronger. We must act immediately. We cannot afford to waste any more time. Much as it sickens me, we will resume Occlumency lessons at once. Every moment we delay is a moment the Dark Lord could use to exploit this connection… and turn you into a vegetable—or worse, his puppet."

No. No. No. A thousand times, no. He couldn't be serious.

But one glance at Snape's cold, impenetrable expression told Harry that Severus Snape was absolutely serious.

"But sir… don't you think it's a bad idea, considering last time—"

Harry began cautiously, but Snape cut him off.

"Potter, if you intend to pursue this line of conversation, I suggest you think twice. The only reason we are in this position is because of your pathetic uselessness and your boundless ignorance, which endanger not only every student at Hogwarts but the entire wizarding world. You are so staggeringly obtuse that you fail to grasp the catastrophic consequences of the Dark Lord gaining control of your mind and body. But, of course, I couldn't expect anything else from the son of—"

"I GET IT!" Harry interrupted, too tired to endure another round of insults. "You think I don't understand? But I do. I know what's at stake! I'm not stupid!"

Snape seemed wholly unimpressed by Harry's outburst, and Harry could tell that the man was preparing to launch into yet another tirade. But then, mercifully, the strange device Snape had used earlier to contact the Order emitted a sound and began glowing.

Snape turned away, and Harry exhaled in relief, grateful to have been spared another venomous lecture.

Yawning, he lost interest in whatever Snape was doing. It was clear Snape didn't want him overhearing the communication, and Harry was too exhausted to care.

Weary and sore, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Despite his best efforts to ignore it, his eyes strayed to the rare potion book on the shelf. He wished desperately to read it, but asking Snape was out of the question. If only he could sneak a peek…

Snape's angry voice snapped him back to the present.

"Potter, my expertise is required elsewhere. Move!"

Snape grabbed his arm and dragged him to the fireplace.

"Hogwarts Infirmary!"

Harry was unceremoniously shoved into the flames, stumbling onto the infirmary floor.

He barely had time to scramble to his feet before a rough hand seized him again.

Did that man know the meaning of delicacy?

Snape dragged him towards the infirmary doors. In the brief moment Harry was inside, he could see chaos: Order members everywhere and Madam Pomfrey barking orders.

He tried to catch sight of his Head of House's condition but failed. Moments later, Snape shoved him out into the hallway.

"I trust you can find your way back to your dormitory, Potter?" Snape said coldly, his tone a clear warning of trouble to come.

Harry almost rolled his eyes. As if he wanted nothing more than to head to his dormitory and finally get some sleep, but one question kept nagging at him before he could go.

"Will Professor McGonagall be alright?" he asked, hoping the man wouldn't ignore him.

Snape looked at him, as though weighing his worth, before answering in a deliberately slow tone, "Madam Pomfrey believes she will recover. However, she requires my assistance, so get out of my way."

Harry turned to leave, eager to escape as quickly as possible.

"And Potter?"

Spoke too soon.

His professor wore a malicious smile as he added, "Don't be late for your detention."

With a dramatic swirl of his robes, Snape was gone.

Harry sighed. He knew he'd have to attend detention every night until the end of the school year, but now, with Occlumency lessons restarting, everything would only get worse.

Still, he found himself wondering curiously if things might be different this time. After all, he had studied the subject on his own and had already practised some of the exercises.

Harry desperately hoped it would make a difference. He had no desire to let Snape see anything more of his mind than absolutely necessary. The man already had enough ammunition with the recent discoveries about Harry's life.

He walked the final stretch to the dormitory, thinking back on the evening's events, and realised with a pang of irony that he'd managed to avoid cleaning the cauldrons after all.

Not that it had been a deserved punishment, but at least it had been a way to distract himself from what was happening beyond the castle walls.

He was almost at the portrait of the Fat Lady when…

Chapter Text

He was almost at the Gryffindor Tower when he felt something brush against his legs. He looked down, and to his horror, realised the presence of Mrs Norris.

Damn it.

That cat was never far from her master, and this was not good news for him, especially considering that he was out of his dormitory after curfew.

And, as expected, it didn't take long for the hated caretaker to arrive. Harry felt a rough hand grab his arm.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" Filch hadn't yet recognised him in the dim light of the corridor, but Harry knew, the moment the man turned him around, that finding him had just turned his night into a triumphant day.

Harry almost sighed at his bad luck. He glanced longingly at the portrait of the Fat Lady—he was just a few steps away from safety. But, once again, his misfortune had struck.

"Potter."

Filch's eyes gleamed with malice, and a wicked grin spread across his face.

"Finally, I've caught you, you little brat!" he croaked. "I can't wait to take you to Professor Umbridge. She'll be delighted to see you."

Harry shuddered inwardly, fervently wishing he wouldn't have to see the pink witch again. But fate seemed determined to make him endure one too many encounters with the toad for his liking.

He didn't even bother trying to justify himself. He let Filch drag him along the dark corridors, knowing from experience that no excuse or explanation would do him any good.

On top of that, he felt a bone-deep weariness, a dull ache, and an overwhelming desire for it all to end. He wished this were just a bad dream because the things happening to him lately were too absurd and too frequent to be real. He couldn't catch a break.

And so, once again, he let himself be torn from his bed by a fate that seemed to have no mercy for him at the moment. He closed his eyes and yawned so many times on the way that he wondered if he'd be able to stay upright much longer.

He tried to wake himself up by focusing on his surroundings. No way, absolutely no way, was he going to faint or fall asleep with Filch as his only help. The Squib would have to manage without magic, assuming he even bothered to help.

The thought of being carried bridal-style by Filch, who'd stoop to such lengths just to deliver his prize to Umbridge, was enough to snap Harry back to reality.

He became even more alert when he realised where they were—near the hospital wing.

Harry turned to Filch, confused, but the man seemed determined and as pleased as if he'd just been told corporal punishment had been reinstated at Hogwarts.

"Why are we going to the hospital wing?" he asked, trying to free himself from the caretaker's grip.

"That's none of your business, Potter," Filch replied, tightening his rough hold on Harry's arm. Then he looked at him and added, "But if you must know, all the professors and the Headmistress are in the hospital wing because of an emergency." He muttered and then added, almost as an afterthought, "And if Merlin wills it, the Headmistress will restore order and enforce the rules that have been neglected at Hogwarts for far too long…"

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. He knew well what the "emergency" was, and the image of his Head of House being tortured by Voldemort himself briefly flashed in his mind.

Harry wondered briefly how Umbridge had discovered McGonagall's situation so quickly. He silently questioned whether she had some means of spying on the castle's occupants.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became of this theory, considering how often Umbridge seemed to know exactly where he was at any given moment. He shuddered again at the thought and resolved to discuss it with his friends. Hermione would surely help him find an answer.

Just a few steps separated him from the hospital wing, and Harry idly wondered what scene awaited him inside.

He could piece together what was happening even before entering; the chaos could already be heard from outside.

He heard Umbridge's grating voice and tried to wriggle out of Filch's grasp. The impulse to flee as far away as possible from the woman who had caused him so much pain surged within him.

Despite his efforts, Filch quickly dragged him to the infirmary door and threw it open. But despite the caretaker's rather theatrical entrance, no one seemed to notice Harry was there. All the attention in the room was fixed on the two people who were speaking.

Harry did his best to make himself invisible, moving slightly behind Filch, though the man wasn't having it and seemed eager to show off the "prey" he had captured.

Harry knew he hadn't gone unnoticed; he could feel the side of his temple burning. But he did his best to avoid the obsidian gaze boring into him. Instead, he focused on the scene playing out before him, though he had tensed up, feeling like a trapped animal. Being stared at made him uncomfortable.

Did Snape have nothing better to do? Harry thought irritably.

Umbridge's shrill voice grated on his ears, and he tried to forget someone was watching him.

"I demand to be informed immediately of any medical emergencies!" Umbridge was shouting, standing in the centre of the room with an indignant expression. "I am the highest authority in this school, and I decide who deserves to be treated and who does not!"

Madam Pomfrey stepped forward. The height difference between her and the pink toad was stark—a perfect metaphor, in Harry's mind, for the true worth of the two women.

"This is absolutely unacceptable!" Madam Pomfrey was furious. "You cannot barge in here and decide who I can and cannot treat. It's against my ethical code and the oath I took as a healer!"

"I don't care about your code," Umbridge snapped venomously. "I have control over everything that happens at Hogwarts, and that includes the hospital wing."

"You cannot be serious. This has never happened at Hogwarts! You cannot decide who deserves medical attention and who doesn't. And surely, if merit is to be considered, you must agree that an honoured member of this staff, not to mention the Deputy Headmistress of this school, is more than deserving of the necessary care to survive."

With that, she turned away, as if to assert that the conversation was over. But Umbridge was seething.

It was a clash of titans. But while one wielded undeserved power granted by the Ministry, the other possessed power derived from respect, esteem, and the value demonstrated over years at Hogwarts.

A single glance at Umbridge made it clear that she wasn't done. She was furious, her face contorted with the same look she usually reserved for Harry.

"DON'T YOU DARE TURN YOUR BACK ON ME!" she suddenly screamed, and all the background chatter ceased. Silence fell, and Harry held his breath.

Madam Pomfrey turned slowly, determination and pride burning in her eyes. Harry knew that during Umbridge's reign, the matron had been significantly restricted in her infirmary. This, clearly, was the last straw.

"Anything to add, Dolores?" she asked in a calm tone, as if making casual conversation about the weather rather than addressing an enraged Ministry official and the fate of her infirmary's management.

Harry found the response highly amusing and almost laughed outright; he had to press his free hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. Only then did he realise that Filch was no longer holding him back—at some point in the conversation, the caretaker must have let him go. Glancing towards the doors, he wondered if anyone had noticed, but when he turned back to the observer from before, he saw that he was still watching him.

Cold, calculating eyes bore into him, and Harry understood that he wouldn't get far, so he resigned himself.

He turned his attention back to the scene just in time to see the toad explode.

"How dare you disobey my orders! Your insolence is utterly unacceptable. I am the High Inquisitor of this school, appointed directly by the Ministry of Magic, and I will not tolerate your insubordination any further!" she declared in one breath. Her face, now a furious shade of red, reminded Harry vividly of his uncle when he became enraged and turned that horrible plum colour.

"Cease your use of Mediwitch skills this instant, or consider yourself unemployed," she concluded with a sadistic smile, as though she'd just dealt a decisive blow.

Gasps rippled through the room.

Surely, Umbridge couldn't be serious. Harry's mouth fell open.

He glanced at the faces around him and saw the same astonishment mirrored on the expressions of the other professors and members of the Order.

Looking at Madam Pomfrey, Harry immediately understood that she wouldn't betray her oath. There was a determination in her eyes—a fire that brooked no alternative.

Her gaze held no trace of surprise, only unshakable resolve, almost as if she had already anticipated this possibility.

"So be it," she said with finality, turning her back on the toad and striding towards Professor McGonagall.

Harry then turned his eyes to the pink-clad woman, who seemed to be positively steaming with rage. She puffed up her chest and stood as tall as she could—though, in fairness, it didn't make much difference—and spoke.

"Very well! By the authority vested in me by the Minister himself, and as the High Inquisitor of this institution, I dismiss you with immediate effect!"

The silence that followed her proclamation was deafening. No one said a word. Harry scanned the faces of everyone in the room, noting that no one seemed prepared to intervene this time, either.

Another injustice was being carried out within the walls of Hogwarts, and no one was standing in the way of that harpy.

A surge of rebellion rose in Harry, surpassing all feelings of exhaustion and shock. He looked at each professor in turn, anger building within him.

Why weren't they resisting?

Why weren't they doing something?

Why weren't the adults acting like adults and putting an end to this nonsense?

It was so unfair that Madam Pomfrey—who had devoted her life, effort, and care to protecting and healing the population of Hogwarts—was being so brutally dismissed for the simple act of trying to help someone.

Harry felt ungrateful for not acting. She had tended to him so many times, kept him company, and spoken with him kindly on countless occasions.

Nobody was doing anything, and Harry couldn't stand it. He would do something for the woman who had helped him so much.

He hadn't been able to help his Head of House, but he was here now, and he could at least try to speak up for Madam Pomfrey.

And despite every ounce of self-preservation he possessed urging him to stay silent, that night he spoke—or, at least, he tried to.

Just as he was about to defend Pomfrey staunchly, a pointed hand landed on his shoulder and gripped tightly.

Harry flinched audibly and turned his head, only to find himself staring into the dark gaze of the Potions Master, who silently threatened him.

It didn't take a genius to interpret what Snape was trying to convey:

"Not a word."

Harry had to give credit to Snape's ability to communicate. With just one look, the man had managed to convey an entire series of threats.

"Oh, but look who we have here…"

Harry shivered inwardly at the sickly sweet voice of Umbridge, who had undoubtedly noticed his presence by now.

He met the old hag's gaze. Her face was still flushed with anger, and her small, cold eyes were fixed on him, glinting with a malice he knew all too well.

She was about to continue speaking when Filch interrupted her, emerging from nowhere on the opposite side and grabbing Harry by his free arm, shaking him as if displaying a trophy. This action also succeeded in pulling him away from Snape in the process.

"Headmistress Umbridge, I found him outside his dormitory after curfew, and with all the trouble this brat causes, I thought you might want to investigate and punish him for breaking the rules so blatantly."

Umbridge no longer seemed annoyed by the abrupt interruption. Instead, she was staring at Harry with the predatory smile of a vulture about to descend on its prey.

Harry shivered involuntarily and braced himself for the worst.

Just as Umbridge was about to begin, Snape's cold, measured voice cut through the tension.

"Headmistress Umbridge, I fear there has been… a misunderstanding."

Every eye in the room turned to Snape, who was advancing slowly towards them, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression utterly devoid of emotion.

"A misunderstanding?" repeated Umbridge, folding her arms across her chest and arching an eyebrow. "If there's a misunderstanding, Professor Snape, you had best explain it at once."

Harry was speechless. He pinched his thigh repeatedly with his free hand, but the pain made it clear that this was no dream.

Snape stopped just short of Harry, not sparing him so much as a glance, and addressed Umbridge with icy composure.

"As much as it pains me to admit, and though I do not deny that I would rather report Potter as deserving of punishment, he was not breaking curfew." Snape's tone was as cold as ever.

Harry froze. This couldn't be happening. He must have misheard—surely his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He redoubled his efforts to focus on the conversation, desperate to grasp what was actually being said.

"Mr Potter was under my supervision, serving a detention, when I was urgently summoned here to provide my… indispensable expertise. He had completed the task assigned to him, and I left him near his common room, trusting—foolishly, it seems—that he would be capable of finding the entrance to his dormitory on his own. Alas, I often forget how… limited the cognitive abilities of Gryffindors can be."

Umbridge stared at him, her mouth tight as though she had just swallowed a lemon. Harry didn't know what to feel. He was dumbfounded, confused, but careful not to display any of these emotions in front of Umbridge, who was now watching him closely.

"And why didn't you personally escort him back? That seems like a significant lapse in judgment, Severus," she said suspiciously.

Snape's expression didn't shift; his impassive mask remained firmly in place.

"My judgment, Headmistress Umbridge, was dictated by necessity. The situation in the hospital wing was too urgent for me to waste additional time. However, if you believe this decision warrants an investigation, by all means, report it to the Ministry. I am certain they will appreciate your meticulous attention to… details."

Umbridge glared at him, and Harry could tell the exact moment she realised she had lost this particular battle. The malicious gleam in her eyes dimmed slightly.

"Very well, Professor Snape," she said in her syrupy tone. "But I expect you to pay closer attention to the… details next time. We wouldn't want tonight's events to repeat themselves, would we?" She ended with a saccharine laugh that made Harry want to retch.

Snape didn't reply but inclined his head in what appeared to be a gesture of submission.

"As for you, Potter," the woman turned her attention to him, "don't think for a moment that you're off the hook. I'm keeping an eye on you."

With that, she spun around and began addressing the rest of the hospital wing, dispersing the crowd that had gathered ever since McGonagall had been brought back to Hogwarts.

As Harry was pushed out of the hospital wing by Snape's insistent prodding, he wondered what would happen to McGonagall and Pomfrey. He was dragged brusquely out into the corridor, Snape pulling him along.

The man had drawn his wand and was murmuring something under his breath in Latin before finally addressing him.

"The frequency with which you manage to find yourself in trouble is staggering, Potter," Snape began venomously.

Well, considering that most of the time he was the one punishing me for things I hadn't even done…

"I find it hard to believe you're truly upset about it, sir, given how much you seem to relish catching me in the act just so you can punish me," Harry retorted, too tired to bother being civil.

Part of him knew the man had just saved him, and he probably could have avoided escalating the situation, but he was fed up with being insulted and ignored the thought.

"Typical of you, Potter. Too famous to acknowledge the fact that I've just saved your miserable, ungrateful hide?"

"I didn't ask you to do it, Snape! I've never asked you for anything!" Harry yelled back.

Snape suddenly stopped, turned to face him, and shoved him against the wall.

"You never do, Potter. You never ask for help, no matter how much trouble you're in or how recklessly you risk your neck. You never realise when something is bigger than you."

Harry blinked, stunned. He could see the vein pulsing on Snape's temple, but he had no idea why the man was so angry or what the point of this conversation was.

"Er…" he began uncertainly, "I don't think I understand what you're getting at, sir." And it was true; his anger had been replaced by complete bewilderment.

Snape seemed even more irritated, and that only made Harry more uncertain.

"I'm not surprised you can't grasp the subtleties of events and their consequences. Or perhaps you do understand and simply don't care, just like your arrogant, spoiled father…" Snape said venomously.

"I'm neither arrogant nor spoiled!" Harry snapped, tired of being described as someone he wasn't.

He hadn't expected the professor's expression to shift. Snape's calculating, cold gaze scrutinised him, making Harry uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet, almost regretting speaking up.

"Perhaps you're not spoiled, Potter, but you're certainly arrogant. Not in the way I initially believed, but arrogant nonetheless. Only an arrogant, petulant child would think it wise to speak out of turn in front of Umbridge…" Snape said tonelessly.

Harry, stung by the insults, almost missed the fact that Snape had essentially admitted he had been wrong about certain aspects of him.

"It wasn't fair. Madam Pomfrey didn't deserve to be treated like that, and no one else was doing anything!"

A bitter laugh escaped Snape's lips, sending a shiver down Harry's spine.

"Oh, let me guess. The great Harry Potter had to step in, didn't he?"

The derision in Snape's tone made Harry bristle.

"Yes! You adults were just standing there doing nothing while she carried out yet another injustice, and—"

"And in that brilliant mind of yours, Potter," Snape interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "it never occurred to you that the woman currently holds all the power, and there was no way to prevent what happened tonight?"

Well, yes, it had occurred to him, but it still wasn't right.

"But it's not fair!" he echoed his own thoughts.

Snape gave him a look as if he were an especially dim-witted child.

"Life, Potter, is not fair," he said coldly.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Snape continued.

"You need to learn to pick your battles, Potter. To understand when it's worth speaking up and when it's wiser to remain silent." His eyes gleamed like steel. "Although I understand the difficulty in grasping such concepts, given your rather limited mental capacity."

Despite the insults, Harry was struck by how this conversation with Snape had gone compared to their usual interactions. It had been… different.

Snape dragged him the rest of the way, saying nothing more. Harry was lost in thought but didn't miss the swift flick of the man's wand.

A Silencing Charm, he realised. Harry idly wondered if even Snape had noticed how often Umbridge seemed to know too much.

Then he snorted internally. Of course, Snape had noticed. The dungeon bat seemed to notice everything.

He cast a quick sideways glance at the man, whose face was now unreadable. Snape had saved him from Umbridge tonight, and the more Harry thought about it, the more he wondered why. Had Dumbledore ordered him to?

It was possible, but something about it felt… off. His instincts told him there was more to it, and his instincts were rarely wrong.

Then there was Snape's strange behaviour tonight. He hadn't been kind, exactly, but the conversation had been far from their usual dynamic, where the man always seemed ready to bite Harry's head off.

And then there was the fact that Snape had admitted two fundamental aspects of his usual characterisation of Harry—two pillars of his hatred—were incorrect, or at least partially so.

Harry stole another glance at the Potions Master, wondering silently if it was really him. A chill crept up his spine at the thought that he might be dealing with another Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

With anxiety tightening his chest and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he continued walking, trying to act normal.

He counted silently to three and, with a swift motion, drew his wand and pointed it at his professor.

Snape didn't look surprised. If anything, he seemed mildly amused by the display.

"And now what is it, Potter?" he said mockingly, with a posture of nonchalance.

But Harry was not fooled; he could see the wand, even though it was not drawn, ready, and Harry knew the man likely had a dark spell prepared to be cast.

Harry kept his voice steady, though inside he felt a shiver of anticipation and fear.

"What did you ask me during the first Potions lesson?" he asked firmly.

Snape did not look impressed; Harry struggled to read the emotions behind the obsidian eyes, but he just could glimpse a dark amusement.

"Ah, finally a shred of caution. If I may, however, Potter, I'd avoid questions to which an entire class had access." The sarcasm and derision were omnipresent, and Harry felt his face flush with embarrassment.

But he didn't lose heart; after all, he could still be in the presence of an impostor, so he racked his brains, trying to think of a question that only this man could possibly answer.

He could ask him about the Pensieve, but if his suspicions were wrong and this truly was his Potions Master, there would be hell to pay later.

So despite his embarrassment, he asked the only thing he and the man could know about.

He took a fortifying breath; there was no turning back now. He repressed his personal discomfort and looked into the dark eyes of the man.

Snape was waiting, clearly amused and not inclined to interrupt his momentary source of entertainment.

"What did you find at my relatives' house when you came to check on behalf of Dumbledore?" he asked, pleased that his voice had not wavered even once.

He looked at the man's face, waiting, trying to appear strong and hiding the embarrassment he felt at the memory.

It seemed that some darker emotion had crossed Snape's expression, though amusement was still visible.

"I found you battered to a pulp by—"

"All right, all right, I get it… It's you," Harry said quickly, embarrassed by Snape's description of him.

He lowered his wand and kept walking, as though putting physical distance between himself and the man would distance him from the continuation of the answer.

He didn't know what he had expected— he had asked, after all—but he had been sure it wasn't really the man, given how un-Snape-like he had been that evening.

He knew the man was walking beside him, but he didn't dare look at him. He didn't want to see the amusement and derision that were surely written on the face of the overgrown bat.

And so, when he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, he darted inside, barely muttering a farewell.

He was almost certain he had heard a dark chuckle beyond the portrait, but clearly, he wasn't thinking rationally; the fatigue was playing tricks on him.

When he lay down on his bed, it was nearly dawn, and despite all the thoughts swirling in his mind, he fell asleep immediately.

Chapter Text

Harry sighed inwardly; his dormitory mates just couldn’t seem to keep their chatter at a reasonable volume, and, as had become routine, he was rudely awoken by his fellow Gryffindors.

He was exhausted, and the fatigue was making him irritable. All he wanted to do was pull the covers over his head and sleep forever.

Pressing his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the irritating noise, he gritted his teeth as a particularly shrill laugh pierced through the dormitory like a knife.

Did they really have nothing better to do?

Frustrated, he let out a huff and threw the covers off in one swift motion. There was no point trying to rest in these conditions.

Pulling back the curtains around his four-poster bed, he scanned the room. Ron was still fast asleep, as were most of their other dorm mates—except Dean and Seamus, who were huddled together, laughing like a pair of hyenas over something.

They didn’t even notice Harry’s deathly glares, which, as usual, were entirely wasted.

Sighing again, he grabbed some clothes and made his way to the bathroom. Changing quickly, he decided he would take a walk to shake off the exhaustion, even though it wouldn’t do much to make up for the sleep he’d lost.

As he washed his face, he glanced briefly at himself in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to ignore, but he paid them little attention. His mind was too preoccupied with the events of the previous evening—The torture of McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey’s sudden dismissal.

And Snape… Snape had been acting strangely. His usual hostility seemed to have softened, and Harry couldn’t make sense of it. It was too much of a puzzle for his tired brain to solve.

Running a hand distractedly through his hair, he felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. The lack of sleep was only making it worse.

After making himself presentable-at least as much as he could manage—

Harry left the dormitory without looking back. He wanted to talk to his friends, but one glance at Ron was enough to know he'd have to wait.

Sometimes, Harry envied his best friend's ability to sleep soundly no matter the situation.

His own light sleeping habits, no doubt a leftover from life with the Dursleys, had been a survival mechanism back on Privet Drive, where he’d had to be alert to every creak and shift in the house.

Here at Hogwarts, though, it often felt like a curse. He’d lost count of how many times his sleep had been disrupted by his dorm mates’ noise.

He remembered how, at eleven years old, he’d struggled to adjust to the noisy, chaotic Gryffindor common room. Every sound had startled him, kept him on edge. Though he’d adapted over time, some things never really changed.

And so, with less than two hours of sleep, he found himself wandering the semi-deserted corridors of Hogwarts.

Only a handful of students were awake and about, and Harry recognised only a couple of them.

No one greeted him, but that was to be expected. Hogwarts had a way of collectively ignoring him whenever public opinion turned against him.

It still amazed him how easily people let themselves be swayed by whatever rubbish the Daily Prophetpublished.

He’d lost track of the number of times that wretched newspaper had—

A loud crash snapped him out of his thoughts, and he barely managed to stay on his feet. He’d run straight into something—or someone—and from the lack of resistance, he must have been quite small.

Straightening himself, he looked down to see a heap of robes on the floor and a younger student fumbling to get up.

Harry stepped forward to help the boy, who was muttering apologies under his breath.

“Sorry… sorry, I didn’t see you, I was—”

The boy trailed off as he looked up, and despite Harry’s exhaustion, recognition clicked instantly.

“Trevis!” Harry interrupted the boy’s rambling.

The Slytherin boy looked up properly for the first time, lifting his gaze from his shoes.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked again when the boy didn’t immediately reply. Now that he was looking more closely, Harry noticed how pale Trevis was. He was trembling slightly, and his face was ashen.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Trevis stammered. “I was just—”

They were interrupted by a Hufflepuff who had apparently witnessed part of the encounter.

“Are you okay, Mark? Is Potter bothering you?” the Hufflepuff asked, eyeing Harry with suspicion.

Harry sighed internally. Yet another example of how everyone at Hogwarts always assumed the worst of him, no matter how often he proved otherwise.

“No… no, it’s fine, Teddy,” Trevis said quickly. “Harry didn’t do anything. We were just talking.”

The Hufflepuff still looked dubious but gave a short nod before walking away, casting one last suspicious glance at Harry as he left.

Once they were alone again, Trevis spoke first, his tone unusually solemn.

“I never got the chance to thank you properly. I should’ve come sooner, but I wasn’t sure if my thanks would even be welcome.”

Harry blinked, confused. Lately, it felt like he was constantly struggling to understand what was being said.

Trevis must have noticed his confusion because he hurried to explain, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“Well, it’s just… everyone thinks it was you who hurt me,” Trevis said, his voice tinged with guilt. “I’ve tried to tell them it wasn’t true, that it wasn’t you, but no one seems to believe me. I’m sorry,” he added earnestly. “That’s why I wasn’t sure if you’d want my thanks—or if you’d think I was spreading more rumours or—”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Harry interrupted, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “I don’t blame you. I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

Trevis visibly brightened at Harry’s words, and Harry felt a small sense of satisfaction at being able to reassure him.

But under the glow of the lanterns, Harry couldn’t help but notice how sickly Trevis still looked. His trembling, his pallor, the occasional nervous twitch in his hand—it all painted a troubling picture.

And Harry wondered if this was just the result of his time in the infirmary or something else.

A sense of foreboding crept over Harry.

Looking into Trevis’s hazel eyes, he asked directly, “Have you been to see Umbridge?”

The boy’s reaction gave Harry his answer before a single word was spoken.

Closing his eyes briefly, Harry swore silently.

Damn her. That vile woman.

What was he supposed to do now?

He prided himself on being able to handle things on his own, but this was different. This was bigger than him.

Think, Harry. Think.

And then, almost as if a voice were whispering in his ear, he remembered the words someone else had spoken to him recently—accusing him of not knowing when to seek help, of not recognising when he was up against something insurmountable.

This was one of those times. This wasn’t just about him. This was about protecting an innocent child.

Opening his eyes again, he met Trevis’s nervous gaze.

“It’s going to be all right,” Harry said firmly. “I’ll help you.”

The words seemed to break something in the boy. Silent tears began to stream down Trevis’s face, quickly turning into sobs.

Harry stood awkwardly as the boy flung himself into his arms.

He was terrible at comforting people, a legacy of growing up in a loveless household, but he awkwardly patted Trevis on the back.

Before Harry could think of anything else to say, the boy pulled away, wiping his nose on his sleeve and mumbling an embarrassed apology.

Harry brushed it off, his mind already racing ahead.

Never in a million years would he have imagined willingly going to Snape's office. But here he was, about to knock on the door for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

The absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh.

There was no alternative, though. The previous night, Snape had been the logical choice as the only available member of the Order. Today, he was the only one with authority over Trevis as his Head of House—and with Madam Pomfrey gone, there was no one else to turn to.

If someone had told Harry a week ago that he’d willingly knock on Snape’s door, he’d have laughed and made some sarcastic comment about it being more likely for Trelawney To predict a prophecy that actually comes true .

Yet here he was, standing in front of the dark wooden door again, Trevis by his side.

It had taken a lot of convincing to get the boy to come. Trevis had been terrified—not of Snape’s anger, but of disappointing him.

That, Harry thought, was strange. But then again, Snape treated his Slytherins very differently from the rest of the students. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd that Trevis wasn’t afraid of Snape’s wrath.

Harry’s blood boiled with anger as he thought about what Umbridge had done to this child. He was careful not to let it show, not wanting to upset Trevis further, but inwardly, his fury was overwhelming.

Before he could dwell on it, the door suddenly swung open.

Snape stood there, his expression as inscrutable as ever. His black eyes flicked to Harry, and for a brief moment, a flash of the usual disgust that always accompanied Snape’s gaze when he saw a Potter crossed his face.

But just as quickly, it was replaced by something else—something Harry couldn’t quite place.

There was no time to psychoanalyse Snape. Instead, Harry stepped aside, revealing Trevis, who had instinctively shifted behind him.

Snape’s gaze moved to the boy, and whatever emotion Harry had seen before turned into something dark and menacing.

To Harry’s surprise—and immense relief—Snape didn’t immediately blame him.

The Potions Master’s fury was palpable, but it wasn’t directed at Harry.

Without a word, Snape gestured for them to enter his office.

Once inside, Snape’s voice was low and venomous.

“Explain.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Harry looked at the child, who seemed entirely unwilling to speak, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor. He glanced at Snape, whose fury seemed to grow with each passing second. Deciding he needed to take the initiative, Harry stepped forward—he was a Gryffindor, after all.

“I found him like this… in the corridor,” Harry began, his voice steady despite Snape’s piercing glare, which was as menacing as ever and enough to make him falter.

Clearing his throat, he pressed on. Snape didn’t appear inclined to bite his head off for speaking—yet. Still, the man’s expression was utterly terrifying, like a coiled serpent ready to strike.

“I think his condition is because of a detention…” Harry hesitated, anger flaring again as he forced himself to continue, “…with Umbridge.”

Harry looked away, feeling his own fury reignite at the mention of her name. Snape remained silent, and the lack of response pushed Harry to keep going.

The renewed anger coursing through him blurred all sense of caution. He forgot, for a moment, the clear danger Snape represented, distracted as he was by his own sense of outrage.

Harry trembled slightly, his fists clenched at his sides, unable to hold back the flood of emotion that overcame him. His voice was sharp, accusatory, as he turned on Snape.

“How many times does this have to happen before you adults do something?” he demanded, his voice rising. “How many more injustices do we have to endure while you all look the other way and pretend nothing’s happening?”

Snape stiffened, and Harry knew he was pushing past the point of no return, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not when his rage was boiling over.

The words spilled out in a torrent, fuelled by years of injustice, powerlessness, and suppressed anger.

“It was your job to protect him!” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with frustration. “And instead… instead, that witch is still here, at Hogwarts, torturing children! Children, Snape! A first year! And you lot just let her get away with it! You accused me of not relying on adults, but how can I? How could I, when the adults around me let a toad like her use the Unforgivable Curses whenever she pleases?”

Snape’s jaw clenched so tightly that Harry was surprised the man’s teeth hadn’t shattered. Harry could sense that Snape was struggling to maintain control, but then, all at once, he moved. Despite the anger blazing within him, Harry found himself taking a step back.

He glanced at Mark, whose wide eyes and dropped jaw made it clear he’d been taken aback by Harry’s outburst. Well, it had been quite a spectacle, Harry thought distractedly.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way, Potter,” Snape snarled, looming over him. “Do you think I’m unaware of what that odious woman is doing?” His voice dropped into a dangerous hiss. “Do you think those of us with eyes don’t see? That anyone with a shred of decency doesn’t feel the same revulsion you do?”

Snape leaned forward slightly, his presence suffocating. Harry heard a sharp intake of breath from where he knew Mark stood, and he fought to suppress his own.

“If you think dealing with Dolores Umbridge is as simple as waving your wand at her, Potter, then you’re even more foolish than I imagined. Do you honestly believe it’s a matter of reckless bravery and theatrical displays? If it were that simple, minds far sharper and more capable than yours would have resolved the issue already.”

Snape’s attention shifted momentarily to his Slytherin, muttering Latin incantations as he brandished his wand.

Harry felt no offense from Snape’s words., though he couldn’t deny that his mind had already begun forming a plan to deal with the toad-like woman. The same defiance that had filled him the night before surged through him again—a need to stand up against injustice, to speak for those who couldn’t defend themselves.

“I refuse to believe there’s nothing that can be done,” Harry said firmly. “I won’t accept it.”

Snape’s glare intensified, his voice icy as he replied. “If you know what’s good for you, Potter, you’ll abandon whatever ridiculous ideas you’ve concocted. I assure you, what that woman has done will not go unpunished. For once, Potter, leave it to the adults.”

Snape turned his attention back to Mark, his tone sharp and commanding. “Now leave. I need to tend to Mr. Trevis and his condition, and I must inform the other professors of this situation. There’s no room for your involvement here, Potter.”

Harry shot one last seething look before turning his attention to Mark, who seemed to regard him with an apologetic expression. Harry gave the boy a quick farewell and left the office, shutting the door behind him before Snape could yell at him again.

Standing in the corridor, Harry was still fuming. This had gone far enough.

He was tired—sick and tired of being told that the adults would handle it.

In his experience, adults never solved his problems. Adults had never provided him with safety or protection.

He’d seen the professors’ inaction the previous night; they hadn’t lifted a finger—not even tried.

And despite all of Snape’s words, all his explanations about the power Umbridge wielded, Harry didn’t believe him.

He refused to believe there was truly nothing that could be done. He couldn’t accept it as normal that Umbridge was still strutting through the castle corridors, as if she hadn’t tortured children.

Harry wasn’t naïve. He knew the world was full of terrible things. But it was beyond comprehension that something this horrific could go unchecked.

This wasn’t just humiliation. It was outright torture—using dark artefacts and Unforgivable Curses.

Enough was enough.

They weren’t powerless.

Harry was no longer willing to wait, nor to place his trust in the empty promises of adults.

He knew that Hogwarts was full of students who thought like he did—who hated Umbridge, who saw her actions as an affront not only to the school but to everything magic itself stood for.

He could sense it—that bubbling undercurrent of rebellion running through every student, the desire to break free from oppression, from tyranny.

The foundations for a revolt were already there, Harry realised. For weeks, students from different houses had been talking to one another, forming alliances. What was missing was the spark to ignite it all.

And Harry realised they had reached the point of no return. Umbridge had to be stopped. The torture of an eleven-year-old child was the breaking point, and Harry wouldn’t wait any longer.

Why should they continue to endure this?

Why wait for the adults, bound by rules and politics, to intervene?

Perhaps the adults couldn’t act, but he and his fellow students could.

It was time to unite the houses.

A year ago, Harry would have thought the idea impossible.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. He’d seen the change in the relationships between the houses, seen how students had started cooperating in the face of an internal threat.

And he knew that together, they would be a force to be reckoned with.

Harry moved quickly, a renewed sense of determination driving him. He didn’t have a solid plan yet, but he knew where to start.

He entered the Gryffindor common room and found Hermione and Ron. They still had some time before lessons began.

Their faces lit up when they saw him, but they quickly approached as they noticed the seriousness etched onto his features.

“We’ve got a problem,” Harry announced without preamble. He sat down on the sofa and gestured for them to join him. “And I need your help.”

They exchanged a look before both nodding, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude for having friends like them.

He cast a quick privacy charm to keep their conversation from being overheard and launched into an explanation of events, recounting Umbridge’s torture of Trevis, the vision, And the dismissal of Pomfrey.

When he finished, he could see the same anger burning in his friends’ eyes.

“It’s time we fought back,” Harry said, his words firm and filled with determination.

In their expressions, Harry saw no hesitation. They were ready for this.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that ever since that witch dared to use an Unforgivable on you,” Ron said, a glint of malice in his eyes.

Hermione nodded at Ron’s words, and Harry was struck by it. Usually, she was the most rational of the three, often the one to temper their riskier plans.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harry. That woman’s gone too far. We can’t just stand by anymore—we have to act. But we need to be careful and strategic. We need a plan.”

Harry smiled at his friends, infinitely grateful for their support.

For the remaining time before lessons, they worked together to devise a plan for how they could communicate with the other houses without Umbridge finding out.

They concluded that they would need to speak to one student from each house—someone who could pass the message along and help set their plan in motion.

The logical choice would be the prefects, but with Umbridge’s increasingly frequent inspections, gathering them all at once without arousing suspicion would be difficult.

They would have to be discreet, approaching each student individually and convincing them.

To their surprise, it wasn’t as difficult as they’d anticipated. Throughout the day, they sought out the students during shared lessons with other houses.

Ernie Macmillan, Hufflepuff prefect, and Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw prefect, were the first to be contacted, and both readily agreed to the meeting Harry proposed.

Draco or Pansy, however, were another matter entirely. They proved more difficult to get in touch with.

During Potions, Harry wracked his brain for ways to approach Malfoy, who seemed completely oblivious to any attempts at subtle communication. It was truly infuriating.

At the end of the two-hour class, Harry hastily scribbled on a piece of parchment:

“6:00, seventh floor, Barnabas the Barmy’s statue.”

He sincerely hoped Malfoy would show up. He slipped the note to the Slytherin as discreetly as he could and watched as Malfoy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blond took the note cautiously, reading its contents quickly.

Malfoy studied Harry, and to Harry’s genuine surprise, the Slytherin gave him a faint nod of agreement.

Well, that was something. Times really were changing.

Not that Harry hadn’t noticed some shifts before—like the time Malfoy had helped him when he was injured—but seeing how dramatically things could change still surprised him.

What Harry failed to notice in his contemplation were the suspicious glances Snape kept throwing his way.

The afternoon dragged on painfully slowly. The day’s lessons seemed endless, and Harry found himself checking the clock every few minutes, growing more impatient by the second.

His sense of impatience only grew after hearing from his friends what had happened during breakfast—a meal he’d missed thanks to his not-so-civil conversation with Snape.

Apparently, Umbridge had branded McGonagall a criminal, theatrically claiming that the deputy headmistress had broken the law and that this had forced her removal.

Her announcement had caused an uproar among the Gryffindors, who were outraged.

Even without knowing the full story, the lions refused to believe what Umbridge was saying about their head of house. A true Gryffindor wouldn’t stay silent in the face of such injustice, and their loyalty to McGonagall wouldn’t allow them to accept this defamation.

This gave Umbridge the perfect excuse to punish every member of the red-and-gold house.

Hearing this only strengthened Harry’s resolve, Umbridge could not be allowed to torture all those students.

With McGonagall and Pomfrey gone, Umbridge had wasted no time bringing in two Ministry lackeys she trusted—something that complicated their plans considerably.

Still, Harry smiled to himself. The days of bowing their heads and enduring were over.

It was time to act.

It was time to prove that together, even as children, they were a force to be reckoned with.

And with that thought, Harry glanced at the clock as it struck six.

He turned to face the doors of the Room of Requirement and saw the people he hoped would become his allies.

Let the revolution begin, he thought with a flicker of excitement.

Chapter Text

Harry, before he could put his plan into action, had what could only be described as a ‘complication’—one of colossal proportions.

He had Occlumency with Snape. Or, as Harry preferred to call it, several hours of mental torture in which Snape forcefully invades his mind and mocks him throughout the entire process. But even in his own head, that sounded rather long, so he had to settle for the abbreviated version.

Occlumency with Snape. In his mind, it already seemed to doom his plan before it even began. But Hermione seemed convinced that he would manage.

“Harry, I’m sure it’ll be fine. You have a certain talent for accomplishing the impossible, and you always perform your best under pressure. I trust that you’ll manage this time as well.” She had said encouragingly. Easy for her to say—she didn’t have to deal with the bat of the dungeons rummaging through her head.

Not wanting to snap at his best friend, who meant well, he pressed his lips together and said nothing. But from the sympathetic look Ron shot him, Harry knew that at least he shared his concerns.

Sure, he had studied the theory, and yes, he had already managed to push Snape out of his mind when he had really needed to. But he wasn’t sure if that would be enough.

He would try again what he had done last time.

Surely, the fact that he really didn’t want to ruin everything was incentive enough.

And yet, as he descended into the dungeons, Harry couldn’t help but wonder whether that would be enough.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him. Despite the fear tightening around his chest, he felt a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

It was with a racing heart that he stepped through the doorway to Snape’s office that evening.

Only to find the man already there, waiting. Watching him like a hawk, wand in plain sight.

There was no pretence tonight. Snape wasn’t sitting at his desk, correcting essays, or doing anything else as he had always done before.

He was simply there, staring at Harry, as if he already knew something was going on.

His expression was clear: I know you’re up to something, and I will get to the bottom of it.

Shit.

For a brief moment, Harry glanced at the door—the urge to run was overwhelming.

But before he could even begin to formulate an escape plan, Snape’s wand moved with a sharp flick, eliminating that possibility at once.

“Very well, Potter, we are here tonight to attempt, once again, to instil the subtle art of Occlumency into your thick skull. I remain unconvinced that you possess the skill or capability to master it, but given the delicate situation we find ourselves in, it is imperative that you learn.”

Snape wasted no time with pleasantries, and Harry merely nodded, too tense to do anything else—or to snap back at the insult as he normally would.

He stood there, stock still, facing Snape head-on.

If he couldn’t avoid this, then he would face it with his head held high—like a true Gryffindor.

He mentally prepared himself, gathering all his determination, and withdrew into himself, just as he had learned to do during his years with the Dursleys whenever something happened that he refused to let touch him.

He put everything he had into it, trying to recreate that same state, the same sensations, and when he was finally satisfied, he braced himself.

Taking a deep breath, he met Snape’s gaze directly. The man was watching him, poised to strike, ready to pry into his mind and extract whatever information he sought.

There was a long, drawn-out moment in which emerald green met pitch black, and Harry barely noticed Snape’s wand rising.

He barely registered the moment Snape’s mind entered his own—because this time, Harry remained rooted in the damp dungeon room.

Harry was confused.

He knew Snape had cast Legilimens. He had felt something foreign crash against his consciousness. But where before he would have been swept away into a sea of memories, this time—nothing happened.

Had he actually managed to protect his mind?

Was this what Occlumency was supposed to feel like?

Lost in his own bewilderment, he almost missed the shift in Snape’s expression—from passive to something approaching frustration.

Snape narrowed his eyes, his thin lips pressing into a barely perceptible frown. But Harry noticed.

His survival had always depended on recognising when an adult near him was angry. Knowing when Vernon was on the verge of losing control had helped keep him alive this long.

So, he had been trained to pick up on even the smallest shifts in an adult’s expression—to anticipate when the explosion would come.

Snape was no different.

Only he was much harder to read than his lumbering uncle.

But over time, Harry had managed to understand him—at least enough to recognise when the man was at his limit.

Right now, the vein in his temple wasn’t pulsing furiously, and his gaze hadn’t yet shifted to ‘Potter, I am about to reunite you with your dearly departed parents.’

So, for the moment, Harry was safe. Relatively speaking.

Though he could feel the tension in the air, and an involuntary shiver ran down his spine.

A brief moment of silence passed as Snape slowly lowered his wand, his dark eyes never leaving Harry’s.

“Again.” His voice was low, cold. A command that wasn’t to be disobeyed.

Harry swallowed thickly, his heart pounding in his chest from a mixture of adrenaline and sheer disbelief.

Had it worked? Really?

He barely dared to believe it.

But if it had worked once, then he could do it again.

Straightening up, the thought gave him renewed hope—along with a flicker of exhilaration.

This time, when he met Snape’s gaze, it was with defiance, his chin slightly raised as he focused on recapturing that sensation—on reinforcing the barrier that had held against Snape before.

“Legilimens!”

This time, he felt the force behind the spell—stronger than before, like a wave threatening to crash over him.

For a moment, flashes of memories flickered at the edge of his consciousness—Hermione’s laughter, Ron’s worried face, Sirius’s furious expression—

And then—

Nothing.

He repelled it.

It lasted mere moments. Only fragmented images.

But when he snapped back to himself, he realised he was panting slightly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

He looked up, bracing for Snape’s anger—but the man didn’t look furious. Not more than usual, at least.

He looked… surprised.

But in the blink of an eye, the expression was gone, leaving Harry wondering if he had imagined it.

“Interesting.” Snape murmured, his tone so neutral—so much like someone casually commenting on the weather—that Harry couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or just an observation.

Harry didn’t reply.

He doubted Snape meant it as a compliment—certainly not to him.

Snape stepped forward, wand still in hand.

“How convenient that you seem to have grasped the rudiments of Occlumency precisely when you have some harebrained scheme you wish to keep from me. I wonder if this is mere luck…”

Harry clenched his jaw, biting back the retort burning on his tongue.

Of course Snape knew he was up to something. The man rarely missed anything.

But Harry couldn’t afford to lose control now.

“Again.” Snape ordered.

And so, they continued.

Harry had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been minutes or hours because, every time Snape cast the spell, he was dragged into an invisible battle where the only battlefield was his mind.

But each time, it became easier. Each time, Harry felt something growing inside him—something he hadn’t realised he possessed.

Discipline.

It wasn’t just about shutting his mind or trying to force Snape out. It was control. Awareness. He was no longer being dragged helplessly into the current of his own memories—he was standing his ground.

And Snape knew it.

When the professor finally lowered his wand for the last time, Harry was exhausted. His legs felt unsteady, his mind drained, as if he had been running for miles without stopping.

Snape studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a sharp motion, he slid his wand back into his sleeve.

Harry was stunned.

He had half-expected Snape to keep going until he pried out something. He thought this would continue forever.

“Don’t look so surprised, Potter.” Snape sneered, his gaze still sharp but laced with something else—something Harry couldn’t quite place.

“I am not so blind as to be unaware when it is time to stop. It is clear that I will not be uncovering the idiocy of your next foolish escapade tonight.”

He sighed, as if the admission physically pained him.

“I will, however, acknowledge that when adequately motivated, you are capable of feats that I would not have believed possible, given your usual laziness and staggering lack of intelligence.”

Harry frowned.

Somewhere beneath the layers of insults, there was—he was fairly certain—a compliment.

“Don’t make that face, Potter.” Snape’s tone was sharper now, irritated. “And do not think for one moment that I will not find out what your feeble adolescent brain has concocted. Rest assured—there are other ways to uncover the truth.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine.

But before Snape could continue with his threats—or, worse, act on them—they were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.

Snape’s eyes flicked towards it, momentary confusion flashing across his face before he turned back to Harry, expression instantly hardening.

“Potter, go now!” he barked, with a clear warning glare in his eyes, which unmistakably said, ‘Don’t ruin this, or you’ll pay the consequences.’

With a flick of his wand, he conjured a dozen dirty cauldrons, along with an equal number of clean ones on the other side.

He had almost forgotten that the entire student body thought he would be serving punishments until the end of the year.

He approached his workstation, his sickly and sweaty appearance making it easy for an outside observer to believe he had just endured hours of exhausting detention.

He focused on the manual task assigned to him, although with all the experience gained at the Dursleys, he managed to do it without paying much attention.

In fact, his ears were focused on the unexpected visitor.

Never, not even in a detention, had anyone interrupted.

He saw the familiar blonde head peek from behind the door and almost relaxed.

With his luck, he had thought it would be plausible for Umbridge herself to knock on the door, take Harry for herself, and finish off Snape’s ‘detention.’

But as he had seen, she hadn’t yet interfered with the man’s control over detentions—perhaps due to the reputation those punishments had, making it clear that Snape had a firm grip.

The sense of relief that flooded him upon seeing the Slytherin also brought with it a feeling of irony.

He never would have thought he’d feel relieved to see Malfoy, of all people.

But things had changed, at least for now, they had a truce, and Harry didn’t mind at all—he had far too many enemies, and he would gladly have done without one more.

Draco caught his gaze, and the concern in it almost made Harry drop the act.

He barely kept his composure and watched as the conversation unfolded, wanting it not to be whispered, but Harry was able to catch the gist.

Another student, a third-year Slytherin, had been tortured.

This was really going too far. He was more convinced than ever of the need to act on and implement the plan as soon as possible, and one look at Draco confirmed that he felt the same.

Snape was angry; Harry could feel it. His heart pounded knowing he was in the same room with an angry man, but he managed to control his nervousness.

The knowledge of this new information only strengthened his determination.

Snape, for the first time since the blonde had entered the room, turned his attention back to Harry.

“Potter, your detention for today is over. Get out,” he said coldly.

For a moment, Harry was surprised to see that he was being let go from his ‘detention,’ but then he realised that with Madam Pomfrey out of the picture, Snape would be the only one with enough knowledge of magical healing and potions to treat anyone.

Indeed, Snape had already turned his attention to gathering supplies, leaving Harry alone with Malfoy, who was now glaring at him.

Harry understood what Draco felt right now; he shared it too, but the sense of helplessness would soon fade.

Soon, they would bring justice to all the students who had suffered under that woman’s cruelty.

He nodded at Draco, instinctively knowing that he understood. In the look that passed between them, there was a silent promise.

Soon.

Soon, they would make things right.

Harry turned and quickly left Snape’s office without looking back. He could still feel the anger coursing through his veins, mixed with the exhaustion from the long Occlumency session. But he couldn’t afford to collapse now.

Hurrying through the deserted corridors towards Gryffindor Tower, his mind was racing.

He was astounded that Umbridge thought she could keep torturing students expecting no one to do anything. The situation had gotten out of hand.

He quickened his pace, feeling as if every moment he wasted was another moment in which that witch could hurt someone further in the sacred halls of Hogwarts.

After what felt like centuries, he finally found himself standing before the portrait of the Fat Lady. He wasted no time, muttering the password and slipping through the passage as soon as the portrait opened.

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him, sitting by the fire. Hermione had a book in her lap, while Ron appeared to have dozed off with his head resting on the arm of the armchair.

As soon as Harry entered, Hermione looked up, her brow immediately furrowing with concern upon seeing him.

Now he knew his friend wasn’t as certain as she had previously let on about the success of his mental shields.

Well, at least she had tried to lift his spirits, he thought tiredly.

“How did it go?” she asked, lowering her voice.

Harry sank into an armchair next to them, finally feeling the weight of exhaustion take over.

“Better than I thought,” he admitted, running a tired hand through his hair. “Snape couldn’t see anything.”

Hermione looked pleasantly satisfied with this news.

“Wow, that’s amazing, Harry!”

Ron jolted awake, his eyes wide. “What… really? You managed to stop him from getting in?”

Harry blushed slightly at his friend’s praise and nodded at Ron. “I don’t even know how I did it. It was… different from usual. But it worked.”

He tried to explain further the feeling he’d experienced, but stopped when he realised, with frustration, that explaining it was impossible.

His thick-haired friend’s face contorted, and she closed the book in her lap, now forgotten.

She gave him an intense look, the same expression she reserved for puzzles or complicated questions.

“It’s possible you’ve found a method that works for you,” she said, tapping her fingers on the cover of the book. “Maybe you unconsciously used a memory or emotion as a shield, something that allowed you to stay grounded in the present instead of being pulled into your memories.”

Harry thought about it. He recalled the mechanism he had subconsciously activated while at the Dursleys, trying to discern exactly what he had done.

He wasn’t sure, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it had worked.

That was a question that would be answered later. Right now, there were more important things to discuss.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We need to reconsider our timeline. Malfoy came to inform Snape that another student has been tortured.”

Ron stiffened, and Hermione visibly shuddered.

“Who?” she asked in a whisper.

“A third-year Slytherin. I don’t know his name.”

The silence that followed between them was heavy with seriousness. Hermione bit her lip, while Ron clenched his fists.

“We have to put an end to this,” Ron said angrily, his voice harder than usual.

“I agree,” Hermione said solemnly.

They exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

The time for talking was over, the preparations had been completed—it was time to set the plan in motion.

Hermione pulled something from her pocket, and Harry realised it was the communication device they had used for the DA.

It had been useful for organising and communicating with the members of the group, and now it would serve to implement the plan.

They had distributed the coins to every prefect of each house. He remembered the surprise on Malfoy’s face when he realised how ingenious a Gryffindor could be—though, of course, he never admitted it.

Hermione rolled the coin between her fingers for a moment before offering it to him decisively.

“You should be the one to do it, Harry,” she said, her voice firm, her eyes sparkling. “If we’ve come this far, it’s thanks to you. It’s only right that you be the one to start it.”

Harry watched the coin gleam in the firelight.

Not an instant of hesitation in his mind.

With a decisive nod, he took the coin from Hermione’s hand.

‘Tomorrow,’ he wrote, the brief and concise message, one that would not be misunderstood and would mark the beginning of a new era.

The coin warmed in his hand once the message was sent, and he looked up to see his friends staring at him with determination.

When the coin cooled between his fingers, he stood up, knowing he had more allies to notify.

“Dobby,” he called. In the silence of the common room, a soft pop echoed through the room.

Involving the house-elves had been risky, but necessary.

House-elves, in fact, were incredibly powerful creatures.

He had seen firsthand how easily Dobby could perform magic that adult wizards found difficult.,or even impossible.

One example was that they were the only ones capable of Apparating inside the grounds of Hogwarts.

The only downside was that they were bound by very strict rules, especially their loyalty to their masters.

And here lay the key. The house-elves of Hogwarts served the school, but more than anything, they were tied to the Headmaster. And who did they recognise as the true Headmaster? Dumbledore. Not Umbridge.

It was a line of thinking he was convinced of, but also risky. In fact, if he was wrong, and their loyalty was even in the slightest part to Umbridge, their plan would be doomed from the start.

Harry and his friends had discussed the risk and knew it was high, but they were all in agreement, and the role of the house-elves in the plan was essential, so they didn’t have much choice.

He remembered how Ron wasn’t worried about it.

“Dobby would take a knife in the stomach for you, mate,” Ron had said lightly, without even thinking. “We can definitely trust him.”

He also remembered Hermione’s look, her lips pressed into a thin line, the way she had held back in the conversation. He knew she didn’t like the idea of involving the house-elves, of using them in some way, but she hadn’t said anything. And if Hermione hadn’t protested, it meant she had already weighed the situation and realised it was for the best.

In the end, her concerns proved unfounded; the house-elves hadn’t been a problem.

Dobby had assured them that the inhabitants of the kitchens were outraged by Umbridge, that they knew about the cruel punishments she inflicted on students, and what she had done to McGonagall.

And if there was one thing the house-elves of Hogwarts couldn’t tolerate, it was someone who hurt someone they respected.

So now ,when he saw the elf hopping with joy when he announced it was time to deal with Umbridge, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene.

That night, when he lay on his bed, he felt lighter than ever.

Not only had he managed to avoid being caught by Snape, but he had also organised a plan he was sure of.

For once, he felt prepared, not like all the other adventures he had been a part of. This time, it wouldn’t be luck; there was strategy, planning, and cunning.

Tomorrow would be a day to remember. Ron was convinced that this revolution was unprecedented and that would be remembered in history books.

Harry didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about being in Hogwarts Through the Ages and boring future generations, forced to listen to Binns’ monotonous explanation of their heroic actions.

What mattered to him was getting rid of Umbridge, and that would happen at any cost.

No matter what happened, tomorrow Hogwarts would shine again, he told himself.

Chapter Text

Parchment sheets fluttered through the air, filling the corridors and classrooms of the entire castle.
The first phase of the rebellion had begun.
Harry laughed as one in particular shot past, brushing against his face.
From the moment he had stepped out of bed that morning, he had felt the wave of change seeping through the castle walls.
Already from the common room, the chaos was evident, but it was nothing compared to the corridors and classrooms.
This was Phase One of the plan—cause disruption, distract and keep Umbridge’s attention occupied, drawing it away from the real scheme.
As expected, the Gryffindors had thrown themselves into the task headfirst: every corner of the castle had become the target of ingenious pranks.
The enchanted parchments were just one example, but not the only one—Quidditch brooms and other objects of various sizes were soaring through the air.
As Harry made his way through the corridors, he could see students running in all directions, clear delight etched on every face he managed to glimpse.
Coloured, foul-smelling smoke filled sections of the corridors, and some students were even stained with bright, unnatural dyes.
Hogwarts looked like a battlefield, and Harry grinned at the thought of how all this must appear to Umbridge.
Many of the pranks he could spot bore the unmistakable signature of Fred and George, and he smirked, imagining what an eventful day it would be for the twins.
Yet, today had also brought forth new pranksters—he chuckled as he noticed how the younger Gryffindors had devised their own ways to wreak havoc.
They couldn’t cast overly complex spells, but their creativity more than made up for their lack of experience.
A group of second-years had stuffed the castle’s suits of armour with bewitched cushions that screamed obscenities whenever someone passed by.
Three third-years had come up with a plan worthy of Fred and George, enchanting the doors of the Great Hall so that anyone who stepped through was instantly covered in a sticky substance before being showered with white feathers.
Harry was impressed by his housemates’ ingenuity—but even more so by how all the houses seemed to have been waiting for this moment.
And while Gryffindors favoured a bold and direct approach, the Ravenclaws had devised a plan truly worthy of their House.
From what he had gathered so far, they had somehow managed to convince the castle’s portraits to provide Umbridge and the professors with false information, protecting the students from being caught.
Harry was genuinely surprised by the brilliance of this idea and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself.
This kind of sabotage would waste valuable time for Umbridge, which was crucial for their ongoing plan.
His respect for the blue-and-bronze house only grew when he learned the rest of what they had orchestrated.
Using complex spells, they had created illusions—phantom corridors and false classrooms, sowing complete confusion, especially for someone like Umbridge, who had little familiarity with Hogwarts.
More than once, even he had been momentarily fooled by the imaginary passageways. If he didn’t know Hogwarts so well—and if not for the help of the Marauder’s Map—he likely would have fallen into those traps multiple times.
Even the staircases seemed to have gone mad, shifting more than usual and hindering both the professors and the Headmistress. He glanced at the Map, spotting Filch stranded on a landing on the fourth floor.
He realised this was probably Hogwarts itself joining in—the castle, as a sentient entity, responding fervently to the rebellion against tyranny.
He wondered if the castle was intervening in other ways as well, and the thought reassured him. It was a promising sign for the success of his plan.
Because there was one part of it that he hadn’t shared with anyone—not even Ron or Hermione. Partly because it was dangerous, and partly because he wasn’t entirely sure it would work.
He knew that, in the end, he would have to carry it out. Without it, the original strategy had a glaring weakness.
Shaking his head, he pushed the thoughts aside. Now wasn’t the time for doubts or second-guessing.
Not that he had any, of course. He fully intended to strike and bring down Umbridge—at any cost.

Phase One had been set in motion: create chaos and disorder to divert Umbridge’s attention.
Harry ran, heading towards the most delicate part of the operation—the dungeons.
He passed the Hufflepuff dormitory with ease, making his way to the disused classroom they had chosen as their headquarters.
It was a hiding place some Hufflepuffs had discovered a while ago, in a remote part of the castle—the old theatre classroom, abandoned for centuries.
He knocked on the door using their signal, and moments later, a familiar head of hair appeared, pulling him inside swiftly.
“Took your time, Potter. I was beginning to think you were chickening out,” came the smirking voice of Malfoy.
Harry rolled his eyes.
“You wish, Malfoy,” he replied with a grin, entirely unaffected by the Slytherin’s comment.
He caught the slight twitch at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth.
“If you two are quite finished,” Hermione interjected, looking between them with exasperation, “we have work to do.”
He looked around the room and could see the plan taking shape.
The second phase of the plan was to gather evidence—proof, testimonies, anything that would expose what Umbridge was doing inside Hogwarts.
In this very room, he could see all the students who had suffered because of her, and his heart clenched at the sheer number of them.
Every single one of them, from first-years to seventh-years, had turned to look at him the moment he walked in. Some watched him with curiosity, others with fear, and others with doubt.
He knew from experience that speaking up, sharing one’s pain, wasn’t easy—that not everyone had the courage to do something just because it was morally right.
He exchanged a glance with Hermione, who gave him an encouraging nod.
A wave of anxiety washed over him—he hadn’t expected to have to speak, let alone prepare any kind of speech.
And the position he found himself in didn’t help. Given that this was an old theatre classroom, he was standing on an elevated platform, making him feel like a mayor about to address his people.
The thought made him even more uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he could never quite get rid of.
He looked around the room, and it was only when he mentally counted the number of first-years present that he found the determination to speak.
“I know why you’re here.” His voice was steady—steadier than he had expected.
“I know what Umbridge has done. We all do. And this has gone too far.”
His gaze travelled across the room, from the smallest, most frightened students to the older ones, who looked more resolute.
“We waited for someone to help us, for someone to put an end to this. But no one did. Or if they did, it wasn’t enough. It’s time to act.”
A murmur spread through the room, a few nods of agreement.
“It’s not right,” he continued, anger lacing his voice.
“It’s not right that we have to be afraid in our own school. It’s not right that we’re being denied the right to learn, to speak, to be heard. It’s not right that she thinks she can hurt us and get away with it.”
He met each and every gaze.
“What we’re doing today isn’t just about rebelling. It’s not just a big prank or an act of defiance. Today, we’re telling the world that we are not invisible, that what’s happening at Hogwarts is wrong, and that we will not stay silent any longer.”
He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer.
“I know I’m asking a lot. I won’t ask any of you to speak if you’re not ready. But for those who are… help me get us justice. Help me make sure this doesn’t go unpunished.”
He turned towards Hermione then. He wasn’t sure what else he could say to convince them, and frankly, he thought he’d done all he could.
But she looked satisfied. She nodded.
“How… how will you let the outside world know what’s happening here?”
A hesitant voice spoke from within the crowd of students.
It was Dobby who answered, jumping out from somewhere, as if theatrically waiting for his moment—which, knowing the house-elf, wasn’t far from the truth.
“Oh, Harry Potter has thought of everything! The elves can Apparate in and out of Hogwarts! We can take the scrolls out of the castle without the wicked witch stopping us!” he declared, hopping excitedly.
His antics made some of the younger students laugh, and with this new piece of information, part of the tension in the room seemed to dissipate.
Harry nodded at the elf. “Exactly. But we need as many people as possible to speak. The more evidence we have, the less likely it is that this gets swept under the rug.”
There was another moment of silence before a fourth-year girl broke it.
“I want to talk.”
Harry felt a wave of relief. He had feared that, despite everything, no one would be willing to open up.
But after the brave girl, many others followed.

The room had been organised with tables and chairs so that each witness would sit in front of at least two students who would document their testimony.
Each pair was made up of a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin.
The choice had been purely strategic. The yellow-and-black-clad students had proven to be the most tactful and gentle in dealing with those who had suffered under Umbridge. Their natural empathy would have helped put the witnesses at ease—at least as much as possible—so they wouldn’t feel interrogated or judged.
On the other hand, the Slytherins, more pragmatic and less concerned with preserving emotions, had the strategic mind to prompt the answers that needed further exploration or to determine when the gathered material was sufficient.
It was, in Harry’s mind, an oddly balanced pairing.
He walked over to Hermione, who was supervising the room, weaving between the desks, and he thought, somewhat amused, how much she resembled a professor monitoring her students.
“Hermione,” he called, catching her attention. She turned, smiling at him.
“I need to check how things are going upstairs. If anything happens, use the coin.”
She nodded. And before Harry—despite all his stirring words earlier—could change his mind, he handed her a bundle of parchment with the title:
“Testimonial Documentation of Harry James Potter.”
Hermione glanced at the bundle in her hands and then looked at him.
There was such warmth, such love in her eyes that he had to look away.
A hand landed gently on his shoulder, squeezing it.
He gave her a quick smile, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other.
An entire conversation passed between them without a single word spoken.
Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door—only to be stopped.
Mark Trevis, the Slytherin boy he had saved, stood there, holding him back.
“Harry,” he began, his face flushed. “I just… I wanted to thank you again.”
“It’s fine, Mark. There’s no need,” Harry interrupted, reassuring him.
“No, really… No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. I owe you.”
Harry felt uncomfortable with all the gratitude, his face heating up.
“I wanted to give you this before you left,” Mark continued when Harry remained silent, holding out a small pouch.
Curious, Harry peered inside—and blinked in surprise.
Years of living in the Gryffindor dormitory, especially with Fred and George, had made him familiar with every prank imaginable.
These were Stinkbombs. Anyone caught in their blast would be covered head to toe in a foul-smelling, mucus-like substance.
He raised an eyebrow at Mark.
“Erm… what am I supposed to do with these?”
The Slytherin now had a small smirk.
“Well, since I’m stuck here and will miss out on all the fun, I figured you’d get more use out of them than me.”
Harry looked at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes, though he was clearly amused.
“Mark,” he said with a grin, “I don’t think I’ll need a Stinkbomb. I won’t be taking part in the pranks.”
Seeing the boy’s face fall slightly, he quickly added, “But I’ll keep them—just in case. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Mark beamed, and to Harry’s surprise, he hugged him briefly before disappearing back into the younger students before Harry could even react.
He knew he now had everyone’s attention—especially the Slytherins. Draco was staring at him, though Harry wasn’t sure what to make of his expression.
He didn’t dwell on it.
He left the room.

Upstairs, it was utter chaos. Professors were scattered all over the castle, no doubt trying to restore order—but in vain.
Harry glanced at the map and saw that Snape was somewhere near Gryffindor Tower, and the thought of that idiot believing he’d find someone to punish—probably him—there made Harry chuckle.
In all his planning, not once had he ever considered Gryffindor Tower as an option. It would have been suicidal to set up a base there. That would be the first place anyone would search—or at least, the first place Snape and Umbridge would look.
Speaking of the toad, according to the map, she was somewhere on the fifth floor. Harry smirked, already knowing what trap had been set up for her there.
The Slytherins had made the entire floor impassable. They had turned the corridor into magical quicksand—one step onto it and you’d be trapped. And unless you knew the precise counter-curse, you’d be stuck there for quite some time.
And considering that the book containing that particular spell was part of the Malfoy family collection, it was highly unlikely that Dolores Umbridge had ever learned the counter-curse.
Harry was rather pleased with how things were going. He was almost whistling as he strolled down the corridors, his steps accompanied by the background noise of the chaos created by the four united houses.
Alone, the houses were strong—but together, they were unstoppable.
As he walked, he saw groups of students laughing freely, and he knew this was the sense of lightheartedness that had been missing from Hogwarts for far too long.
A glance towards the grand windows showed that the chaos wasn’t confined to the castle alone. Outside, in the courtyards and even on the Quidditch pitch, it was just as wild.
Thestrals soared through the sky, free and unbothered. Even the school’s owls were flying freely above the grounds.
The magical creatures weren’t immune to the spirit of rebellion—they, too, were caught up in the excitement.
In the distance, Harry could see Hagrid trying to calm them all down, and for a moment, he felt a twinge of guilt for putting the half-giant in such an impossible situation.
He quickly looked away, suppressing the guilt. He would make it up to Hagrid later. Right now, he had more important things to take care of and no time to waste.
For phase two to work, it was crucial to keep phase one running smoothly.
After all, with all the Educational Decrees Umbridge had enforced, any kind of student assembly—or any form of gathering, really—was strictly forbidden.
If she even suspected what was truly going on, there was no telling how things would end.
That’s why they had to keep her occupied—and not just her. Harry knew that if any adult found out about the plan and either failed to report it or actively supported it, they would be seen as accomplices in the Ministry’s eyes and would meet the same fate as Pomfrey or McGonagall.
He had no intention of putting anyone in that position.
Going against Umbridge now meant going against the Ministry itself—and for an adult with a job to protect, that would be catastrophic.
At least, that was one of the reasons he didn’t want to involve the professors.
A deeper part of him, shaped by years of experience with the Dursleys, whispered that adults could not be trusted.
And then, there was a small but persistent voice in his head that argued that if the adults had truly been able to do something , they would have done it already—that he and the others would prove to them that just because they were ‘children’ didn’t mean they were useless or incapable.
His friends agreed that avoiding adult involvement was the safest course of action, especially given the delicate situation they were in.
Hermione had considered every possibility. She had been less certain than Ron about keeping the adults out of it, but after analysing the situation, she had come to the conclusion that the conditions simply weren’t optimal.
She had reasoned that if the professors actively took part in the plan against Umbridge, it would be equivalent to openly defying the Ministry, which could be considered high treason.
That was not a situation they could ask anyone to willingly walk into.
Since they were still underage, things wouldn’t escalate as drastically for them if something went wrong—but for an adult, it would be a different story.
They had warned the seventh-years of this possibility, but for them, it was different. They were the ones who had suffered. They were the victims of this regime, and they wanted justice.
There was no stopping them.
And now, as Harry walked, he saw them at every turn, caught up in what had become an outright competition to pull off the best prank.
Very soon, an actual tournament would begin—a team-based contest.
A few days ago, word had spread that, on the occasion of the ‘Great Rebellion,’ students were organizing a prank competition.
What had shocked Harry most of all was the fact that they hadn’t divided themselves by house, as one would expect from a school with such a long history of house rivalry. Instead, they had split into teams based on year groups.
When he first heard about it, he had thought he had misheard. There was no way that Gryffindors, Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs would voluntarily and willingly team up for anything.
And yet, that was exactly what had happened.
As he looked around now, he could see the teams forming.
One might think that the first-years were at a disadvantage, but surprisingly, they weren’t. Despite their lack of experience, they had already proven themselves to be clever and well-organised pranksters.
Harry had no idea how they were planning to keep score in this ‘competition,’ nor did he have any intention of participating, but he was genuinely happy to see the students so carefree.
He knew that a large part of that carefree atmosphere was thanks to the house-elves.
The elves weren’t just responsible for delivering the testimonies—they were also making sure the students were safe.
The Hogwarts house-elves who weren’t involved in phase two had volunteered to keep an eye on the students, using their magic to whisk them away to safety if any professor got too close.
Harry hadn’t even realised such a thing was possible, but it was a massive relief to know he didn’t have to constantly worry about the risk of someone getting caught.
Now, when he looked at the map, he wasn’t surprised to see that no student was anywhere near a professor.
He checked on Umbridge first—she was still trapped on the fifth floor.
Then, he let his gaze drift over the map.
Some of the professors seemed to be running—he could see Filch’s dot moving quickly, as well as Flitwick’s.
Others were strangely still.
Some of them weren’t surprising—like Trelawney. She had probably failed to notice any of the chaos and was sitting in her tower, sipping tea, contemplating which student to predict a tragic death for next.
The other unmoving dot was far more concerning.
Snape.
Harry did a double take when he realised exactly where Snape was—and then he bolted.
The professor who, just a few moments earlier, had been somewhere completely different was now dangerously close to their base.
Had he flown? No more than ten minutes had passed since the last time he had checked.
Harry sprinted towards the dungeons, his breath loud in his own ears.
Of course it had to be Snape.
That man seemed to be haunting him, like a poltergeist created solely to make his existence as miserable as possible.
As he reached the last few steps, he slowed his pace and steadied his breathing. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself and cautiously approached the spot where the professor stood.
Snape was still, as though searching for something—as though he knew there was something in this corridor he had to find.
How the hell did he know? And how the hell was he familiar with this part of the castle?
Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. The man lived in the dungeons—of course the bat would know his own habitat.
A shiver ran down Harry’s spine as the professor began to move. He followed.
Fortunately, Snape continued down the corridor, passing the entrance to the theatre classroom.
Harry let out a silent sigh of relief as the professor turned on his heel and made his way back towards the corridor’s entrance.
Then—there was a sudden noise.
Harry swore under his breath.
The scene before him was nothing short of a disaster: Snape, unaware, was staring straight in his direction. And behind him, the incriminating classroom door creaked open, revealing a familiar red head peeking out into the corridor.
Harry swore under his breath another time, mentally using every curse he knew.
Ron had spotted Snape and was now pulling a ridiculous face.
On any other occasion, Harry would have laughed himself sick.
Right now, though, he was horrified.
Snape had definitely heard the noise. He would turn around at any moment.
Harry had a choice to make.
A fraction of a second to decide.
To sacrifice himself—metaphorically speaking—or to throw away the plan he had worked so hard for, the one that could mean freedom for so many students.
There wasn’t really a choice in Harry’s mind.
He had already decided the moment he saw that familiar head of red hair.
With a swift motion, he yanked off the cloak and shoved it into his pocket.
“Oi, Snivellus!”
He knew he would pay for it the moment the foul nickname left his lips.
But he had to do something that would make Snape lose his mind.
He had to make him forget that he had just heard suspicious movement from a remote part of the castle.
And the only thing Harry could think of was pushing Snape into a blind rage.
He knew exactly what effect that nickname would have on him.
He had seen it in the Pensieve.
And he had sworn he would die before repeating anything he had witnessed in there to a living soul—let alone to Snape himself.
Yet here he was.
And he wished, desperately, that he had a rock to crawl under when he saw the pure, unfiltered hatred on Snape’s face.
For a moment, there was silence.
Not a single word passed between them, but Harry could see Snape trembling with rage—the thin line of his lips,the vein in his temple throbbed.
Harry forced himself not to react to the sheer fury radiating from the man.
His hands shook as he reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small sphere.
Was he really ready to do this? Absolutely not.
Was he about to die a slow and painful death? Absolutely, yes.
Taking advantage of the fact that Snape seemed momentarily frozen, Harry was shocked by just how powerful a single word could be—and then he did the unthinkable.
If someone had asked him whether he would ever have the nerve to throw a Stinkbomb in Snape’s face, he would have laughed in their face.
Not in a million years.
Not even for a billion Galleons.
And yet—
As Snape’s face was suddenly coated in sticky, foul-smelling slime, Harry found himself questioning reality.
Somewhere, he heard Ron let out a choked squeak.
But Snape hadn’t noticed.
For a moment, he looked almost surprised.
That moment passed far too quickly.
And when it did—the expression that darkened his face reminded Harry exactly who Snape had once been.
A Death Eater.
Harry didn’t even register the moment he started running.
All he knew was that he had to.
And He was certain Snape was following him.
He just knew.
It seemed his entire life had been reduced to men chasing after him with murder in their eyes.
And whether the revolution succeeded or not—whether the plan worked or failed—one thing was certain: He was dead.
There was no way Snape would ever let this go.
Once this was over, Harry would have to switch classes.
Or transfer to another school.
Or another country.
Or better yet, to stay safer, directly into another dimension.
Assuming, of course, that he survived this.
He sprinted up the stairs.
The corridors were empty—probably because the approaching threat of the professor had prompted the elves to move the students elsewhere.
Harry regretted asking the little creatures not to include him in that.
It had seemed smart at the time—if anything happened, he would need to be close to the teachers, not avoiding them.
Now, though, it just felt like a death sentence.
He risked a glance behind him.
Snape was already climbing the final step.
Harry’s mind raced.
There was no way he was letting himself be caught now.
He would face the consequences later—there was still a plan to finish.
Then—an idea.
And for the first time, he was immensely grateful that he had taken the time to familiarise himself with the various traps set by the other Houses.
Not too far from here was the Hufflepuff corridor—the one full of traps.
Without hesitation, he picked up the pace, heading straight for the second floor, where he knew the traps were set.
Snape was still behind him.
Thankfully, Harry had always been fast.
At last, he reached the second floor.
And thanks to his speed, he had managed to gain just enough of a head start to slip around a corner and wait.
Praying that Snape would walk straight into the trap.
The wait was agonising.
Every second, every moment stretched painfully as Harry’s heart hammered in his chest.
Then—
Snape rushed past him, not noticing.
And walked right into the Hufflepuff trap.
Harry could have wept with relief.
If Snape hadn’t been so blindly furious, he would have definitely noticed.
It seemed that anything related to James Potter made him lose control—made him act on impulse rather than with the cold, meticulous precision that usually defined him.
And so, the great and formidable Severus Snape was now ensnared in a mess of vines, covered in foul-smelling sludge.
At any other time, Harry might have found the sight hilarious.
But right now, he felt nothing but guilt.
He felt like everything he despised.
Like the Dursleys.
Like a bully.
With a heavy heart, he stepped out of his hiding place.
“Expelliarmus.”
Snape’s wand flew into his hand.
Snape struggled against the bindings, spitting pure venom.
“You have no idea how much I want to put my old Death Eater knowledge to use, Potter. To make you beg to be left alone. There is nowhere in the wizarding world you can hide. And when I catch you, it will be the last time you ever look someone in the eye.”
He trembled at the clear threat. He had heard his fair share of threats in his life, but this was different—this was terrifying.
He forced himself not to show fear as he looked at the professor, who was staring back at him with deep hatred. And to think that things had actually been getting better between them lately. Not good, certainly not civil, but at least they weren’t at each other’s throats.
Well, now it was all ruined, Harry thought as he studied the man before him.
He considered saying something—anything—to at least calm the waters for the inevitable future when Snape would no longer be bound like this.
First, he cast a quick spell to dissolve the slime. He knew that without the counter-charm, it would linger for hours, and he doubted Snape knew the formula, considering it was a recent invention of Fred and George. He had thought that at the very least, not being covered in foul-smelling goo in front of a student might alleviate some of the man’s fury.
Not surprisingly, he was wrong.
Snape kept glaring at him with burning hatred, not even acknowledging the gesture—not that Harry had expected him to.
“For what it’s worth, sir, I never wanted it to come to this. I know you think I’m just a carbon copy of my father, and I understand why you’d believe that even more now. But I wouldn’t have done what I did unless I had to.”
He looked at Snape, who was as still as a statue—frighteningly furious.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?” Snape snarled. “I knew you were behind all of this. You won’t get away with it, and I will be there to watch you fall. And this time, I will personally deliver you to Umbridge and her methods.” The man spat the words venomously.
Harry flinched but said nothing. He took a few steps back—there was no point in continuing this conversation.
He glanced toward the entrance of the corridor.
“When this is all over, someone will come to free you,” he said.
And without looking at the Potions Master again, he turned to leave.
“You really think you’re any different from them, Potter? From those wretched relatives of yours?”
The words stopped Harry in his tracks, his muscles tensing. He didn’t turn around, but he remained still, his breath suddenly heavier.
Behind him, a cold, humourless laugh.
“Oh yes, Potter. You claim to be so different, so noble… but in the end, you’re exactly like them. Just like those Muggles.”
Harry clenched his fists. The mere thought of being compared to his relatives made his blood boil.
“And just like your insufferable father.”
At those words, Harry whipped his head around.
Snape was staring at him with pure contempt, his dark eyes burning with loathing. He almost looked satisfied, as if he had found just the right nerve to strike.
“Look at yourself, Potter. The same arrogant expression, the same belief that you can humiliate others without consequence. Your father did it to me. Now you do it to me. Tell me, does it make you feel powerful? Does it make you feel superior, now that you’ve made a mockery of me?”
Harry turned fully. He was about to respond, a strange unease creeping into him at the accusation, but then he stopped.
All at once, he realised what the Slytherin was trying to do. So he forced himself to calm down.
He took a deep breath and met Snape’s gaze.
“I won’t play your game, Professor,” he said firmly. “You want me to get angry, to lose control, to prove you right…”
Snape remained impassive.
“You’re provoking me. You’re pressing the right buttons, planting doubts, trying to get a reaction. But I’m not an idiot.”
Snape raised an eyebrow in response.
“It doesn’t matter what you say—I know who I am. And I know who I don’t want to be. I don’t expect to get away with what I’ve done today, and I’ll face the consequences. But I didn’t enjoy it. I am not my father. I am not a bully.”
Ever since he had seen the Pensieve, he had been coming to terms with the fact that his father had been in the wrong.
James Potter had no excuse—he had been fifteen, young, and immature, but that didn’t justify his actions.
Harry had come to accept that James Potter had been to Snape what Dudley had been to him—a bully.
With one last glance at the immobilised professor, he took a step back.
“Goodbye, Professor.”
And this time, without turning back, he walked out of the corridor.

Chapter Text

He had one last stop before he could check on how things were going in the theatre classroom.
He walked briskly towards his destination – a place he hadn’t visited in a long time – Dumbledore’s office.
The headmaster’s office was on the seventh floor, and it had remained sealed ever since Dumbledore had left.
The stone gargoyles, to the great amusement of everyone in the castle, had refused to budge when Umbridge had attempted to claim the office as her own.
He hoped they wouldn’t do the same to him, because otherwise, everything would be pointless.
In fact, the plan had a major flaw.
There was a dangerous gap of time – a window between the start of the rebellion and the arrival of outside help – during which they were completely exposed, unprotected.
Umbridge wouldn’t be held up for much longer. Harry had calculated that between the traps and all the pranks, she’d be distracted for a few hours at best.
After that, she’d surely manage to catch at least one student or uncover their hideout, even with the elves’ protection.
And he had no intention of letting that woman take her rage out on another child. That’s why he’d found a solution – or at least, he believed he had.
The answers to that problem lay right behind the gargoyle – or more accurately, within Hogwarts itself.
Harry had always known that Hogwarts was more than just a building.
He’d read extensively about the castle’s history, diving into ancient texts and biographies of the Founders.
He knew the school wasn’t simply a place of learning – it was a living entity, infused with magic down to its very foundations.
Every stone, every corridor and every classroom was saturated with the enchantments of those who had built it, and over the centuries, the castle had developed a kind of sentience of its own.
Hogwarts chose whom to protect, whom to welcome, and – most importantly – whom to reject.
It had shown as much with Umbridge, denying her access to Dumbledore’s office, and it had proven itself a thousand times over through the years, reacting to danger as if it truly understood the needs of its students.
Harry knew that if he could attune himself to that ancient magic, he might just be able to ask the castle for something greater.
Now he stood before the gargoyle, eager anticipation fluttering in his chest, tinged with uncertainty. He cleared his throat pointlessly, feeling vaguely awkward.
“Erm… I don’t know the password,” he began, a bit sheepish. “I could stand here for hours listing every sweet I know, but I haven’t got the time. I’m here to stop Umbridge, but I need access to the office to—”
He was rambling, and he felt slightly ridiculous.
But his discomfort was cut short when the gargoyle statue interrupted him mid-sentence.
It moved aside, revealing the staircase.
Harry stared, stunned. He hadn’t actually thought it would work.
He grinned, pleased by this unexpected turn, and stepped forward.
Entering the headmaster’s office without Dumbledore felt strange – almost disrespectful.
It was ironic, really, how even though the man hadn’t shown him any real regard in recent times, hadn’t so much as acknowledged the truth about his family, here Harry was, still worried about showing disrespect to someone who hadn’t shown him any.
He sighed heavily as that realisation struck him. His feelings about Dumbledore were deeply conflicted.
Part of him still wanted to see him as the grandfather he’d never had. Another part wanted desperately to hate the man for what he’d done.
He wanted to hate him for the childhood he’d been forced to endure. He wanted to hate him for never once apologising after learning about the life he’d lived with the Dursleys.
And to top it all, he’d left him in the care of Snape – a man who, by all accounts, had despised him unconditionally.
Harry shook his head, trying to rid himself of those self-pitying thoughts, and stepped into the room, feeling his earlier guilt begin to fade.
Everything was unchanged. It all looked the same.
He glanced around, wondering what exactly he was meant to do next.
He knew for certain he was being watched – and the thought made him nervous.
He was well aware that the portraits of former headmasters were studying him closely, even if they pretended not to.
Some appeared to be sleeping, though he knew it was just for show, while others stared directly at him, making him feel even more uneasy.
“At last, someone’s bothered to come up here,” said Phineas Nigellus dryly.
Harry greeted him politely, feeling awkward now that the charade was over and every eye was fixed on him.
A low murmur began to rise – voices overlapping one another.
‘What are you doing here?’ ‘How did you get in?’
Questions upon questions, some full of outrage, others merely curious.
Harry knew he couldn’t waste time. He’d answer their questions later – if he had the chance.
He’d always believed it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, so he moved. The murmuring didn’t stop.
He had an idea in mind – perhaps a desperate one – but it was worth a try.
He approached the spot where he knew the Sorting Hat was kept, and without hesitation, he placed it on his head, silencing the background noise.
It was a relief to be free from the noise, to think clearly again.
He didn’t know if it would work, but it seemed a logical step.
The Sorting Hat was a powerful artefact, as old as the school itself, created by the Founders’ own magic.
“Well, well, Harry Potter… a sharp mind, yours, and certainly ambitious – much more than you like to admit,” the familiar voice of the Sorting Hat filled his mind.
“But you’re not here to be Sorted again, are you? What is it you seek, boy?”
Harry found himself scrambling to organise his chaotic thoughts.
Truthfully, he hadn’t expected to make it this far, so he hadn’t really come up with a solid plan – it had all been a move driven by urgency.
“I’m here because we can’t do this alone,” he thought, honestly. “Our plan’s working for now, but we can’t hold out much longer.
Umbridge will eventually catch a child and make an example of them.
I need Hogwarts to help us. We’re in danger. We’ve been hurt too many times already.
We’re fighting back, we’ve stood up – but we need help.”
The hat was silent for a few moments, and when it spoke again, its voice was solemn.
“The school is always listening, Harry Potter,” the ancient voice echoed. “Always. And you are not the first to come to her seeking help… but it is never easy. Hogwarts answers, but not in the way you expect.”
Harry swallowed hard, excitement starting to rise in his chest.
“What do I have to do? How can I ask for… protection? Time? A refuge?”
“It is not about asking,” the Hat said. “It is about offering.”
To Harry, that sounded a little cryptic, but he didn’t let it discourage him. At last, there was a glimmer of hope – a lifeline.
“I don’t… I don’t understand…”
Harry was confused. The Sorting Hat seemed to hesitate, as if searching for the right words.
“You ask for protection… but you do not yet fully grasp what it is you are truly asking, Harry Potter.”
“Then tell me,” he answered, impatience creeping into his voice.
The Hat’s voice grew darker, adopting a grave tone.
“Hogwarts is alive. It breathes, it listens… it loves. It is made of the magic and the sacrifices of those who built it and guarded it for centuries. But on its own, it cannot act. Not without a conduit.”
A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine.
“A conduit?” he replied, though his voice sounded far too calm to his own ears.
“A bridge. A living bond. Someone willing to offer themselves as an anchor, so that the school may bend its own rules. Without that bond, Hogwarts is… powerless. At this moment, all it can do is watch its children suffer – a silent witness to the injustices carried out within its walls.”
Harry was speechless.
The place he had always believed to be an unshakeable fortress, a living and protective home… was also a prisoner of its own nature.
Without a human link, without someone to shoulder the burden of its power, it could do nothing.
A lump rose in Harry’s throat.
He thought of Trevis’ frightened face. He saw again the faces of the children in the theatre classroom, some of whom he didn’t even know by name, but who had shown hope.
He couldn’t let them down.
“And what if I were the conduit?” he asked at last, his voice hoarse.
“What if I… bound myself to her?”
He tried to hide the insecurity he felt, even though he knew it was stupid – the Hat could see right through him.
The Hat fell silent for several long moments, and Harry had the strange sensation that it was listening.
Not just to him or his thoughts, but to something else. Something greater.
As though it were waiting for an answer that needed to come from elsewhere.
Then a second voice echoed in his mind – but this one was different.
Deeper. More powerful.
It almost didn’t sound like the Sorting Hat at all, but rather like an ancient entity speaking through it.
“Do you understand the price?”
Harry swallowed. Did he?
Truthfully, he’d barely grasped half of what had been said.
But he knew one thing for certain: he would do anything to ensure that no student suffered at Umbridge’s hands again.
He had made a promise, and he wasn’t going to break it.
“No,” he thought, “not entirely. But I’m willing to accept it anyway.”
The silence that followed was heavy with tension, as though the entire castle had stopped breathing to hear his answer.
“Then listen carefully,” said the Hat, slowly. “To become a conduit, you must bind yourself. Not with a spell. Not with a formula. But with an oath.
But you see, young Harry Potter… you must know that it is not without risks.
If your magic is not strong and stable enough, the weight of Hogwarts will crush you. The consequences would be catastrophic for your person.”
A cold chill ran down Harry’s spine at those words, though they did nothing to shake his resolve.
Despite the seriousness and solemnity of what had just been said, he couldn’t help thinking – with no small amount of irony – that if this oath didn’t kill him, Hermione certainly might, for keeping her in the dark, or Snape for being kidnapped against his will.
The memory of the murderous look on the Potions Master’s face sent another shiver through him.
He definitely wasn’t looking forward to facing that man again.
At this point, he couldn’t quite decide what was worse – being pulverised by the ancient magic of Hogwarts, turned into potion ingredients by Snape, or sitting through a full-on Molly Weasley-style lecture from Hermione about the risks he’d taken.
Well… he didn’t have time to dwell on which of those was the lesser evil, so he took a deep breath and braced himself.
“I accept,” he said simply, without embellishment.
For a moment, nothing happened.
He remained there, motionless, the Hat still on his head and his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for a sign. Something. Anything.
But nothing.
Not even the Hat said a word.
No deep voice. No arcane whisper. No vision, no blinding light lifting him from the floor like in those dramatic Muggle films Dudley used to watch.
Slowly, a bit uncertain and somewhat disappointed, he removed the Hat and looked around.
Silence.
The room was exactly as it had been. The portraits seemed to have returned to slumber – or were pretending to.
No magical vibration. No lightning. No explosion of primordial energy.
Then, suddenly, he felt it.
It started softly, almost imperceptibly.
A rustle in the air.
A faint vibration beneath his feet.
The air grew thicker, charged with electricity. Every molecule felt saturated with raw, ancient magic.
And then – it struck.
He could barely focus on what was happening around him.
He knew the portraits had abandoned all pretence and could hear exclamations – some surprised, others outraged, even angry.
But it all lasted only a moment, because then Harry couldn’t focus on anything but the pain.
A sharp stab pierced through his chest.
Harry doubled over, breathless, eyes wide as he fought to hold back a cry.
He reached out, desperately trying to grab onto something – but in vain.
He collapsed to his knees.
He couldn’t even explain what he was feeling – it wasn’t exactly pain, or at least, not just pain.
It was simply too much.
Too much energy. Too many thoughts. Too many… memories.
He couldn’t grasp them, couldn’t catch any detail or thread.
He only felt their crushing weight bearing down on him.
Then he sensed something different.
He felt something slipping beneath his skin – a fluid presence flowing through his veins, climbing up his spine, threading itself through his thoughts like a cold mist.
He couldn’t stop it.
It was as if Hogwarts – not the walls, not the towers, but her – was exploring every corner of his mind.
Every scar.
Every ache.
Every broken dream and every hope never spoken aloud.
Every thought.
As if she were searching for something… or simply getting to know him.
Never before had he truly realised how real Hogwarts was – how conscious.
Then suddenly, it was gone.
He was left breathless, drained on the floor.
His fists were clenched, gripping the wooden floorboards, trying to anchor himself.
Around him, the portraits had fallen silent.
All of them were watching him.
Phineas Nigellus’s eyes were unusually bright, for once free of sarcasm.
Dilys Derwent was whispering words in a language Harry didn’t recognise, and another portrait — an old man with a long beard and odd spectacles — had placed a hand over his heart.
Everyone was murmuring.
“I can’t believe my eyes… never before has a student…” whispered one of the portraits, their voice cracked with disbelief.
Harry was still on the floor, trembling. His knees felt weak, and his heart was still pounding furiously in his chest.
“Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. How could a child dishonour this school in such a way — and you… you do nothing! You accept it!”
Harry turned abruptly. Phineas Nigellus was no longer watching him with curiosity or even that strange, fleeting reverence. His face was twisted into a grimace of pure disdain, his eyes blazing with outrage.
“A brat,” he spat, flinging his words like knives. “An arrogant boy who presumes to bind himself to the very magic of Hogwarts! Such a thing… it’s unheard of! And you — instead of stopping him — indulge him, as if he were some kind of hero!”
A wave of irritated murmuring ran across the wall of portraits, but before anyone could reply, it was Armando Dippet who spoke. His voice was kind, but carried a quiet finality.
“Phineas, there are things even we cannot choose. The magic of this school is neither blind nor indulgent: it is demanding, and at times cruel. If it has recognised Mr Potter as worthy… then it has seen in him what perhaps you are not ready to see.”
Phineas glared at him with disdain, but Dippet remained unfazed.
“It could have chosen anyone — a teacher, a fully grown wizard — and yet, until today, it opened the door of this office to no one. No one but him. No one but this child—”
Phineas interrupted him furiously.
“These must be dark days indeed, if Hogwarts itself believes a child more worthy than any adult!”
Dippet did not falter. He continued as though he hadn’t even heard the angry outburst.
“If his magic were too weak or unworthy, Hogwarts would have rejected him. Instead, it welcomed him. It protected him. You must respect Hogwarts’ decisions — and we have a duty to support the new Headmaster.”
Headmaster?!
Harry was speechless. For a moment, he felt as though he were underwater: every sound was muffled, distant, as though the voices around him belonged to another world. Dippet’s words still echoed in the room, but he could no longer truly follow them.
Until now, he hadn’t fully understood what becoming the conduit meant, what it truly meant to bind himself to Hogwarts’ magic.
He’d thought he was simply offering his physical presence, his magic — a vessel for Hogwarts to act through — but he had naively failed to grasp that the conduit was, in essence, the Headmaster.
He had never imagined that this gesture — impulsive, desperate — would place him in the position left vacant since Dumbledore’s departure.
Only now did he truly realise the weight of what he had done.
His stomach dropped. He felt truly unworthy, as though he were about to step into shoes far too big for him, as though he had gone too far.
He cursed his own recklessness in silence. But then again, he had known the moment he crossed that threshold that it was a desperate plan — even if he hadn’t imagined this outcome in his wildest dreams.
He certainly didn’t feel worthy of taking Dumbledore’s place. Despite everything they had lived through — the silences, the clashes — he still recognised the greatness of that man.
He looked around. He didn’t feel equal to a single Headmaster present in the room.
And yet… Hogwarts had chosen him.
It had accepted him
he could feel it.
It was a strange feeling to describe, but he could sense it within him, in every wall that now felt like an extension of himself — they screamed acceptance.
Harry inhaled slowly, steadying his mind and pushing his fears behind the walls of Occlumency.
He didn’t yet feel worthy. He didn’t feel ready. But for the first time in days — perhaps years — he felt he was not alone.
Hogwarts stood with him.
And now, he was ready to carry out his plan.
He straightened up with effort, every muscle protesting, took a deep breath and schooled his face into something that wavered between resolve and determination.
“I know I’m not worthy to fill this role,” he said, his voice coming out firm — more assured than he felt inside.
But he knew he had to appear strong — he had to earn their trust.
“I know I don’t have the experience, or the wisdom… and I know that many of you probably think I have no right to be here.” He looked at each of the portraits in turn.
“But someone had to do something,” he said with fervour. His hands trembled slightly.
“Umbridge has crept into these walls like a disease, like poison. She’s poisoning Hogwarts.
So many students have suffered — and so many are still suffering — because of her.
She’s turned this place into an atmosphere of fear and oppression.
We’re no longer free to study, to learn, not even to speak. She’s stripped us of every right.
We live in constant fear — of being punished ourselves, or of watching someone we care about be mistreated.”
His voice cracked for a moment, but he quickly regained control.
“It’s not right. To many, Hogwarts is home. A refuge. A safe place. And that woman is tearing it away from us, day by day. She’s hurting us. She’s humiliating us. And I won’t stand by and watch. Not for another moment.”
He stepped forward. His gaze was fixed, determined.
“If saving this school — if protecting every single student from Umbridge’s claws — means I must take on the responsibility of becoming Headmaster… then I will.”
He lowered his head slightly in a respectful gesture.
“I’m sorry if this has offended any of you, or if it creates a scandal in the history of this institution. But I had to act. I had to do something. And I’m ready to face the consequences of my choices — to take full responsibility.”
He paused, then looked straight at Dippet.
“But not before I rid this castle of that woman. Not before I make sure that no child ever suffers another abuse at her hands.”
It sounded final, even to his own ears — a promise he fully intended to keep.
For a moment, no one said a word. Harry stood there, slightly trembling.
Then, just as he was about to lose patience, it was Armando Dippet — who had somehow become their spokesman — who spoke.
“Strong words… and just ones. That is how a true Headmaster of Hogwarts would speak.”
Harry nearly gaped like a fish. He stared directly at Dippet, who was smiling faintly.
There was a flicker of something in his eyes Harry couldn’t quite place, but he didn’t dwell on it — he was far too relieved.
He looked around. Some of the portraits were nodding slightly, as if lending their support.
Others were watching him with narrowed eyes, still weighing him. A few smiled openly.
He didn’t look towards Phineas Nigellus — he knew exactly what he’d find there, and he wasn’t about to let anyone rob him of this wind in his sails.
Harry dropped his gaze, unsure how to respond to such an unexpected compliment. Then he lifted it again, with determination.
“What… what do I have to do? For Hogwarts to work?”
This time, it wasn’t Dippet who answered.
“The school responds to the Headmaster. It will respond to your magic. Trust your instincts, Potter. Hogwarts will guide you.”
Harry nodded. A gentle current seemed to flow through him — a subtle gesture of encouragement.
It buoyed him — in a way he couldn’t even explain. It was the extra push he needed.
He was ready.
He bowed respectfully to the portraits, almost relieved to be leaving their constant scrutiny, when a voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Headmaster Potter… one last thing.”
Harry turned sharply, suddenly embarrassed by the title, and he knew the blush on his face betrayed it.
He turned to face Dippet, who was now smiling openly. Not lightly — but with a kind of warm solemnity.
“You may be interested to know that a certain Potions Master has managed to free himself. And he’s looking for you.”
Oh, brilliant.
He must’ve looked like a child caught with his hand in the honey jar.
Well, things had a way of getting complicated — and having a bloodhound on your tail certainly made everything harder.
He hadn’t expected Snape to break free so soon — though, in truth, he shouldn’t have been that surprised.
Still, he’d been wandless — how on earth had he managed it was beyond Harry’s imagination.
Well, the bright side was that the man, in his current homicidal mood, was probably after him — not the source of that suspicious noise earlier.
“A word of advice, Potter,” Dippet interrupted his mental ramblings. “Sometimes the most valuable help comes from where you least expect it. We often shut ourselves away in rigid beliefs, but the best solutions are born from the courage to open up — even when everything tells you not to. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, even if it comes from a place or a person you’ve always doubted.”
Dippet smiled slightly, as though passing on a secret without quite saying it aloud.
“Remember, Potter — Hogwarts is an old and complex school, full of ancient magics and complicated people. Sometimes, to protect what we love, we must also embrace what we don’t yet understand.”
Well, damn — that really did sound like Dumbledore.
Harry found himself thinking, almost wryly, that this must be an unspoken requirement for becoming Headmaster at Hogwarts.
He could imagine writing a CV for the job:
Required skills: master the art of speaking in riddles and cryptic phrases, overcomplicate simple ideas, and be capable of dispensing fortune-cookie wisdom.
“Thank you, sir,” he nodded, and turned, finally stepping out of the office.
He didn’t quite know what to make of that advice — it was a subtle way of telling him to trust an adult, and he knew it.
But his childhood — and his adolescence — had taught him that adults could not be trusted.
And he wasn’t about to place his hopes or his life in their hands today — especially not when the only adult he could theoretically turn to now that McGonagall was gone… was the dungeon bat himself.
And that man probably wouldn’t be inclined to listen to him in this moment. Not after what Harry had done — and especially not with what he had in his robes.
Snape’s wand, after all, still lay in his inner pocket, ever since Harry had disarmed him.
He was just beginning to wonder whether his stunt would get him expelled — or whether Snape would forget all rules and decorum and strangle him outright — when…

Chapter Text

He walked down the corridor, wearily, surprised that it had only taken about twenty minutes in the Headmaster’s office.
The devastation he saw in the hallways brought a flicker of lightness back to his otherwise heavy thoughts.
He smiled at the sight of two students—surely no older than second-years—doubled over with laughter, clinging to each other.
That was what they’d missed the most. That was what Umbridge had taken from them: the carefree atmosphere, the relaxed spirit that had always defined Hogwarts.
He sighed softly, thinking back to when he himself had been that carefree— but he struggled to find a single moment where he’d truly felt unburdened. Between Voldemort’s disasters, his godfather, and the Triwizard Cup, it was hard to recall a time at Hogwarts when he’d genuinely been at ease.
He tore his gaze away from the children, a twinge of melancholy in his chest, and quickly refocused, pulling the Marauder’s Map from his pocket.
The situation was still under control: Umbridge was still caught up in the trap, the students were all far from teachers and trouble, and Snape was somewhere on the third floor— undoubtedly combing every corner, hunting for his head.
He reached the theatre classroom slightly out of breath, slipped inside quickly, and hadn’t even shut the door before he was surrounded by his friends.
“Are you mad?” Ron exploded, grabbing him by the shoulder. “You actually lobbed a Dungbomb at Snape?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!”
Harry couldn’t quite tell whether his friend was more impressed or horrified by his actions, but he didn’t have time to ponder it.
Hermione, clearly shaken, was already at his side, clutching his arm as if trying to assess his mental state for herself.
“Harry,” she said, exasperated, “kidnapping a teacher wasn’t part of the plan.”
Harry sighed inwardly; he didn’t have the energy for this conversation, not after the exhaustion he still felt from the magical oath.
“I didn’t kidnap him,” he said tiredly, running a hand through his messy hair. “I… temporarily delayed him.”
Hermione stared at him as though he’d just grown another head.
“Oh, well, in that case,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes and shaking her head like she was trying to summon the strength to continue.
Ron shook his head, still stunned. “Do you even realise who we’re talking about? It’s Snape. Once he gets to you—”
Harry cut him off; he didn’t need to hear predictions about his future—he already knew he was doomed.
“Guys, with all due respect, we’re in the middle of a rebellion. I’m not keeping track of every rule I’m breaking.”
And if you knew what I’ve really done, he thought dryly, you wouldn’t be worried about a simple kidnapping.
A brief silence settled over the room, broken only by the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor.
“I have to admit, Potter,” said a drawling voice from behind them.
Draco, whom Harry hadn’t even noticed, was leaning casually against a pillar not far off, arms folded across his chest, gaze calculating.
“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve. Or the stupidity. But honestly, I wouldn’t miss the moment Severus gets his hands on you for the world. After what you’ve just done… well, it’ll be unforgettable.”
He ended with his trademark smug smirk.
Harry glanced at him sideways, completely unbothered, and replied lightly,
“Hope you bring popcorn, then. Make the most of the show.”
Ron let out an incredulous laugh, while Hermione looked at him as if she barely recognised him—or was weighing up whether he’d finally lost it.
Draco’s smile twitched, and for a moment, there was no mockery or hostility in his eyes. Harry understood: this was their truce, their way of speaking to one another.
He tried to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.
“Is everything under control here?” His tone grew serious. “Because I’ve got at least one problem. Snape somehow got out of the trap. He’s on the third floor now. Fortunately, for the moment, he’s more interested in hunting me down than figuring out where that noise came from—but that won’t last long, so I’ve got to deal with it.”
Hermione nodded, lips pressed into a firm line, and began reporting like she was delivering a field update.
“Everything’s going smoothly here. We’re already halfway through collecting testimonies. Luna and Susan are handling the first-years, while Ginny and Lavender are in charge of the older students.”
She passed it over to Ron, who added with satisfaction,
“No students have been caught—yet. Getting the house-elves involved was genius; they’ve been a huge help. The moment a teacher comes near, they move the students. It’s like having eyes everywhere. The only problem is the Inquisitorial Squad are stepping up their searches. It’s only a matter of time before the elves lose track of someone.”
Harry nodded. He’d expected this—it was the flaw in the plan.
Draco pushed off from the pillar with a half-smile. “And no one’s been injured by the pranks, in case anyone’s wondering. Well, except one fourth-year Slytherin who tried to sabotage a confetti trap… he sparkles now. But he had it coming.”
He paused theatrically before adding in an ironic tone,
“And for reasons completely beyond me, the second-years are winning the prank competition. You’d think with their lack of experience they’d be at a disadvantage, but no…”
Ron burst out laughing. “Oh yeah, Fred and George are losing their minds. Imagine what it’s like for them—getting beaten at their own game.”
They all laughed at that, but the tension remained beneath the surface, ready to snap.
After a moment, Harry looked at each of them in turn.
“We’re close. I can feel it. But this is also when the risk is highest.”
They all nodded solemnly at that, and he was grateful to have friends like these—yes, even Draco.
“How much more time do you think you’ll need, Hermione?” he asked.
She glanced back at the rows of desks and the students working intently.
“If everything keeps going to plan…” she began, eyes fixed on a parchment full of notes that updated in real time, tracking their progress, “…an hour. Maybe less. The testimonies we’ve gathered already are more than enough to prove systematic abuse.”
She looked up, brows furrowed with real concern.
“But we don’t know how long it’ll take the Ministry to respond. That’s the real issue. We can send them the evidence, but if they leave us hanging for too long… Umbridge will have all the time she needs to—”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a plan,” Harry interrupted sharply, his voice firm enough to silence any further thought.
Hermione stared at him, surprised, and for a moment, the room fell quiet.
“What kind of plan?” Ron asked, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and concern.
Harry crossed his arms and looked away, then replied, calm but resolute:
“The less you know, the better.”
Ron blinked. “You’re joking, right?”
“No,” said Harry seriously. “I’m not. And I’m not going to tell you—not because I don’t trust you. But if something goes wrong, it’s better none of you can say what I was doing. Just trust me, this once.”
Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but then she must have seen something in his eyes, because she said nothing.
Ron looked hurt, but stepped back too.
Draco, on the other hand, remained perfectly calm, his unreadable gaze fixed on Harry. He hadn’t said a word throughout the entire exchange.
“You said you need an hour, right?” Harry tried to shift the conversation.
Hermione looked at him; he could clearly see the inner struggle playing out behind her eyes.
The need to ask more questions clashed with the desire to trust him.
He saw the exact moment she relented, giving a small nod.
She still shot him a meaningful look — the kind that said plainly, “You’ll tell me everything later, not leaving a single detail out.”
Harry dipped his head in a silent promise. I will. Later.
She seemed to accept that — for now.
Sighing inwardly at what was turning into an endless day, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map and unfolded it with a swift motion, scanning it intently.
His brow furrowed.
“There’s a problem at the Great Hall…”
The others immediately gathered closer, intrigued.
“What kind of problem?” asked Ron, leaning over his shoulder.
“There’s a whole bunch of students here,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the Great Hall, “and Filch is heading their way — fast.” He pointed at the man in question, who was dangerously close to the students. “I don’t get it… They should’ve been moved already. The elves wouldn’t have let him get that close…”
He shook his head. “Either they’re busy somewhere else, or something slipped past them.”
He knew the elves weren’t omnipotent, and he’d always expected something like this might happen eventually — just not this soon. And of all people, it had to be Filch who managed to get through their defences.
It would’ve been far better if someone more friend than foe — like Flitwick or Sprout — had slipped past.
He sighed inwardly, cursing the streak of bad luck that seemed to haunt him.
“What about Snape?” asked Hermione, pulling his focus back to the map. “Still on the third floor?”
Harry did a double take when he checked again — the Potions Master was now heading down the stairs towards a corridor where other students were gathered.
Had he personally offended someone? Merlin himself, perhaps? And now he was being punished for it — because surely no one deserved this much rotten luck.
“Something’s wrong.” Harry stared at the map, the feeling growing stronger that something was very off. The elves had lost control of at least one location — maybe even two. That was already too many in his eyes.
Either they were failing — or worse, they were being blocked.
The thought of Dobby, his friend, hurt because of him, made Harry’s chest tighten.
“Harry, maybe the elves are just responding to Umbridge’s will,” Hermione said gently, clearly sensing where his thoughts were headed. “She is the Headmistress, after all…”
Harry said nothing. He knew that wasn’t possible — he was the true Headmaster now. But his friends couldn’t know that yet.
He pushed the thought aside for the moment and focused on the more immediate problem.
“We’ve got to move quickly,” he said, folding the Marauder’s Map again. “If the elves are blocked or manipulated, that means Filch and the Inquisitorial Squad have more freedom to move around. I’ll go warn the students in the Great Hall, try to buy them some time to escape.”
Hermione looked at him, worried. “And Snape? You can’t be in two places at once.”
Draco stepped forward, his expression serious — for once devoid of sarcasm. “I’ll deal with him.”
Harry paused, momentarily surprised — though not because Draco had volunteered. Lately, he’d come to understand Malfoy better, to see beneath the surface.
No, what truly surprised him was that Ron hadn’t spoken up first.
He turned to his friend, who was looking a little sheepish, almost as if he’d been beaten to it. Ron gave a small shrug and an awkward half-smile, while Draco, with a smug little smirk, added almost playfully:
“No offence, Weasley — but I’ll take this one.”
At Ron’s startled expression, he went on with casual cheek:
“What’s wrong, Weasel? Don’t look so shocked. I’m just as eager as you are to bring down the toad.”
The exchange made Harry smile slightly — but it didn’t last.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, looking Draco straight in the eye.
Draco scoffed, almost insulted by the question.
“I know Severus better than anyone,” he said with confidence. “I know how he thinks. And I know how to outmanoeuvre him.”
With that, they split up, each heading to their assigned task.
The echo of Harry’s own footsteps filled the corridor as he made his way towards the Great Hall, his heart pounding madly in his chest.
He arrived at the opposite end of the corridor from Filch and slipped in through a side entrance.
He was out of breath when he found himself before a group of students — most of them older than him — who seemed caught up in a lively discussion.
“Out! Now! Filch is coming—”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before three things happened at once.
The first: the side door, usually used by teachers, burst open — and in came Snape, gripping Draco tightly in a hold that looked anything but comfortable.
Snape’s expression was thunderous, though he remained silent. When his eyes swept across the room and locked with Harry’s, a chill ran down Harry’s spine — every nerve in his body screaming that danger was near.
And Snape was dangerous. There was no mistaking it.
Harry’s gaze moved to Malfoy, still clenched in Snape’s grip. He was trying to wear his usual haughty expression, but Harry recognised it for what it was — a mask.
So much for “I know how to handle him,” Harry thought wryly. In truth, though, he couldn’t really blame him. The situation was desperate, and Snape didn’t miss much. He was almost grateful Draco had even tried.
The second thing that happened — and it didn’t surprise him in the slightest — was that Filch finally entered the Great Hall.
From the look on his face, it might as well have been Christmas morning — he was practically gleeful at the chance to drag someone off to Umbridge.
The third thing — and this was the one Harry hadn’t expected at all — was that Umbridge herself swept into the Great Hall, only moments later.
On instinct, he pinched himself, half convinced he’d somehow slipped into a nightmare.
He had the urge to check the Marauder’s Map again — he knew she’d been trapped, and she was supposed to remain there for hours.
How had she broken free so soon?
Or… had she somehow found a way to fool the Map?
No. That wasn’t possible. The Map didn’t lie.
Right?
Or maybe it did.
Lately, his certainties seemed as fragile as a house of cards.
And just like a house of cards collapsing with a single breath, he felt himself falter — his legs weak, like a gust of wind might knock him over.
If Snape’s expression had been thunderous, Umbridge’s was ten times worse. She looked a state: hair completely dishevelled, a manic energy clinging to her, and her eyes — wild, unhinged.
When her gaze locked onto his, Harry understood immediately — he was going to pay for this. And he’d pay dearly.
“You!?” Umbridge shouted, fury twisting her face as she stormed towards him. “I knew you were behind all this, Potter!”
Harry saw the tip of her wand aimed directly at him, but still he couldn’t move. No one made a sound. Harry knew there were students all around him, and behind him, out of her line of sight, were more students… as well as Draco and Snape..
What he needed now was time. Time for the others. Time for the plan. Time for Hermione, Ron, Draco — all of them.
“You thought you could take Hogwarts, didn’t you?” she hissed, tilting her head slightly, madness gleaming in her eyes.
“You thought that gathering a bunch of schoolchildren and pulling silly pranks would be enough to topple order… But Hogwarts isn’t yours, Potter. It’s mine.”
He laughed.
Not a loud or mocking laugh, but brief, almost weary.
“You’re wrong,” he said steadily. “Hogwarts is not yours. Never has been.”
A murmur rose among the students—an electric whisper that pulsed through the Hall. Harry’s words had struck a spark of rebellion. They were true. They were heartfelt.
As impossible as it seemed, Umbridge’s scowl only deepened. Her lips pressed tight, her eyes slits of gleaming fury.
“That’s enough!” she screeched, her voice rising by at least an octave.
Harry was unprepared when she struck.
He didn’t expect Umbridge to cast a spell in front of so many witnesses—and in that miscalculation, he had erred. And that mistake cost him dearly.
With a sharp flick of her wand, Umbridge flung him against the nearest brick wall.
Harry slammed into it violently, then dropped to his knees. Pain exploded in his shoulder, blinding him for an instant. All around him seemed muffled.
A shocked murmur rose from the crowd; someone shouted, but to his ears it was just a distant buzz.
He forced himself to fish his wand from beneath his robes and staggered upright, ready to face her.
Umbridge stared at him, taken aback. She hadn’t expected a response. In her mind, anyone who wanted to stay at Hogwarts would never dare to attack its Head.
The crowd seemed to share that belief—the murmur grew, restless, uneasy.
But what Harry did not know— not yet—was that, hidden just behind him, a certain Potions Master was already poised to intervene. Ready to risk his own cover to save the son of his red‑ haired friend.
Harry took a deep breath, gripping his wand tightly.
With a silent whisper—more gesture than incantation—he sent a silent Stupefy towards Umbridge.
A hush of astonishment swept the Great Hall. Harry had normally avoided drawing attention, content to fade into the background—perhaps a habit born of a childhood where his own failures were expected to make Dudley shine. He had never sought the centre of attention; rather, situations had dragged him into it. But not now. Not today.
Umbridge’s eyes widened, frustration and fury etched across her face. She raised a shield that barely held back his spell.
“How dare you?” she shrieked. “How dare you attack me?” Her voice trembled with rage, furious that her authority had been challenged.
Harry didn’t flinch. He met her gaze and spoke with finality:
“The days when we bow our heads and endure your abuses are over. I will not tolerate it anymore. I will not allow it.”
At that moment, the clatter of hurried footsteps and excited voices filled the Hall—professors and students rushed in. The teachers worked to restore order, while Harry heard Hermione’s voice shout something he couldn’t make out above the din.
Her presence made him smile inside—her being here meant only one thing: they had finished gathering the testimonies.
Umbridge’s voice pulled his attention back to her.
“You really think you can stop me with worthless elves and silly pranks?” she sneered, radiating that air of superiority she always carried.
Harry clenched his jaw. He knew something was wrong with the elves—this would disrupt phase three of the plan. If the elves were currently incapacitated, there would be no way to deliver the evidence.
He didn’t lose heart. He stared at the woman, locked onto those diseased eyes, and couldn’t help but laugh at her stupidity.
The voices around him fell silent. All eyes riveted on him.
“You know,” he said quietly, “adults have a habit of underestimating us. But you, in particular, have a real talent for stupidity. If you honestly believe those are just ‘silly pranks’… then you’re even more of a fool than I thought. And trust me — that’s saying something.”
The crowd seemed to hold its breath; some gasped.
They were watching this exchange as if it were a tennis match, and now all the attention was on the toad. Her retort was swift.
Umbridge, visibly enraged, stamped her foot. Her complexion turned a deep purple—reminding Harry vaguely of Uncle Vernon.
“That’s enough!” she bellowed, voice shaking. “Crucio!”
The air froze.
Harry smiled inwardly: this was the mistake she’d been waiting to make. In front of witnesses, before the professors, Umbridge was confirming her cruelty—revealing her true nature in plain sight. No one, not even the Ministry, could ignore that now.
In that instant, everything happened at once—some rushed forward in vain, others cried out.
A red beam shot towards him. His Seeker instincts kicked in and he dived sideways, narrowly avoiding the unforgivable pain he knew would come.
Harry spun to see where the curse had landed, fearful it might hit someone else.
But that fear evaporated. The curse had smashed into a kind of golden shield that had appeared out of thin air.
Harry stared at it in amazement. It separated him and Umbridge from the rest. Around the edges, Harry saw a few figures—he didn’t have time to identify who they were.
He smiled, realizing this must be the castle’s magic responding to his unspoken wish that nobody should get hurt.
If only he could learn to channel it—to incapacitate or at least confine Umbridge somewhere.
At that thought, a voice echoed in his mind—ancient, deep, almost a whisper:
“It is time, Headmaster. She has broken every sacred oath. Speak your will, and it shall be done.”
Meanwhile, Umbridge, oblivious to the thought stirring in Harry’s mind, snarled:
“Playing with ancient magic, Potter?” she taunted, though Harry could hear the fear buried beneath her words.
“Dolores Umbridge,” he said firmly, the words flowing as if they’d been whispered to him all along, as if he’d always known what to say. “You have been judged unworthy by Hogwarts itself. You have betrayed your position, you have harmed those you were sworn to protect. By the will of the school—and its Headmaster—I now declare you guilty… and sentence you to spend the remainder of your time, until your formal trial by the Ministry, in the dungeons beneath Hogwarts.”
His voice held a solemnity he’d never felt before.
With that, Umbridge vanished with a sharp POP, and Harry knew with certainty that she had ended up exactly where he said she would.
There was a moment of silence—the shield had vanished.
His legs gave out, and he found himself on the floor. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and the throbbing pain in his shoulder was the only thing keeping him conscious.
The roar that erupted in the room reached his ears muffled and distant. He felt utterly drained of strength.
He sensed someone drop to their knees beside him, trying to get his attention.
“Harry!” Hermione’s worried voice pierced through the fog in his head. “Harry, are you all right?”
He didn’t have time to answer before someone yanked him to his feet—luckily, by his good arm.
A moment before he looked up, he already knew it was Snape. His expression was unreadable.
“You’re coming with me,” he barked. “Now.”
Harry didn’t resist—he hadn’t the strength. He could hear his friends protesting on his behalf, but he couldn’t focus on what they were saying. All he could concentrate on was putting one foot in front of the other, and even that felt like a monumental effort.
He knew the professor must have realised he was carrying most of his weight, but he didn’t care.
Snape said nothing. That unreadable expression still fixed on his face, but Harry knew he must be furious.
He would make him pay for this—he would find a way to punish him for what he’d done. The man had a unique talent for killing the mood.
He hadn’t even allowed him time to savour the victory over Umbridge—or to get the nap he so desperately needed.
It felt like only moments had passed before he was already at the now-familiar door to the man’s office.
Once inside, Snape dropped him unceremoniously into the chair in front of his desk.
He still hadn’t said a word. Harry watched him cast the usual protective charms to prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation.
He hadn’t even the strength to come up with a speech or an excuse—he just waited to see what the man had to say and braced himself for what was coming.
When Snape turned around, arms crossed and lips tight:
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he said curtly.
It took Harry a moment to understand what he was referring to, and when he did, heat flared across his cheeks.
He moved quickly to retrieve the object from the fold of his robes, the motion causing a sharp stab of pain. He held back the gasp that threatened to escape, but Snape noticed.
Without a word, Snape took the wand from him—his long, elegant fingers curling around the handle in a brisk, precise motion. Harry held his breath, expecting the explosion.
It didn’t take long to come.
“I swear, Potter…” he began, voice low and sharp. “The number of idiotic situations you manage to get yourself into… the number of dangers you deliberately choose to face… it never ceases to amaze me.”
His voice rose with every word, and Harry instinctively shrank back against the chair.
“I do hope you realise just how many rules you’ve broken. Hundreds, without a flicker of hesitation. And all of it, apparently, with no thought whatsoever for the consequences. What I can’t quite understand is why… because frankly, I find it hard to believe you orchestrated all of this just to cause a bit of chaos.”
Two things dawned on Harry in that moment.
The first was that what had happened inside the golden circle hadn’t been witnessed from the outside.
The second was that he might just have an opening to complete phase three of the plan.
He only had to decide whether he could trust the man before him—and honestly, he wasn’t sure he could.
But then Dippet’s mysterious words came back to him—about trusting someone unexpected.
Perhaps it was the exhaustion talking, but sitting here, body aching, mind overloaded with worry, he found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—they made sense.
That perhaps, in this, he could trust the man.
He’d seen the way Snape had tended to his Slytherins that day—especially when one of his own had been hurt. He’d seen the helplessness in him when he couldn’t do anything to help.
So, without really thinking about it, he reached out with his good arm and grabbed the man.
“Snape… I know I’m probably your least favourite person right now, and that you likely hate me. Not just for disarming you, or for setting a trap for you… or for the Dungbomb,” Harry began, speaking far too fast. He realised he was rambling—he always did that when nervous.
Snape was looking at him with an expression Harry couldn’t quite read. He seemed more concerned for Harry’s sanity than angry—though that might’ve been the haze in Harry’s mind playing tricks on him. He wasn’t sure.
“You need to help me,” he said, then quickly corrected himself, remembering who he was talking to. “You need to help them.”
He paused for a moment, gauging the man’s reaction—those obsidian eyes were fixed on him with such intensity that he was tempted to look away.
“You have two minutes to explain yourself, Potter. Don’t make me regret this,” Snape said curtly after a few seconds, taking his seat behind the desk.
Harry, caught off guard, didn’t know where to start—so he began at the beginning.
Two minutes hadn’t been enough. Perhaps not even ten. But by the time he finished, he’d told him everything.
He spoke of how he’d convinced the house-elves to help them, of how they’d coordinated pranks and traps to distract Umbridge, and how it was all a cover for gathering testimonies.
He described how the different Houses had been brought together to work as one. And finally, he revealed what he had done in the Headmaster’s office.
And then he waited.
He looked at the professor, waiting for a reaction—he hadn’t dared to meet his eyes once while speaking. But he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
Snape looked visibly shaken. Then, all at once, his expression shut down again—blank, unreadable. Nothing betrayed what he was thinking.
No one spoke. The seconds dragged on, and the longer the silence stretched, the more nervous Harry became—until the anxiety finally made him speak.
“Look, I know I’ve broken a load of rules, and that I basically kidnapped you, and you probably want to murder me for it. But I’m asking for your help. If not for me, then do it for the students—”
A hand shot up abruptly, and Harry stopped mid-sentence. He flinched— half- expecting a blow— but it never came.
He realised, after a moment, that Snape had only raised a hand to cut off his rambling. And he was certain the man had noticed his reaction— but chose not to comment on it, for which Harry was grateful.
“Be quiet for a moment, Potter,” Snape said, his voice rougher than harsh.
Harry froze. He didn’t even dare to swallow.
Snape stood slowly, the chair creaking beneath him.
He ran a tired hand through his greasy hair in a distracted gesture, as though he’d forgotten Harry was sitting right there.
Harry felt almost guilty for the weight he’d just dumped on his shoulders.
“An army of students, led by a fifteen-year-old, aided by house-elves, childish pranks, and a magical oath you barely understand…” he said finally, his tone slow and reflective. “Do you have any idea of the sheer magnitude of what you’ve done?”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He was struggling to reconcile this version of Snape with the one he had expected—especially after having trapped him.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely at last. “But I had to. Someone had to do something.”
Snape let out a low sound—almost a grunt. Not one of disgust—more like weariness.
“And why, Mr Potter, did you have to be the one to take charge?” he asked, then paused and gave a wry, bitter smile. “Never mind—I know all too well your distrust of adults. And your unshakeable need to save the world, even when no one’s asked you to.”
The words, though sharp, didn’t carry Snape’s usual venom—and Harry didn’t know what to say. He just wanted it to be over.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” he said, uncertain what the man wanted to hear.
“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence, Potter. I know perfectly well you’re not sorry in the slightest. And this time, I’ll overlook the staggering number of rules you’ve just admitted to breaking, because…” He gave a tired grimace, clearly irritated by the admission. “What you’ve done might actually work.”
He made a weary face, almost exasperated.
“And don’t pull that astonished face, Potter. I do know a solid plan when I see one. And, much as it pains me to admit it… this one was.”
At some point during the speech, Harry’s jaw had dropped open—and he couldn’t quite manage to close it again.
Snape huffed when he realised he was too shocked to speak. He turned away, muttering something that sounded vaguely like, “Theatrical, melodramatic Gryffindors.”
It took Harry a few moments to recover, and even then, he felt utterly speechless.
What happened next didn’t help at all—Snape, who had disappeared for a short while, returned holding what Harry’s trained eye instantly recognised as healing potions.
“Now, Potter, before you carry on and see your little plan through, let me treat your shoulder”
Right. He’d lost it. Completely.
He had finally gone mad.
Exhaustion had caught up with him at last, and now he was hallucinating— seeing and hearing things that couldn’t possibly be real.
Next, he’d probably imagine Voldemort walking through the door asking for a game of wizard’s chess.
But of course, none of that happened.
And the Snape standing in front of him was still, quite incredibly, real.
He almost reached out to touch the man, just to check he was actually there—but pulled back at the last second.
“Potter, we haven’t got all day!” Snape snapped impatiently.
Right, Harry told himself. Just go along with it.
“I’ll do it myself,” he said, reaching for the supplies in Snape’s hands.
“Potter, stop being childish and let me help you.”
But Harry stood his ground. There was no way he was letting that man see him vulnerable again.
Snape eventually let out a dramatic sigh.
“Fine, Potter. But don’t come whining to me when you’ve made a complete mess of yourself.”
Harry exhaled in relief, glad the man hadn’t forced him. He took the supplies and moved slightly to one side for a bit of privacy, glancing at Snape as he did so. The man turned away, muttering something about “ridiculous children and their stubbornness.”
Harry slowly removed his robes, suppressing every groan. He’d have preferred to do this in private, but he knew Snape wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily.
With the robe gone, he got a better look at his shoulder now that the thick fabric was out of the way. He’d already known something was wrong—but from the angle alone, it was obvious the shoulder was dislocated.
A diagnostic spell confirmed it. He sighed internally, knowing what he had to do— and knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Over the summers—thanks to his uncle—this had happened before, and he’d done it manually. With magic, at least, it would be a little easier. Still painful, though.
He mentally prepared himself, using the Occlumency techniques he’d learnt to block out pain, and without thinking too much, he realigned the dislocated bone with a flick of his wand.
A loud ‘CLOP’ echoed through the silent room, and for a few moments, everything went white. The pain was intense—but he didn’t make a sound.
He knew eyes were on him now, but he refused to let it distract him.
He carefully selected the right potions from the set Snape had given him. The professor was clearly watching to make sure he didn’t accidentally poison himself.
Not out of concern, of course—but it would’ve been difficult for him to explain why the Chosen One’s corpse was lying in his office.
Harry recognised the potions by their characteristic colours, sniffed them briefly to double-check they were correct, and swallowed them down.
Then he hesitated, and before turning back, picked out the invigorating draught from the collection as well—something to wash away the fatigue and give him the energy he needed to finish what he had to do.
Once he was done, he finally turned to face the professor, who was watching him in a strange way.
Harry didn’t have the time to psychoanalyse Snape, nor the inclination—he just wanted to put an end to all of this.
“I’m ready. Let’s go.”
And with that, the improbable duo set off towards what had once been the base during the rebellion.

Chapter Text

Walking side by side with Snape made him uneasy.

Especially given the delicate balance they were currently navigating.

Harry was tense, glancing sideways at Snape, still not entirely convinced the man wouldn’t retaliate for having thrown a Dungbomb at him—and for having practically kidnapped him.

They weren’t far from the theatre classroom; since they had come from the man’s office, they were already in the dungeons.

He used the enchanted galleon to let his friends know where he wanted them to meet.

They entered the now-empty room, the telltale signs of their activities still visible.

The desks were still arranged in the formation they’d used to collect testimonies, sheets of parchment scattered here and there.

To the right, he could see a blackboard listing the progress made—now completed.

He felt embarrassed, faced with such clear evidence of his infractions, and, in order to have something to do and avoid looking at the man, he began to gather the papers.

He did it the Muggle way—bending down to pick them up—and realised they were drafts of testimonies.

‘…and then Headmistress Umbridge forced me to write failure is what I’m destined for until my hand bled, no matter how much I begged, how much I cried. She wouldn’t stop and then…’

He quickly looked away, rage flaring back in full force—she was pure evil.

He kept gathering the sheets, deliberately avoiding focusing on what was written.

He collected the papers mechanically, lost in the task, and nearly jumped when Snape spoke.

“You didn’t seem unfamiliar with treating your own injuries, Potter.”

He hadn’t expected Snape to speak, let alone comment on what had happened earlier.

He turned to look at him and saw the man’s gaze fixed on him, studying him like an ingredient in a potion.

Being put under a microscope was not something Harry enjoyed, but he knew he couldn’t exactly tell the man to mind his own business—he was already walking on thin ice these days.

So he made a noncommittal noise and turned away again, intending to ignore the man.

The dungeon bat didn’t seem to get the hint and carried on undeterred.

“Of course, your oversized uncle has proven himself quite capable of breaking your bones. The last time I recall, after all…”

The mention of the man having witnessed his vulnerability, how pathetic he’d been, made Harry snap.

“Where are you going with this—” he said sharply. “—sir?” he added, a beat later.

Now they were face to face again, and Harry stared into those obsidian eyes.

“Merely observing, Potter…” Snape said, his voice low and unreadable.

“…that for someone who is, ostensibly, still a child, you seem intent on shouldering responsibilities well beyond your station.”

He made a vague gesture around the room.

“When, on occasion, all it might require… is the simple act of asking for help.”

“Oh, right, because so much was done before,” Harry shot back, feeling defensive now that his home life had been brought into the conversation.

“Well, Potter. I will concede you this—eventually, yes, we did have a plan.One carefully agreed upon by the staff, designed specifically to curtail Umbridge’s reach.” He paused, his eyes narrowing.

“Had you seen fit to place even a modicum of trust in us, we might not find ourselves in this… predicament.”

“And why would I have trusted you? No one ever—” He broke off, unwilling to spill anything too personal to him.

But the man looked at him as if he already knew what he had been about to say.

“It all comes back to your home life, Potter.It’s not that you’re incapable of trust—it’s that you refuse it.”

“That’s not—”

Snape raised a hand to cut him off.

“No, Potter, I’m not blaming you. I understand why. But that kind of thinking will get you killed—or cost you the war. How do you expect to defeat the Dark Lord if you refuse to trust your own allies?”

Harry was speechless. Of all people, he hadn’t expected Snape to be the one having this conversation with him.

Bloody hell… if kidnapping the man led to heartfelt conversations, he’d make sure never to do it again.

This version of Snape was unsettling—still as gruff, still full of snide remarks and scowls—but he hadn’t yet blown up, and that was strange.

Perhaps it was just because the man was secretly grateful that Harry had taken down his horrid boss.

Or maybe…

“You’re not holding off on decapitating me just because I’m technically your boss now, are you?” Harry said before he could stop himself.

He froze in his tracks and had the sudden urge to facepalm.

He looked at Snape warily, expecting an apocalyptic fury—and was surprised to see the man simply roll his eyes.

Then Snape turned from the blackboard he’d been observing and looked him straight in the eye.

His expression shifted into that unreadable look that could mean anything—or nothing at all.

“Potter,” he said in that glacial calm voice of his, “And who’s to say,” he added in a silky, dangerously calm tone,

“that I haven’t merely played along with your delusions… just to lure you here, to this isolated place, alone and unprotected, knowing you’re now in a position of power, and stage a coup?”

Harry froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He looked at the man, who seemed utterly serious, and felt a spike of pure terror.

Until he saw it—the slight twitch of his lips. Barely there.

Snape was joking?

Snape—that Snape—was joking with him? And hadn’t ripped his head off for that cheeky comment?

He must have hit his head during the Umbridge fight and not noticed.

He was relieved when the door opened and his friends walked in—grateful not to be alone any longer with the man who was subtly throwing him off balance.

Hermione was at his side in an instant.

“Harry, are you okay? Are you hurt?” she said, already throwing her arms around him. “I can’t believe she attacked you in front of everyone—and I have no idea what happened to Umbridge. Can you tell me—”

“Miss Granger,” Snape interrupted, voice cold, “if you’re quite finished rambling, we might actually finish what you started.”

Hermione jumped, startled, and Harry realised she hadn’t noticed the professor’s presence. She immediately looked embarrassed.

Now free of the bushy-haired tornado, he could see that Ron was also there—and unlike Hermione, he’d clearly noticed the other occupant of the room. His tense posture said as much.

To Harry’s surprise, Draco was there too—and considering he had only sent the message to Hermione, he was caught off guard.

Not that he minded. Lately, the blond had seemed oddly at ease around the Golden Trio.

He glanced at Snape, but if the man was surprised to see one of his Slytherins with two Gryffindors, he didn’t show it.

The same went for Draco, who didn’t seem surprised at all by his Head of House’s presence.

But then again, with Slytherins, it was all about subtlety—and they were good at hiding what they truly thought.

There was a moment of awkward silence—He could feel the tension rising. He knew Ron was about to say or do something he’d regret.

“Hermione, could you give me the collected testimonies?” he said, cutting through the silence before Ron could speak.

She looked surprised but didn’t question him. She stepped forward and handed him the stack.

Ron, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so easily convinced.

“Harry, are you sure?” he asked, worry clear in his voice, glancing between Harry and Snape as if checking for signs of coercion.

And Harry could read the unspoken part too: Harry, are you sure? This is Snape we’re talking about.

Harry tried to reassure him with a look, but the redhead still seemed unsure.

He reached for the three Muggle envelopes Hermione had prepared.

Each envelope, Harry knew, contained 78 files—just as 78 was the number of students who had suffered under Umbridge.

What he held now was heavy—the weight of what it contained pressing on his heart.

Seventy-eight children—because that’s what they were, in the end, just children, whether in first or seventh year.

Seventy-eight people whose lives had been marked forever.

Seventy-eight people who had been wronged.

Seventy-eight people who had been humiliated.

“We made three copies of every statement. The original plan was to send one to the Ministry, one to The Daily Prophet, and the third to a solicitor.”

Snape gave him a questioning look at the last part, and he felt himself flush under the attention.

“Well… I figured the Ministry might try to destroy the testimonies, or just ignore us entirely.

I considered two ways to force their hand: first, to make everything public, so they’d have no choice but to act under public pressure.

And if even that didn’t work, as a last resort I thought a legal guardian could represent our interests.

To avoid a situation like this, I got in touch with a solicitor a while ago, gave them a heads-up they might receive post from me.

With owls being monitored, the only ones I could trust were the house-elves… I know it sounds paranoid or stupid…”

He started rambling and missed the flicker of surprise in Snape’s eyes.

“Harry, stop—it was a smart plan,” Hermione said warmly, making him feel a bit better.

Harry lowered his gaze in embarrassment, now staring at the bundle of files clutched in his hands.

A renewed sense of determination surged within him.

He looked at the man—intensely—wondering if he was making the right choice.

If he could truly trust him.

The Potions Master met his gaze, allowing the boy to study him, to make his decision.

It seemed like an eternity passed before Harry finally let out a sigh. Trusting someone was still difficult—but this time, he felt he wasn’t wrong.

“I think it’s best you leave now. From here on, I’ll handle it,” Snape said gruffly, taking the file Harry handed him and slipping it into a pocket of his robes.

He turned and made to leave, when Ron—who had been a ticking time bomb—finally exploded.

“That’s it? And we’re supposed to trust him with something like this?”

His voice rang through the room, loaded with frustration and fury.

Snape stopped a few steps from the door, rigid. He turned slowly, his eyes flashing toward the redhead.

“As it happens, Weasley, you don’t have any other options. You came to ask me for help, not the other way around.”

Ron huffed at that, and Harry’s eyes widened, bracing for Snape’s full-blown wrath. He didn’t want things to spiral out of control, so he grabbed Ron’s arm firmly.

“Ron, enough,” he said with steady resolve.

“You can’t be serious, Harry—he’s going to ruin everything,” Ron shot back, staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Ron, I asked him. I asked for his help,” Harry admitted, watching as disbelief flickered across his friend’s face, quickly followed by something close to betrayal.

“You… what?!” the Gryffindor burst out, clearly stunned.

“Well, if you’re done with your melodrama, I have work to do,” Snape cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm and irritation.

With a dramatic swirl of his black robes, he turned and left the room, leaving Harry with three people who now all wore the same look of stunned disbelief—though in varying degrees.

The silence that followed Snape’s departure was almost suffocating.

Harry looked at each of his friends in turn, silently grateful that at least two-thirds of them weren’t completely mad at him.

He couldn’t really blame Ron. They had always shared everything—including, over the years, a healthy dislike for Snape.

But Ron had a tendency to see things in black and white, missing all the nuances in between.

Not that Harry suddenly liked Snape. It didn’t matter how much he disliked the idea of having to trust that man in particular—he had understood the necessity of it, and he had done what had to be done.

That didn’t mean he trusted the man completely now—but he could trust him in this.

Harry let out a tired sigh, wishing for what felt like the hundredth time that day that tomorrow would come quickly.

Now that they were alone, it was time to share the information—because if he didn’t do it willingly, Hermione would drag it out of him. She was already visibly itching to ask questions.

Before he could start, though, he needed to check on the house-elves. He was relieved when, voicing his concern, Hermione quickly reassured him. She launched into a breathless explanation of everything that had happened after he’d been dragged away.

Harry listened in silence, face weary, though deep down he almost wished he had been there—he wanted to see the Great Hall erupt in cheers when Umbridge disappeared.

Ron, who had been sulking until a moment ago, brightened instantly, letting go of his grudge—at least for now.

“You should’ve seen Filch’s face, Harry! He walked out like we’d crushed his dreams—took away his idol!” Ron said, laughing. “And Flitwick—oh man, he set off a whole chain of fireworks in the Hall. Guess ever since Fred and George blew up his office, he’s gotten a taste for chaos…”

Hermione smiled faintly, but her expression quickly turned serious again.

“The professors were searching the second floor—they were looking for missing students. They hadn’t found a trace. Then, in the east wing, they discovered an old disused classroom. Inside was a cabinet… and in it, the house-elves. They were trapped by some kind of advanced dark magic. Luckily, Professor Flitwick recognized the curse and managed to break it.”

Harry nodded, relieved that at least that part was resolved. He knew Umbridge was behind it, but still couldn’t figure out how she had evaded the map.

“The celebration’s still going on,” Hermione added. “After Umbridge vanished, the professors officially ended the prank war, warning of severe consequences for anyone who kept it up. But apparently… a winner was declared.”

“Who?” asked Harry, raising an eyebrow. He vaguely remembered how, oddly, instead of competing by House, they’d been split up by year groups.

“The second-years,” Ron replied, still sounding incredulous. “Not only did they win—they managed to prank Fred and George with a glowing booger bomb. Beat them at their own game!”

Harry burst into laughter, imagining the twins covered in the described neon-green mess.

“They did not take it well,” Hermione said. “They’re still sulking—stinking and furious—trying to figure out how they lost.”

Harry shook his head with a small smile, but it quickly faded when Hermione grew serious again.

“Hagrid finally got the magical creatures under control. And… from what I overheard, the professors are calling an emergency meeting.”

“A meeting?” Harry asked, interest piqued.

Hermione nodded. “From what I gather, they think something has… changed. They’re saying there’s something different in the air, as if Hogwarts itself is reacting to a new force. I don’t really understand what they meant.”

Harry visibly flinched.

He knew exactly what had changed.

It was him.

Hogwarts now recognized him as Headmaster.

And the professors—whether consciously or not—were starting to feel it.

Hermione noticed his reaction and fixed him with a sharp look.

“Harry? What is it?”

Harry stayed quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath.

It was time.

Before he could speak, someone else beat him to it.

“It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the reason for this change,” Draco said—his first words since they’d entered the room.

Harry stared, speechless, into the Slytherin’s calculating eyes, wondering how he’d figured it out.

He gave a small nod, then took another breath and looked at the three of them.

“Yes. It was me,” he said, pausing to find the right words.

“It may sound crazy—maybe even like a bad joke—but you’re looking at the current Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Saying it out loud felt far stranger than thinking it.

Hermione made a strangled noise halfway between a gasp and a shriek, clapping a hand to her mouth.

Draco, who had deduced something had changed, clearly hadn’t guessed this. His stunned expression said it all.

“Well, Potter… even for you, this is insane,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Harry looked to Ron, searching for a reaction. The redhead looked genuinely surprised—but not nearly as shocked as Harry had expected after dropping that bomb.

Ron caught his glance and shrugged.

“Don’t look at me like that, mate. I know you well enough to expect anything from you.”

He paused, as if considering something, then his eyes lit up.

“Wait a second… If you’re Headmaster now, does that mean you can stop them from punishing us for our little stunt?”

A glint of excitement crossed his face.

“Actually, better—can you fire Snape? Tell me you can do that!” he added eagerly.

Harry rolled his eyes, though a laugh was already building in his chest.

“Obviously not, Ron.”

“Ugh… and here I thought having the Headmaster as a best friend would come with some perks,” Ron grumbled, crossing his arms with mock disappointment.

“Oh, come now, Weasley,” Draco chimed in with a smirk. “Surely you know your friend is far too noble to exploit his position for personal gain.”

“Thanks,” said Harry dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Not a compliment. But take it how you want,” Draco replied with a smug shrug.

Harry rolled his eyes again, giving the Slytherin a glare that was secretly amused.

“Harry… do you realize no student in the history of Hogwarts has ever become Headmaster?” Hermione said, her voice full of awe and her eyes wide with uncontainable curiosity.

She had clearly broken free from her shock and was now fully immersed in analysis mode.

“I mean, this isn’t just an honorary title or a symbolic gesture. You’re actually the Headmaster. This will be written about in books—literally!”

She paused, clearly envisioning headlines like “Harry Potter: The Student Who Became Headmaster.”

The thought alone gave him chills.

“How did it happen?” she asked, lowering her voice as if asking for a great secret. “Was it some ancient spell? A binding oath? Or was it the school’s magic itself?”

Her gaze was intense, almost reverent.

“Because if it was Hogwarts that chose you… it means you were chosen. Not by accident. Not by default. Chosen.”

She paused again, her voice full of wonder and quiet respect.

“And for the school to choose a fifteen-year-old over any adult… well, that’s nothing short of extraordinary.”

Her tone hovered on the edge of reverence—until she shook herself back to her usual self.

“But have you thought about it, Harry? The legal implications? Magical regulations? Ethical consequences? You’re representing the institution now, not just a movement. You’ll have to sign documents! Draft policies! And—”

“Hermione,” Ron cut in, raising a hand. “Breathe.”

“Granger, do you ever stop for air?” Draco asked at almost the same time.

“I’ll admit, Hermione—I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just… acted,” Harry confessed.

He felt a bit overwhelmed—but nothing could overshadow the strange lightness inside him.

“But you’re right, it’s a huge responsibility. It’ll take time, effort…” He paused dramatically, staring into space with mock seriousness. “Do you think I should cancel the O.W.L.s so I can focus on the job?”

He said it as seriously as he could manage—but the twitch of his mouth gave him away.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ron bend over slightly, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Hermione… well, Hermione went from pale to bright red in three seconds flat.

“NO!” she shouted. “Harry, how can you even think that?! The O.W.L.s are crucial! If we skip them now, we’ll never catch up—never graduate on time, lose access to the N.E.W.T.s, and goodbye Ministry! Goodbye careers! Goodbye—!”

She rambled on, voice rising, listing out increasingly catastrophic consequences—all valid, all wildly exaggerated. Harry tuned out halfway through, when she started calculating out loud how many months it would take to recover from a hypothetical academic hiatus.

He burst out laughing—a deep, genuine laugh—followed by Ron’s booming guffaw and even Draco’s quiet, muffled snort.

Hermione froze mid-rant and glared at him.

She huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “Idiots,” she muttered, and finally let herself be pulled into the group’s laughter.

Harry glanced at Draco, who was clearly struggling to hold it together—the corner of his mouth betraying him.

“Well, Hermione, if you think about it,” Ron said, “we’d totally be justified in skipping exams this year.”

Harry knew Ron well enough to tell there was a sliver of real hope in that comment.

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t bother replying. She turned and walked away, muttering something that sounded vaguely like “boys.”

It was almost surreal to think they’d done it. That the Umbridge nightmare was over.

She’d been so suffocating, so absolute, that her absence now felt… unnatural.

Harry wondered what he was supposed to do next, as his friends scattered around the room to tidy up.

In moments, it was as if nothing had ever happened. No trace remained of their passage—hard to believe this room had been the heart of their resistance just hours earlier.

The corridors were unusually quiet, a calm that felt like the hush after a storm.

Because that’s what Umbridge had been—a storm.

And now, there was an odd sense of unreality hanging in the air.

Harry seemed to be popular again—positively popular. Every student greeted him, congratulated him.

Not that he cared.

He knew how quickly people forgot, how fast they turned. It wouldn’t take much—a single rumour—and they’d be against him all over again.

And he knew it.

But it didn’t matter, not really.

The ones who counted—his friends—wouldn’t turn their backs on him over a whisper.

So, with a touch of irritation, he returned greetings and made polite conversation with those who stopped him.

The Great Hall was buzzing with chatter and laughter when they entered, and it felt like everyone turned to look at him.

To his embarrassment, a loud round of applause broke out.

He could feel the crimson flush rising on his face.

His friends hurried over, wrapping him in hugs and offering congratulations, and that—at least—chased away the faint irritation he’d been feeling.

It looked like the day was turning into a celebration. With the teachers all in meetings, only the Heads of Houses and Prefects were left to keep order—though they seemed more inclined to turn a blind eye, too busy celebrating themselves to bother enforcing any real discipline.

Harry moved among his friends, but after a while, it became too much.

He needed quiet.

Without saying anything, he slipped away from the noise, careful not to draw attention.

Once outside the crowded Hall, he could breathe more easily. He didn’t have a destination in mind—he just let his feet take him.

He wandered the corridors. All the traps and tricks had been cleared away.

Eventually, he found himself at the Astronomy Tower. The view always calmed him.

He sat on the edge and looked out over the horizon.

It was a beautiful day. The sun hung high, a soft breeze ruffled his hair, and birds were singing in the distance.

At some point, he had closed his eyes, letting his mind drift—finally at ease.

He didn’t realise he had company until someone sat down lightly beside him.

He jumped slightly, then relaxed when he saw who it was.

A soft smile lit up his face.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t startle you, Harry,” Luna said softly, not quite looking at him, her eyes fixed on the shimmering water of black lake. “Sometimes I forget people aren’t expecting me.”

“No problem,” he said gently. And it was true—Luna, with her calm, otherworldly presence, always managed to bring him peace.

They sat in silence. And that was what Harry liked about Luna.

There was no awkwardness, no need to fill the space with meaningless chatter. You could sit with her for hours and not say a word, and it wouldn’t feel strange at all.

He liked spending time with her—sometimes more than with Ron or Hermione.

They didn’t always understand.

Luna, though, did. In her own way, she always seemed to understand.

She was kind, brave, fiercely loyal. They had become true friends.

And the way others mocked her made Harry angry.

Especially knowing that one of those 78 names had been hers.

He had seen her statement. The line “I need to stop being a dreamer” had stuck with him more than he wanted to admit.

Because Luna was pure. She lived in her own world at times, yes—but that made her special. Unique.

And the fact that Umbridge had tried to crush that… it made his blood boil.

He was caught in those thoughts when a warm hand gently took his.

“Don’t dwell on it—it’s over now,” Luna said softly, smiling as she looked out at the water.

Harry had learned not to be surprised by her insight, but part of him was still amazed at how well she understood him—without needing him to say a word.

He smiled and gave her hand a gentle squeeze in return.

“Thanks, Luna. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but… I’m really glad we’re friends.”

She looked at him with that faint, serene smile, and for a moment, he felt the need to speak more.

He looked down at their joined hands.

It was strange how something so simple could bring such comfort.

She stayed there, quietly waiting.

And that was what made Luna special.

She never pushed. Never asked for what he couldn’t give.

She was simply there—steady and quiet, waiting for whatever he was ready to share, without asking for more.

“You don’t have to change,” he murmured.

“That thing she made you write… about not being a dreamer… it’s not true.

You’re perfect just the way you are.”

Luna didn’t answer straightaway. She just closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, like she was storing those words somewhere safe.

“It’s nice to hear that,” she said quietly, turning her face towards him.

“I know people think I’m odd… but I’ve never really minded.

It’s just… sometimes it’s lovely to know someone sees it as a good thing.”

They smiled at each other and stayed there in easy silence, watching the sky turn to gold and pink as the sun began to set.

The surface of the Black Lake shimmered under the fading light, and for a little while, it felt like time had stopped.

Then, in a pensive tone, Luna spoke again:

“And besides,” she said, as if thinking aloud, “the Mist-Fairy would be terribly lonely if I suddenly stopped visiting her.”

Harry smiled fondly. He had no idea what the Mist-Fairy was—but it made him happy to know nothing could dim the dreaminess of his friend.

The peace was broken by a silver otter, darting through the air—the Patronus of Hermione.

“Harry, something’s happening in the Great Hall. The professors have called for all the students.”

And just like that, the little pocket of calm he’d found was gone.

He had to return.

He took a deep breath and stood up.

Luna stood with him. Their walk back was quiet, the corridors completely empty.

They walked slowly.

Harry wished he could forget everything and just go to sleep.

It was obvious he didn’t want to face whatever was waiting.

The Great Hall appeared sooner than he’d hoped.

He sighed heavily.

Then he felt a gentle hand on his arm. He turned—and saw Luna’s soft expression.

The message was clear: You’re not alone.

And that gave him strength.

Because it was true. He wasn’t alone. He had his friends.

With one last steadying breath, he stepped into the Great Hall.

Chapter Text

Harry crossed the threshold of the Great Hall and stopped for a moment, surprised. The students were already seated, orderly but arranged in an unfamiliar way: no separation between the Houses, just rows of Gryffindors, Slytherins, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs all mixed together, as though centuries of rivalry had vanished in an instant.

Who would have thought it? After centuries of prejudice and conflict, it had taken only the storm unleashed by Dolores Umbridge to break down a wall as old as time.

Harry allowed himself a faint smile. He was glad he didn’t have to sit apart from Luna and gently pulled her towards the table where he had already spotted his friends. He was about to ask Hermione what was going on, but she silenced him at once with a sharp gesture.

An unnatural silence hung over the Great Hall: every gaze was turned towards the staff table. Several chairs stood empty — Madam Pomfrey, Professor Trelawney, Professor McGonagall — an obvious sign that even the staff had paid the price of the Umbridge era.

Harry wondered who would speak now that neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall were present.

His eyes wandered until they rested on Snape. The man was staring at him with that inscrutable expression Harry knew all too well; impossible to tell whether he was irritated or not — though in truth, Snape always looked irritated.

He wondered if he had carried out their plan, but searching those obsidian eyes revealed nothing.

Harry snorted inwardly, annoyed — they were temporarily on the same side, and yet Snape refused to give the slightest hint. He wasn’t expecting a grand gesture, just the smallest of signals. Nothing. Not a flicker.

Harry felt exasperated.

Snape, as though he had picked up his thoughts, raised an eyebrow, clearly mocking his impatience.

Infuriating man, Harry thought, deliberately aggravating bat.

His mental tirade was cut short by a man he hadn’t noticed before. He was short and stocky, with an impassive expression, and Harry couldn’t recall ever seeing him.

“Students of Hogwarts,” he began, his voice steady, “my name is Percival Fawley, and I am the Undersecretary of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I must inform you that there are urgent matters the staff must address in order to restore order to this school. In light of recent events and the actions carried out by the High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge, an investigation has been opened against her. Pending trial, her post has been suspended.”

A wave of relief swept through him, leaving him almost light-headed.

For a moment, the Hall remained in absolute silence. Then it erupted in a roar of cheers, clapping and whistles of approval.

When the students finally quietened down, Fawley raised a hand, commanding order. “The Ministry of Magic distances itself from the actions of the High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge. Should the charges against her prove true, she will be tried and, if found guilty, sent to Azkaban.”

A voice rang out from the back of the Hall, dripping with sarcasm: “Nothing will happen! She’s with the Ministry, she’ll wriggle out of it as always!”

If Harry was honest, it was one of his own fears too — too many in his life had let him down. Yet he was startled by the steely look that crossed the Undersecretary’s face.

Fawley turned towards the speaker, his voice calm, firm, and sharp as steel: “If it is proven she committed those atrocities, nothing will protect her. Neither her rank, nor her position in the Ministry. I am here to enforce the law under the authority of the Head of the Department, Amelia Bones. Faced with crimes against the innocent, we grant no leniency to anyone.”

He spoke with such conviction, such sincerity, that Harry felt the urge to believe him. Instinctively, he knew he could.

A murmur ran through the Hall. Students exchanged tense looks, at last realising that at least part of the Ministry was prepared to act against Umbridge’s injustices, without favouritism or cover-ups.

Fawley checked his watch and turned his attention back to the Great Hall. “The professors will ensure order is restored and discipline maintained in your classes. I must also warn you that you may be called upon to testify during the investigation and the trial.”

Harry nearly started — he hadn’t thought of that, certainly not of giving live testimony. After the evidence already gathered, he had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary; his last experience in a courtroom hadn’t been the best.

Fawley paused briefly, scanning the students’ tense faces, then added with a courteous nod: “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement that awaits me. Good studies to you all.”

Fawley turned and, without another word, walked across the Great Hall until he disappeared through the main doors, leaving behind a stunned silence.

It was Professor Flitwick who spoke next, his clear, calm voice echoing beneath the high ceiling: “Tomorrow lessons will resume as normal. The only exceptions will be those classes without a teacher present.” He paused, looking carefully at the students. “In such cases, each lesson will be supervised in turn by at least one professor, and devoted to individual study until substitutes are found, or until the absent teachers return.”

An agitated murmur spread through the Hall as students began to talk amongst themselves, finally realising that life at Hogwarts was returning to some semblance of normality.

“Oh, come on… I was hoping for at least a week off lessons!” Ron grumbled, slumping on the table with a miserable look.

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, exasperated, and Harry couldn’t help smiling, glad to see that some things never changed.

Ron raised his hands, embarrassed, and gave a sheepish grin. “All right, all right… I was only joking!”

A wave of laughter broke out around their table, finally lifting the mood.

The moment of light-heartedness vanished in an instant when a shadow fell over him. A shiver ran down Harry’s spine; even before turning, he knew who it was.

“Potter. With me. Now,” said Severus Snape, his voice firm and cutting, without even turning to make sure he was being followed.

Harry sighed and got to his feet, trying to ignore the eyes tracking his every move. Ron was staring at him as though he were walking to the gallows; Hermione’s gaze was tight with worry, her lips pressed together, while Luna, with the faintest of smiles and luminous eyes, radiated a surprising serenity, as though wordlessly telling him there was nothing to fear.

Harry walked through the Great Hall, keenly aware of every eye on him. Each step echoed faintly against the floor, accompanied by whispers and murmurs rippling along the tables. He tried to shut them out, focusing only on the step in front of him, but the weight of those stares was impossible to shake off.

Across the Hall, he caught sight of Draco, watching him with an expression that seemed strangely out of place. There was no hostility in his eyes, but something subtler — almost conspiratorial.

Harry wondered if the white flag of truce had finally been raised for good. He liked the sense of camaraderie that had grown between them and secretly hoped their fragile alliance, born of necessity, might endure.

It was a relief to leave the Great Hall behind, and in his need to escape that room full of staring faces, he hardly noticed where he was being led.

He had only been inside the staffroom once before, and found himself surprised to be there again. From the other side of the door, the sounds of the Great Hall still filtered faintly through: laughter, murmurs, voices.

But here, before him, there was only Snape — and the unknown of what awaited.

He felt uneasy; not knowing what to expect made him nervous.

Snape stood there, apparently savouring his obvious discomfort, and Harry felt a sudden urge to wipe the smirk from the man’s face.

“Why am I here?” he asked, wanting to break the thick silence.

“You did not truly think,” Snape replied, his voice icy and cutting, “that you could escape the consequences of your actions, did you?”

He paused, letting the words fall heavily into the room before continuing: “As ever, you act without thinking things through. You take on responsibilities and make decisions without considering the outcome. And did you really believe that assuming the title of Headmaster would come without consequence?”

Snape’s dark eyes bored into him, as though reading every thought, every hesitation.

“No… yes. Of course I knew it carried… consequences,” Harry answered, irritation bubbling inside him. “I’m not reckless,” he added, more sharply than he’d meant. He knew what he was doing.

More or less, he admitted grudgingly to himself — but this was hardly the time to give Snape the satisfaction of hearing it.

“I did what had to be done. We all did what had to be done. All I’m asking for is a bit of a truce. Maybe, just this once, we could start from the assumption that I’m not some stupid child acting on impulse or just to defy authority?”

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on the dark gaze before him. “And, if it’s not too much to ask, could you stop leaping down my throat over every word I say?”

Snape regarded him in silence for a stretch that felt endless, his face impassive, though something flickered in his eyes that Harry could not decipher.

The longer the silence stretched, the more Harry regretted letting his tongue run on, cursing himself inwardly.

He had almost certainly gone too far, and now the Potions Master was deciding where best to bury his corpse.

And as he always did when discomfort gnawed at him, Harry began filling the silence.

“Look, if I’ve overstepped, and you’re thinking of which poison to slip into my meals, I can say I take it all back — and that you’d probably find me more useful alive than dead.”

Snape gave no clear reaction: his expression remained utterly unreadable, and Harry couldn’t tell whether he was furious, faintly amused, or simply bored.

“And what,” Snape finally asked, his voice low and silken, “could the Golden Boy possibly offer me?”

Harry couldn’t tell if he was joking, or merely waiting to see how far he would go before reprimanding him for his audacity.

Even so, he didn’t falter, racking his brain for something that might count as a worthy offer.

“Well… as Headmaster,” he began hesitantly, “I could… give you a pay rise.”

Snape arched a brow, clearly unimpressed.

“Or…” Harry went on, seizing a fresh idea, “I could rearrange the Potions pairings. You know, stop putting Gryffindor and Slytherin in the same class. Maybe Gryffindor with Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw with Slytherin.”

He shrugged, trying to mask a half-smile. “After all, Gryffindor and Slytherin together have always made for… explosive lessons. Literally.”

Now Snape was watching him with a mixture of dark amusement and interest, and Harry had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, knowing he was serving as the man’s entertainment.

“Well,” Harry said, aiming for casual, “I could always offer you the Defence Against the Dark Arts post…”

It was no secret that Snape wanted that position — nor that it was cursed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry almost hoped he’d accept.

Snape studied him for a long moment, then the faintest of smiles curved his lips. “Ah… I see, Golden Boy. You tried,” he said smoothly, his tone razor-edged, making it clear he’d seen through Harry’s ploy at once.

“What a sly way of doing away with me — offering it as a favour when in truth it’s for your own gain. Almost Slytherin, one might say.”

He went on, his gaze piercing, and seeing Harry’s startled look, added: “Come now, Potter. You cannot be so naïve as to think I’m unaware of the curse? Still… hope springs eternal, does it not?”

“Well… you could accept it, if you wanted,” Harry pressed, fully caught up now in this battle of wits, determined to prove he had something worthwhile to bargain with. “I could always abolish the Defence Against the Dark Arts course as it stands, since it was cursed by… you-know-who, and set up another under a different name. You’d still be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts — only in a way the curse wouldn’t recognise as the same subject.”

Honestly, though the idea had come to him on the spot, Harry was secretly surprised by it — and the more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make.

One look at Snape told him the man hadn’t expected it either; he stayed silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on Harry, as if weighing every word.

“Well, well, Potter…” Snape drawled. “You never fail to astonish me with your ability to squander ingenuity on the most trivial matters…”

Harry felt slightly stung by that, though he was pleased in some way to have surprised the man in this improvised contest of cunning.

“And yet…” Snape continued, as though the words pained him, “as much as it galls me to admit it, what you have just said may hold some merit. You could even present it to the staff committee.”

Harry was left nonplussed, wondering if buried within those barbs there was a compliment.

It didn’t help that Snape was looking at him as though he were a worm to be crushed at the first opportunity.

“I could… really present it?” Harry asked, choosing to ignore the insults and cling to the point that seemed most important.

“Of course you could, Potter,” Snape replied with an exasperated sigh, and Harry could see the effort it cost him not to snap his head off.

“You’ll need to bring it before the staff meeting, which will take place shortly. And yes — before you ask, Potter,” he added, anticipating the question Harry had yet to voice, “they are expecting your presence.”

Harry swallowed, suddenly nervous. “You… told them I’m… er… that I’m the Headmaster?”

Snape shot him a look heavy with meaning, without deigning to answer aloud. But the message was clear in his obsidian eyes: “Of course, Potter. Don’t be an idiot.”

Harry wondered when he had become so good at reading Snape’s looks and deciphering their meaning.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “But… I thought by now Dumbledore would already be on his way back.”

For the first time, he caught a flicker of emotion on that impenetrable face — a flash of irritation in the professor’s eyes. “Albus Dumbledore,” Snape said slowly, as though the words had been wrenched out of him, “appears to be unavailable at present.” Every syllable was articulated with deliberate slowness.

It was almost as if speaking civilly with a Potter was a greater torture than any other.

Harry glossed over Snape’s clear reluctance, struck and unsettled by the weight of his words. “Unavailable?” he repeated sceptically. “You can’t seriously be telling me that Dumbledore thought now was the right time to take a holiday!”

Snape’s cutting glare was warning enough — a silent reminder of whom he was addressing. But Harry, worn out and frayed to the bone, ignored the danger.

“Granted, he’s—what—about a hundred and twenty? But I don’t think now’s the best moment to take up lawn bowls or start experimenting with new hobbies, and it seems a bit late for a midlife crisis,” he said, his tone almost thoughtful, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Snape.

His biggest problem was that when he was nervous, he tended to ramble — and exhaustion did not help. His mind was racing, and worry crept into the back of his thoughts.

“Do you think he’s all right? That… that something’s happened to him?”

Snape gave a derisive snort.

“Oh no, Potter,” he said sarcastically, with a half-smile that held no trace of warmth. “I am quite certain this is part of one of his brilliant plans.” He spat the last word with venom, making his thoughts on Dumbledore’s schemes abundantly clear — and knowing them as he did, Harry found himself secretly in agreement.

“You’ll see, Potter,” Snape went on in a mocking drawl.

“When the Headmaster decides the situation amuses him enough… he’ll reappear.”

Well, that wasn’t particularly reassuring, Harry thought grimly.

“Now, if you’re done wasting time, Potter, do take a seat. I trust you can manage that much,” the Potions Master said venomously, with a curt nod towards the table behind Harry.

His patience had clearly run out, and Harry knew better than to play with fire by answering back. He bit his tongue to stop himself snapping in return.

“Soon the staff will have finished restoring order among the students and will be here to hear what our esteemed Headmaster has to say,” Snape added, his sarcasm so sharp it made Harry flush scarlet on the spot.

His ears burned, and an insult trembled on the tip of his tongue; he barely managed to restrain himself, silently counting to ten. He turned his back on the dungeon bat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper.

He inspected the table, moving towards the seat Snape had indicated. He was nervous — the head of the table was the last place he would have chosen for himself — but one glance at the Potions Master, who was watching him with a smirk, made his blood rise.

The fact that the man found his discomfort amusing kindled a flare of anger in Harry, and with a sharp, decisive movement he sat down, no further hesitation. The chair was enormous, and he looked far smaller sitting in it.

For a fleeting instant, it felt as though that chair embodied exactly what he was doing: taking on a role far bigger than himself, a weight of responsibility that threatened to crush him, while everything around him seemed to mock him.

The sense of inadequacy almost pressed him flat, and he found himself desperately hoping that Dumbledore would soon return from wherever he was — surely now was not the time to enjoy retirement, Harry thought irritably.

Barely a moment had passed since he sat down when, as though they had been waiting for his signal, the teachers entered the room.

Snape seated himself as far from Harry as possible, his face once again wearing that infuriatingly unreadable mask.

Harry felt out of place. All eyes were on him, and the weight of their attention made him want to shrink away.

Out of respect, he rose to his feet before the staff, forcing himself to stand tall and composed.

It was hard not to wither beneath their assessing stares, his heart hammering in his chest.

Right… what to say? he thought nervously. To be the first to speak in a room full of adults felt almost disrespectful, and yet they all seemed to be waiting for him to begin.

His eyes darted nervously to Snape — the only one who truly knew the situation, but also the one least likely to lift a finger to help him. He met the man’s gaze and saw the raised eyebrow, the expression clearly saying, “Well, Potter, are you planning to say something, or shall we continue to savour the silence?”

Harry wondered, not for the first time that day, when he had become so adept at reading Snape.

It was almost unsettling.

He tore his gaze away from the unhelpful man and took a steadying breath, glancing around the hall. The only friendly look he received was from the half-giant, who gave him an encouraging nod.

Harry looked away, forcing himself to focus and gather the right words.

“Well,” he began, his voice slightly shaky at first but clear. “As you know, I am, for the moment, the caretaker of Hogwarts.” He deliberately avoided the word Headmaster.

“I know many of you think I am unfit for this, unsuitable for the role…” He heard a few derisive snorts, but he pressed on. “And you are probably right. But there was no other choice. Not because I don’t trust you,” he added quickly, fearing someone might take offence, “but because the situation was desperate.”

From the back of the room, Flitwick piped up curiously: “How did you manage it, how did you obtain that role?”

Harry looked at him and, with a trace of embarrassment, began to explain.

“I made a pact with the castle itself, through the Sorting Hat.”

A ripple of surprise spread among the teachers; all, except Snape, wore varying degrees of incredulity.

Some looked doubtful, but Harry went on, his voice steadying.

“Look, I know I’m not the best choice, and that there were no alternatives. I know becoming Headmaster normally involves a proper process and experience, and that stepping into the role like this, so suddenly, is… unusual. But the situation was desperate, and I couldn’t see another way. Until Dumbledore returns, I must carry this responsibility, and I am fully aware of the magical bond tying me to the castle — a bond that cannot be dissolved or severed.”

He looked into the faces of the teachers one by one, and continued:

“I’m sorry… if this has caused you any inconvenience,” he said quietly. “I’m sure none of you expected to find yourselves with a student as Headmaster.”

He paused briefly, drawing a deep breath.

“And I apologise as well for the chaos we students have caused in these last days. Honestly… I didn’t think my appointment would last long, and I believed that once Umbridge was removed, Dumbledore would return straightaway.”

From there, everything had gone smoothly. The teachers seemed willing to listen and wanted to hear his version of the last twenty-four hours. He could see that they were impressed by the plan they had put together, even if none of them would ever admit it.

It did not take him long to finish recounting the events, and though he hated to admit it, he was secretly grateful to Snape for having already informed them beforehand; as a result, there were not many questions or doubts raised.

And now, with the situation more or less clarified, Harry decided to bravely face what had been gnawing at him for weeks. His heart was beating faster, a sense of trepidation rising.

“Professor McGonagall… has she recovered?” he began, his voice slightly hesitant at first, guilt still heavy in his mind, knowing that her condition was indirectly his fault. “I wanted to find a way to reinstate the teachers who were dismissed during Umbridge’s tenure as soon as possible.”

Much as he disliked admitting it, he knew this meant Trelawney as well. In his opinion, she was a useless teacher, but what had happened to her was not right, not after all her years of loyalty to the school.

There was a brief silence after his words. The teachers exchanged glances, as though no one wished to be the first to answer. Harry nervously wondered if their reluctance meant bad news, and his anxiety began to rise.

At last it was Professor Sprout who broke the silence, her voice calm but tinged with caution.

“Minerva is recovering, Mr Potter,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “She is still regaining her strength – it has been harder on her than we imagined, but… I would never doubt her resilience.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Professor Flitwick then added:

“As for the reinstatement of the teachers, the decision would officially fall to the Hogwarts Board of Governors… but, considering that the Board was not consulted in the first place regarding their dismissal, I would say the authority lies with the Headmaster.”

He paused, letting his words settle, then concluded with a benevolent smile:

“And, as it happens, you are the Headmaster.”

That smile dispelled the embarrassment Harry had been feeling; he realised there was no irony in the old professor’s words, only recognition.

“Right,” said Harry, relieved that the matter was less complicated than he had feared. For a brief moment, his heart felt lighter.

“Is there a way to contact them?” he asked quickly, with a sense of urgency. “I’d like them to know they may return to Hogwarts as soon as possible.” He hesitated a moment, feeling awkward at taking the reins in this room full of teachers, then added, somewhat uncertainly: “And as for Professor McGonagall… could we arrange a safe medical transport to Madam Pomfrey’s care?”

Flitwick nodded firmly.

“They’ve already been notified, Potter. Many are simply waiting for the all-clear to return. As for Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey is already arranging safe medical transport. In truth, she is rather eager to return and restore order to her infirmary.”

He ended with a smile, and Harry noticed that many of the teachers shared the same expression, thinking fondly of Madam Pomfrey and her brisk ways when it came to her infirmary.

Harry, on the other hand, thought she was somewhat dictatorial in that respect – but he would never dare say it aloud.

He was not surprised to see that Snape remained indifferent to the subject; smiling would probably have killed him.

His attention was drawn back when Professor Vector spoke.

“Potter, may I ask what became of Umbridge?” she said with deliberate calm, though Harry could see the barely concealed curiosity in her eyes.

Looking around, he could see the same emotion mirrored to varying degrees on the other teachers’ faces. Strangely, he felt that even Snape was slightly curious. He wasn’t sure where that thought came from, but one glance at him seemed to confirm it.

He had the almost childish impulse to prolong his silence just to keep them all in suspense, but in the end he spoke.

“She won’t be a problem anymore,” he said firmly. “The castle itself has taken care of her. At this moment, she’s being held in an underground cell that Hogwarts has specifically prepared for her. She’ll only be released when the Ministry opens its eyes to who she really is and what she’s done – and only when the Aurors take her into custody pending trial.”

From there, matters were easier; they moved on to less thorny issues, and Harry could see the same exhaustion etched on the staff that he himself felt.

The emergency meeting dissolved on a note of relief, with the promise that another would take place first thing the following morning.

Harry could already imagine the chaos that would engulf the castle the next day – Ministry officials, parents’ letters, and everything else that a student revolt might drag in its wake. His head hurt just thinking about it.

With immense relief, he headed for the door, glad to leave behind yet another trial he had endured that day.

“Potter.”

The drawling voice stopped him in his tracks.

Harry closed his eyes at the sound of that particular voice addressing him.

Hadn’t he been through enough already? Couldn’t the world, for once, be merciful to him?

“A word,” said the Potions Master, striding past him and heading towards a door Harry had not noticed before.

There was no room for interpretation: Snape wanted him to follow.

Apparently not. This world wasn’t finished with him yet.

Sweet Merlin, he wanted to cry. All he longed to do now was crawl into his bed and sleep for three consecutive nights.

But other plans were clearly in store for him in the immediate future, so, after hesitating a little longer than necessary, he moved towards the door Snape had disappeared through.

Many things could be said about Harry Potter, but one thing was certain – he was no coward. That was why he faced Snape with his head held high, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do that day.